Memento Mori
by coffeecupcakegirl
Summary: They would be gods if they weren't mortal... They were young and the world was at their command; they thought they were invincible. Follow Narcissa and Lucius, see their youth, their life, their love, witness how they come undone. Written after DH.
1. Prologue

Phineas Nigellus introduces the story and his colleague and co-editor Albus Dumbledore.

* * *

_**– **_**Prologue**_** –**_

Lectori Salutim!

* * *

_It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way… _

_CHARLES DICKENS – A Tale of Two Cities_

* * *

Ah, there you are! I've already been waiting for you. Now hurry up! Frankly, being so tardy without a proper excuse is very impolite, but I suppose that's just the way it is with you young people nowadays. Well… I had prepared an excellent speech to welcome you all, but seeing how late it is now, I'm afraid I've got to shorten it considerably. Now don't you complain, you've got only yourself to blame, you know!

Ehem… For those of you who are so unfortunate as not to know who I am yet, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Professor Phineas Horatio Emerald Nigellus – I am _sure_ you have at least heard of me. Yes, of course you have. In my time, I was an Honourable Member of the Wizengamot, and for more than thirty years, I've been Headmaster in Hogwarts, School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. As it is, I am dead – technically – for ninety-four years, next October, so that you've got to content yourself with my portrait self. I'm sure you don't mind.

Unlike most of my colleagues, I've kept an open mind for the world around me, even after my own death, and since no one else has bothered to volunteer, I've made it my profession to serve as a historian, a collector you might say, as the memory of this noble school, its chronicler, and ultimately, also as an editor of the story you have come to hear. Which was a difficult labour, as you can imagine. So many things have happened, so many voices had to be heard, memories had to be collected and sorted… I've worked day and night for more than a year.

But the results have not failed to satisfy me and reward my efforts. I am pleased to be now able to present you with a first-hand version of the story, how it _really_ happened, or at least with the closest version of reality possible among so many people who all have had their own points of view. I was able to convince some of the eyewitnesses and participants to conserve their memories by magic so they could be examined by the means of a Pensieve. Others were so kind to write down protocols of their experiences. I've interviewed a couple of other portraits, evaluated official documents from the Ministry of Magic and so forth, and brought it all into a rational order. Also, you can take a look at the seven-volume-edition, recording the famous Harry Potter's school-time. I was told that it is by now available in Muggle shops, too.

I will start my recounting in September 1967, and basically move on chronologically, unless I feel that a short detour to past events needs to be made for your better understanding. So be attentive, I won't repeat myself merely because you rascals think you can interrupt while I am speaking! I also advise you to be patient – patience is a _virtue_, but it appears to be considered old-fashioned nowadays. It is for your own benefit, you know. It is my firm belief that this story can tell you a lot about life and human nature in general, if you've got it in you to listen, which is, sadly enough, a –

– _My dear Phineas, I think this is really enough of an introduction. Do not test your audience's patience too much. –_

Excuse me? Oh, yes, yes… My dear fellows, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls – please allow me to introduce you to my assistant editor, Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, former Headmaster and one of my successors. Incidentally, since we're talking about them, in the corner over there, you can see Professor Armando William Benvolio Dippet – try not to wake him up, please; he can be a little tiresome once he's awake, and we don't want him to interrupt our tale –

– _Phineas, go AHEAD, please! – _

Yes, yes… Talking about _patience_… However – I shall thus begin…

* * *

_Lectori..._ Hail to the reader!


	2. The Beginning

Narcissa Black's first day in Hogwarts makes her sister Bella proud and disquiets herself as much as others.

* * *

_**– **_**I.1.**_** –  
**_

The Beginning

* * *

_This was love at first sight, love everlasting: a feeling unknown, unhoped for, unexpected — in so far as it could be a matter of conscious awareness; it took entire possession of him, and he understood, with joyous amazement, that this was for life. _

_THOMAS MANN – Early Sorrow  
_

* * *

"I'll die with shame if my next sister comes to Slytherin as well," Bellatrix sighed, gazing at the long row of First Years, but not looking embarrassed at all. She never did. There couldn't possibly be a single thing in the world that could ever make Bellatrix Black embarrassed, Lucius thought dimly, and followed her gaze. Gosh, had _he_ looked that small and intimidated as well? The new students were clearly frightened, uncomfortably shuffling their feet and clenching their tiny hands. He _couldn't_ have been that small.

"At least, she's holding herself well," Bellatrix exclaimed, half derisive, half satisfied. "If there's one thing that girl can do, it's keeping her _countenance_."

"Which one is it, anyway?" Barnabas Cuffe, her classmate, asked.

"The little blonde, with the haughty expression. Can't you tell?"

Some of the boys laughed, and Rabea Lestrange taunted, "Since _you're_ not blond, Black, we've got to tell by the haughty expression, right?"

The two girls squabbled, much to their house mates' delight, but Lucius had caught sight of the girl that was supposedly the youngest Black sister, and he recoiled slightly. Whatever he had expected, this was not it. Bellatrix Black was three years his senior and therefore naturally a superior, by age as much as by her attitude. She had a natural confidence that was hard to match, even though Lucius himself didn't lack self-confidence either. Tall, athletic, with thick, shiny, black hair, equally shining black eyes and great looks, she was a true sight to be seen; even a thirteen-year-old boy could judge that. The next Black sister was in his own year, a Slytherin too, but totally lacking the proper house pride – that was what Bellatrix' first comment referred to. Andromeda was very pretty as well, with chestnut brown hair and light brown eyes, not quite as tall as Bella, by no means so athletic, and certainly not nearly as intimidating.

Their younger sister though… She was very small, in every respect. In later years, he'd call such a frame 'petite', but at that day, he hadn't known that term yet. He could only see the slender shoulders, covered by sleek, golden blond hair, a small face in profile with very distinct features and an unearthly complexion. He thought that complexion must be due to the candlelight, but a quick glance assured him that none of the other children looked like that. She was pale, like milk running over marble, perhaps, somewhat translucent, somewhat strange. Certainly, neither of her older sisters had such a face.

"Aubrey, Bernadette," Professor Slughorn read out; a girl with thick curls stepped forth and sat down on the rickety stool, the row of students moved on, and Lucius could only see the back of that little Black girl.

"Why am I getting worked up about this, anyway," Bellatrix grumbled, her eyes fixed on her sister's back. "She's too bright to be a Hufflepuff, and hasn't got enough of a backbone to be in Gryffindor."

"And since when does a _backbone_ belong in Gryffindor?"

"Oh, shut up, Lestrange, you know what I mean. My little Cissy isn't anywhere close to bravery, I tell you that. She knows how to keep out of trouble."

"And you're quite sure she really _is_ your sister?"

"I keep asking my mother, but she won't stand for – shhh! Be quiet now!"

Professor Slughorn had called out 'Black, Narcissa', and the girl sat down on the stool. For two seconds, Lucius could see her face fully, feeling oddly struck. She didn't seem nervous at all, but supremely self-assured, and then, the moment was gone. The shabby old hat fell down to her shoulders, threatening to drop further yet since she was so tiny, and a swift look at Bellatrix told Lucius that she was much more anxious than her sibling sitting up there.

Narcissa Black herself found she had different problems. That hat smelled _awful_, she didn't wish to start considering _what_ exactly she was smelling there, or what might be stuck in her hair once she got rid of it again. She wasn't too curious to which House she would be sorted – she'd make Slytherin, as sure as her name was 'Black', and even if not, it'd be all the same boring business anyway. Narcissa had little taste to make friends with anyone around here.

She heard a small voice in her head. 'Hmm… That's a hard one to call, isn't it?'

"You tell me," she muttered, repelled by the horrid stink around her.

'Loads of brains… A sly knowledge of how to use 'em… Staunch loyalty if needed… And no fear…'

'Now what should I be _afraid_ of?'

'You're a cheeky one, are you?'

'I cannot say that, but what I _can_ say is that roughly a hundred people are waiting out there still. If I were you, I'd hurry up a bit.'

'Just like your sisters.'

'Were they cheeky as well?'

'Oh, yes, and like you, particularly hard to sort. They both would have been in good hands in Gryffindor, too.'

'And how come they ended up where they are?'

'They wanted it.'

'So do I.'

'Why?'

'Because I know what's expected of me there. Why make it unnecessarily hard?'

'That's just the kind of reply I'd expect from a true Slytherin, child. You shall have your wish then.' – "_Slytherin_!"

The smelly hat was lifted off her again and without a further look, she walked over to the Slytherin table. She spotted Bella, who was clearly trying her best to suppress a pleased expression. "Blimey, now I'm stuck with you, ain't I?"

"Don't worry, I reckon I'm old enough to do without a nanny!"

"So you are little Cissy?" Marianne Travers asked with a sneer.

"Indeed, I am not," she replied calmly. "My name is _Narcissa_, if you don't mind."

Bella chortled, pushing the girl next to her away to make place and ushering her sister to sit down. "That's right, Travers! There are exactly two people entitled to call her 'Cissy', that's me, and Andy The Odious Oddball over there. I believe an introduction is in order. Cissy – that pert person here is Marianne Travers."

She beckoned to the stout girl and went on, pointing at several people. "That's Barnabas Cuffe, the editor of the student magazine and over there his principal reporter – his only real reporter on a second thought, Rita Skeeter. Rabea Lestrange you already know, over there Venus Yaxley and down the aisle her little brother Elias – Hugh Oglethorpe, our Captain – Amycus Carrow, one of our Beaters – Donald Finkley, another Beater – Eunice Gudgeon, Junior Prefect – Damocles Belby, our resident potions genius – Bertram Higgs, you'll surely remember his father – Lucius Malfoy –"

Lots of people beckoned at her, among them a tall, silver-blond boy with a high and mighty sneer curling his lips, which she returned just as dauntlessly. Bella introduced more people to her, but Narcissa paid little attention, more occupied with ignoring the stares of the Malfoy boy. Hadn't his mother taught him not to stare at people?

More First Years trailed over, some of whom she knew by sight, some better – unfortunately – and Bella chatted away.

"Lucius, we need to win this year; I've got a bet running with my bloody sister. Not you, Cissy, of course. You know, Lucius here is a very decent flyer."

"Is he," she muttered in a bored voice, positively despising the boy for his smug grin in that moment. "I'm delighted to hear it."

"Now that you're in Hogwarts, you'll finally have to take some interest in Quidditch, kid. Paramount matter."

Narcissa shrugged and exhaled in silence. This was going to be every bit as bad as she had imagined it. Malfoy eyed her in amusement, asking, "So I take it you dislike Quidditch?"

"I don't think 'dislike' is the right word," Narcissa said, looking straight at him now and smiling softly. "I think it is a perfectly pointless way to spend one's time, racing through the air and being bludgeoned by some stray Bludgers, but watching it is an even greater waste of time, if you ask me. I do not _dislike_ Quidditch. I detest it."

"Now, now, Cissy," Bella sniggered. "Keep calm. I told everyone how cool you were."

"Excuse me. I merely meant to answer the question," Narcissa said loftily, not taking her eyes off Malfoy and arching a brow. "I hope you're not so easily offended?"

"Not at all, I assure you." Lucius returned that look likewise, but was privately wondering what he had done to get on the wrong side of this person in less than a minute. _He_ hadn't called her 'Cissy', _he_ hadn't started talking about Quidditch. As far as he could see, he hadn't done _anything_ to account for her obvious contempt. Bellatrix Black was quick-tempered, undoubtedly, and rather violent when annoyed. Her sister didn't seem like one starting to hurl curses around, admittedly, but like one to hold grudges instead, and if anything, oddly enough, he didn't want her to be cross with him.

What did he care? He didn't depend on little Narcissa Black's approval of him or not! Who was she, anyway? All right, her eldest sister was pretty formidable, but what about the other one? If _he_ had been in her place, he wouldn't have been that proud! _He_ was Lucius Malfoy, _he_ was the last and only descendant of England's eldest and noblest dynasty, _he_ had no brothers or sisters to shame him, _and_ he was the heir to the country's largest gold treasure! Okay, the Blacks were a very old and very noble family, too, and more than merely well off, financially. Nonetheless! She had no reason to disapprove of him!

He got through dinner tolerably well, but as soon as he was in the dorm with his mates, he no longer held back and spluttered with anger. Graham tilted his head, listening in silence, and murmured eventually, "I wouldn't bother, if I were you, Lucius."

"I do not _bother_!"

"Could have fooled me there," Bertie said gleefully.

"All I'm saying is that she's holding her chin up way too high!"

"I don't see what she's done to you to make such a fuss about it. She's barely spoken three words!"

"Which is a becoming feature for a First Year," Damocles threw in. "They've usually got a tendency to blather."

"But the way she's been _looking_!"

"So how has she been looking then?"

The way she had looked at him had slapped him around the face, but he wouldn't have spoken that aloud for the world. He was still trying to figure out what it was about her skin, why it would glow like that, or how any person in the world could have such long, silky black lashes.

"Honestly, Lucius, you mustn't take that amiss. A lot of girls don't dig Quidditch," Graham muttered genially. "And apart from that, I thought she was quite all right."

Yaxley giggled. "Yeah, right. And as my father would say – give her a few more years and she'll be some nice piece of crumpet, I bet you anything!"

Lucius irritably turned around, joining the other boys' 'ewww!', but Yaxley simply shrugged, murmuring that he was just saying 'how it is'. Presumably, he meant that she'd be as pretty as her two sisters, but Lucius found that _this_ was obvious anyway, and by no means an excuse. He was accustomed to Bellatrix' whims and extravagances, but another prima donna like her would disturb the balance, certainly, and good-looking or not, a First Year had no _right_ to loathe Quidditch!

Thoroughly disgruntled, he finally fell asleep, but even in his dreams, that weird kid haunted him. He dreamt that he was trying out for the House Team, he was doing fine, until he realised that it was none other than little Narcissa Black evaluating the performances, and from there on, everything went wrong. Diving after the Quaffle, he did a back flip, utterly embarrassing himself because his robes would slip over his head, and revealed his underpants, his hands became so sweaty, he dropped the Quaffle, and next, he was shocked to find that the Black girl swirled a club, hurling a Bludger at him. He tried to dodge it, but it was no good, the Bludger hit his forehead just like that and he passed out, faintly noticing that he fell off his broom.

He woke up in the moment when he was crushed on the ground in his nightmare, bolting straight up in his bed and panting. Merlin's beard, what was _that_? 'Calm yourself, it's just a dream' he told himself, but that wouldn't do. He was a _good_ flyer, an _excellent_ flyer to be precise, _no_ _one_ was going to see his boxers, he'd be wearing gloves during try-outs and matches, and the last thing he was afraid of was a blasted Bludger, for heaven's sake! Now this girl was one day in school and already giving him nightmares!

"You okay, Malf?" Graham groaned sleepily in the bed next to him.

"What?"

"You – sort of – squealed."

"I _never_ squeal," he retorted irascibly, slumbering on his cushion again, grateful for the curtains concealing his undignified pose. He was strangely afraid of going back to sleep – what if he had another nightmare? The guys would die laughing at him, even more so when guessing who it was that scared him so. If it had been of any comfort to him, it would have interested him to know that the object of his dreams had no pleasant night either, in the part of the dungeons that hosted the girls' dormitories.

She wasn't exactly haunted by nightmares – her burden was far more tangible. It had taken her roughly five seconds while unpacking her luggage to see that she hated – literally, _hated_ – her new dorm-mates. Perpetua Parkin was a plump girl from a butcher dynasty with matching manners, then there were two giggling cows named Valeska Tugwood – she had introduced herself as 'Lassie' – and Jeanie Greengrass, and a nosy, brazen person by the name Martha Jorkins, who had lost no time and tried to go through the books that Narcissa had brought.

She'd be stuck with those characters for seven solid years – good heavens, what had she done to deserve such punishment? She wasn't surprised that Perpetua Parkin snored like a singing saw – she ought to see a Healer about her sinuses, to be sure. Narcissa couldn't remember ever having felt more miserable than now, lying in her bed and struck by dark premonitions of her future. She had practically begged her parents to be allowed to stay at home and continue to study with some tutors. But Mr and Mrs Black, normally inclined to oblige any of their youngest daughter's wishes, had not yielded this time.

"You'll be 'aving so much _fun_, chérie," her mother had said.

"You'll find Hogwarts _brilliant_," her father had assured. "You'll like it so much, you will hardly want to go home for the holidays!"

Yes. _Right_. If someone had asked her in this moment, she would have offered them her entire share of her parents' inheritance, or vowed to start playing Quidditch, if only they allowed her to return to London next thing in the morning!


	3. Meet The Malfoys

If nothing else, Lucius Malfoy and his father have one thing in common: they're terrible misogynists.

* * *

_******–** _**I.2.**_**–**  
_

Meet The Malfoys

* * *

_Neminem prope magnorum virorum optimum et utilem filium reliquisse satis claret._

_SEPTIMIUS SEVERU__S_ – Historiae Augustae Scriptores

* * *

He gazed at the pretty girl in his arms, once more pleased. She was _very_ pretty. A pretty sight to behold, yes. She was breathing gently; her chest was a perfect study. When she was asleep like this, he sometimes fancied himself in love with her. And why should he not be, as pretty as she was?

That question, of course, was a total joke.

He closely regarded each single bit of her, top to bottom, starting with her hair. One could tell that she took great care of her appearance, that more than one spell was needed to make her hair so shiny, so smooth. The glossy strands softly curled over her temples, half-hiding her ear, pouring down over her shoulders and tickling her trim stomach. Her face was even and symmetrical, and when she was asleep, irresistibly peaceful. One could see whatever one craved in these features when she was sleeping. She plucked her brows to perfect shape; there was nothing in this face that... Indeed, there was _nothing_ at all. Artful care made her every feature perfect, yet, at the same time, meaningless.

Smooth skin with just the right measure of tan, a great figure, perfect hair right out of a commercial. Not a single hair astray, not even now, after spending the night with him. He gave a dry laugh, but stopped at once. He mustn't wake her up. He liked her so much better when she was asleep.

In love? What a ridiculous phrase to use! Maybe _she_ was in love, though he doubted it, but _he_ most certainly wasn't. And neither was she, on a second thought. Either he was getting a little soft in the head for being so sentimental, or for some other reason unfathomable, he had lately formed the distinct notion that _love_ requested a certain _depth_, which this girl lacked entirely. As shallow as she was pretty, she surely had a mad crush on him – but she couldn't _love_ him.

A small part of his mind was aware that she wasn't quite as stupid as he wanted her to be. Annoying, silly, mindless – sure. But acknowledging that she was more than a pretty, brainless doll would also mean that he would have to take responsibility for his actions, and the greater part of his consciousness strongly disapproved of so much consequence. Taking her seriously would mean… well, what, really? Breaking up with her, because he was deceiving her about the depth of his emotions for her? This wasn't true for a start. He had never pretended to take much interest. And he'd break up with her anyway. It was astounding how long they had been together, if he thought about it.

He chewed on his bottom lip. She _was_ pretty. Perhaps he should have a bit more fun with her before telling her that it was over? Waste not.

'Diaboli virtus in lumbis', his father always said, right? On the other hand – all the girls he went out with were uncommonly pretty. One could claim that he wouldn't do as much as sit down next to a plain girl at dinner. If one bothered to deal with these cows, they could at least look good. Why were all these girls so silly, eh? He'd dump her, she'd cry and complain and tell all her friends what a bloody jerk he was – and still he'd have a new girlfriend before the end of the week. Appraising her, he went through his list of eligible objects. Who was going to be next? He could make his pick as he pleased, half of the girls in school fancied him like mad, and there was still a long row of candidates that he hadn't disappointed yet.

But could he? Could he _really_ pick whomever he liked? His jaw tightened and he winced back – he had bit his own cheek. Damn it!

What would he say? He rehearsed the lines he had uttered so often – his cheek was still hurting – he must be bleeding, he was tasting the blood – and a sudden thought darted through his mind. Why not do it differently this time? He was easily bored, and dumping a girl needn't be _boring_, right?

He stirred and carelessly reached out for her shoulder. "Wake up."

She blinked, thoroughly confused. "What is it?"

"I thought it'd interest you to know that it's over."

She made no reply, looking even more confused, trying to wake up. This was going to be fun, he could tell. Most of the time he didn't bother, but he knew very well what girls liked, how they wanted to be touched. All a mere matter of practise. His right hand cupped her face, his left hand caressed her back, carefully teasing; she closed her eyes again and enjoyed his kisses.

She gave little hums of pleasure, snuggling up to him, and with his most sardonic smile he asked, "You like it?"

Her only reply was a moan of delight.

"Relish it. This is the last time."

Her eyes flew open. "What?"

"It's bye-bye time."

"_What?_"

He brushed a kiss on her temple, still smiling broadly. "You heard me, didn't you?"

"Heard you?"

She was trembling and he took her in his arms, lifting her up. "I just told you that it's over. I'm breaking up with you. I'm dumping you. Call it what you like."

He hadn't really stopped kissing her when carrying her out of his bed and over to the windows, a fact of which she was utterly oblivious. "Breaking up…?"

"Yes. You see, I've made it a rule not to go out with a girl for more than three weeks, and you have expired that date for almost an entire month already. You may feel flattered if you wish."

Rather unceremoniously, he fumbled with his wand and pointed it at the window, opening it with a little flick. Another flick, and her robes, shoes, and underwear rose from the floor and hovered over, and out of the window, where they fell on the snowy ground. Her cloak was the last to go, she watched with wide eyes but no quick retort, until all she got left was Lucius' old Tornado T-shirt, which she was wearing.

It had sufficed anyhow. He should have tried this ages ago – he had never enjoyed another break-up as much as this one. She was still speechless, and tears slowly welled up in her eyes. She stared at her wand, which he had pushed into her hand, and Lucius laughed.

"It's called _dumping_, dear," he drawled, brushing a kiss on her quivering lips. "Ever wondered why?"

So saying, he dropped her out of the window, too. He half expected that she wouldn't muster enough wits to use her wand, but before he had to soften her fall himself, she finally swished her wand and saved herself from further harm. He had to cast a Shield Charm to keep her from smashing the windows; standing scantily clad in the two foot high snow, she screamed all kinds of curses up to him, but seeing that this was not getting her anywhere, Chloe stamped her foot one last time, gathered her things and trudged away, down the swept way, lifting her arm for a rude gesture at his last remark – "You can keep the T-shirt!"

Still sniggering, he took a shower, got dressed and went down for breakfast.

"Tell that wench to eat in your own room," Abraxas growled without looking up. "I don't fancy strangers at my table."

"I know, Father."

"If you know, why is it that I always have to endure your petty affairs?"

"Be glad, you won't have to endure this particular one again."

This did the job. Abraxas lowered the Daily Prophet and threw his son a long glance, partly quizzical, partly amused. "Well, I must say I'm not sorry to hear this. I'd be even more delighted if I could deceive myself sufficiently to believe that no other replica dummy is already waiting in line."

Lucius sat down and grinned. "Envious, are we?"

Abraxas laughed heartily – a sight that did not occur too often. "I pity you sincerely, sonny. No such annoyance known as women. I wonder when you get enough of 'em."

"You're an old man, sir. I reckon you've long forgotten the easy pleasures of youth."

The smile vanished as quickly as it had come. "You're one useless cad, boy. Fooling around with these mindless cows, as mindless as you are yourself. When will you finally start to make some sense of your life?"

"Soon enough, sir. When you're dead, at the latest."

He knew that this was too much in the moment when he said it. Abraxas could put up with some cheek when he was in good humour, but this was not one of those rare occasions. Old he might be, but still bloody fast when it came to retribution, and Lucius had no chance left to react. In the blink of an eye, his father had produced his wand and thrown a curse at him, making his cup of tea explode right before his face.

The humiliation was far worse than the actual pain. Hot liquid in his lap, splinters in his face and hands, he hurled a sequence of fierce insults at the old wizard, fumbling for his own wand to clear up that mess. He siphoned up the tea, mumbled another spell to remove the splinters from his hands and reached out for one of the silver plates instead of a proper mirror to take care of his face.

"What's _wrong_ with you?"

"What is wrong with _you_, Lucius? Seriously, boy! You have no respect."

"Respect? Are you crazy? Why the hell should I have respect for a fool such like yourself? Iratus filio ipse te obiurga, Pater!"

"Careful, sonny." Abraxas voice had sunk to a menacing gnarl. "I may be old, but I haven't lost any of my power. You don't want to mess with me."

"Stop calling me _sonny_, Father!"

"If you started behaving like a grown-up, I might give it a thought."

He found the – hopefully – last piece of porcelain and removed it, turning his head this way and that and checking his reflection in the plate. He mumbled a healing spell to prevent scarring and the bloody spots vanished one by one, leaving no visible trace. He was pretty good with healing charms, they were inevitable with a father like his.

"A couple of scars would do you good, sonny," Abraxas cackled spitefully. "And spare a dozen broken hearts, possibly!"

"Why do you worry for them if all girls are so bloody useless?"

"True. Yes, indeed, I have to admit you've got a point there." He sipped his tea. "Why should I worry for other men's daughters when I've got enough worries for my own flesh and blood?"

Lucius' only reply was a resigned groan. It was always the same old story. His marks, his Quidditch results, his lack of interest in the _proper_ things. No matter what he did, Abraxas could never be content with him, and he made no secret of his disapproval. Lucius didn't listen; he had heard that speech too often. Study harder, practise more – blah blah blah. In his first year on the House Team, they had won the cup. Abraxas hadn't cracked as much as a smile. In his second year, he had broken the old school record and scored twenty-seven goals in the first forty minutes of a single match. Abraxas hadn't even mentioned it. In his third year, he had been made Captain, one of the youngest Captains in the history of the school, they had won the cup the third time in a row and not lost a single match on the way. Abraxas had merely sneered and muttered, "If you trained more, you might be a good player one day."

He had felt so damn good when getting up, and one breakfast with his father was enough to damp his spirits for the rest of the day. Merlin, he couldn't wait to get back to school. He was so displeased, he truly felt like going out, to find a new girl and drag her home, only to spoil the old trout's day in turn. This was no ordinary struggle of adolescence – Mr Malfoy senior and his son had never felt anything but mutual dislike for one another. The only reason why Abraxas had got himself a wife and produced a son was the need for a continuation of the ancient dynasty. A misanthrope by nature, he despised anyone and could hardly endure the sheer presence of others, let alone a child tormenting his nerves and ears. Or a wife.

Lucius could hardly remember his own mother. Shortly after his birth, she had been equipped with ample of money and sent on a journey, from which she had never really returned. When he was younger still, she had sometimes shown up at Christmas, or his birthday (but never both in the same year), and since he was eleven, he hadn't seen her again. She had gone back to her family in Southern Germany – Lucius had visited her and his grandparents two or three times, but in all honesty he felt as little urge to see them as vice versa. Elisabeth von Wolfenstein had got married to her husband for the motivation of unimaginable riches, he had married her because her family was ancient and untainted. That was all. And one day Lucius would do the same. Two thousand years of pureblood ancestry must be continued. He'd propose to one of those cows, and he'd have a son. This was no fantasy or wishful thinking but genuine fact – a handy curse of old had taken care of the business. There could only ever be one Malfoy in each generation, always a boy, thus preventing the division of the family fortune, and consequently, these riches had accumulated beyond imagination. He was only sixteen and already a made man, knowing for a fact what his future had in store for him.

But if there was one thing for sure it was this – _he_ would be a better father than old Abraxas!

* * *

_Neminem..._ It is a well-known fact that only few of the great have fathered a good, competent son.

_Diaboli..._ The devil is in the loins.

_Iratus…_ If you're angry with your son, blame yourself, Father!


	4. The One, The Only

Lucius has a secret crush.

* * *

_******–** _**I.3.**_**–**  
_

The One – The Only

* * *

_Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats that appear from mount Gilead. Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which came up from the washing; whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them. Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of a pomegranate within thy locks. Thy neck is like the tower of David builded for an armoury, whereon there hang a thousand bucklers, all shields of mighty men. Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies. Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, I will get me to the mountain of myrrh, and to the hill of frankincense. Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee._

_SONG OF SOLOMON – King James Version_

* * *

In at least one respect, Abraxas was perfectly right, of course. Lucius _was_ a lazy student. In his case, one could well say that talent and laziness were evenly balanced, resulting in slightly-above-average marks. The boy himself could not have cared less; it wasn't like he'd have to apply for a job one day, right? And those subjects that would have raised his interest were – sadly, deplorably really – banned from his own school. But there were lots of other things to do, Quidditch for instance, parties to attend, friends to entertain, pretty girls to seduce.

"Where do you _find_ these silly twerps?" Malfoy senior asked with increasing regularity, but his son found that this really was no trouble whatsoever. They found _him_, in a manner of speaking. He was handsome, he was rich, he could be fun if he wanted to be – there were ample of girls who fancied him, each flattering her own vanity that _she_ was going to be the one that would last. Like his latest conquest, whom he had picked up within 48 hours after dispatching Chloe. She was called Imogene, Imogene Vaisey of the Swansea Vaiseys. He had settled for blonde this time, long legs and small, neglectable breasts. Nothing like the real thing. But, he kept reminding himself, if you can't have the real thing, you just ought to settle for the second best. That tenet left a stale taste – he was _Lucius_ _Malfoy_ after all! Nothing but the very best for him, eh? But what could he do? Nothing, nothing… And the bottom line was – Imogene would have to do, until the next second best thing came along.

Predictably enough, Chloe was a little upset, to put it mildly. As an additional unfortunate though hilarious circumstance, Imogene was her dorm-mate, causing a bit of a fuss between the two. Not that he minded. In fact, he did find it rather amusing. What the heck was she thinking? She must know the exact details of the dumping by now, and still she assumed that she'd be better off eventually? How stupid could one person be? Among his pals he was a hero though. He was very popular anyway, because he was great at Quidditch, because the only thing his father had ever taught him was that well-aimed generosity never failed to do the trick, because he emanated an air of self-confidence and ease that was quite irresistible, and last but not least because he had had more girls than the rest of his mates put together. But the tale of his break-up with Chloe propelled his fame to so far unimaginable heights. The guys had never been more impressed.

There was one particular thing he had looked forward to going back to school after the Christmas holidays – oh well – rather say that it was half heaven, half hell. Literally. He suffered and relished it at the same time. Each day had at least three special moments in store for him – breakfast, lunch and dinner – and it was by no means the food that elicited so much excitement. At breakfast, lunch and dinner he saw _her_. The _real_ thing. The one girl he could never have and that he couldn't stop pining for, ever since the moment he had first set his eyes on her. Naturally, he had taken some time to understand this. Back then, three years ago, he had been a small kid really, strangely mesmerised by an unknown girl that had waited for her turn to be sorted into one of the Houses.

She had caught his eye at once; she must have caught anybody's eye and full attention. She had sat down on the stool, the Sorting Hat had slouched over her tiny shoulders, and taken ages to sort her out. Back then, he could not have accounted for it, but all the time, he had crossed his fingers and prayed, 'Slytherin, let her be a Slytherin!' He had got his wish, but that was as lucky as he had ever got with her since.

She had the looks of an angel and the temper of a demon from hell. No, that wasn't right. As a matter of fact he admired her temper even more than her beauty. She was smart, smarter than anyone else he knew. She was quick-witted, in a way that could hurt more than curses. Most of all, she was perfectly independent. She cared for no one's opinion, not for fashion or gossip, Quidditch or peers or parties. He had not once seen her without a book, the only thing she ever did was reading. She was an excellent student, and even this did not appear to interest her the tiniest bit. He could have continued forever listing all her marvellous qualities, but to cut a long story short: Narcissa Black was the coolest witch he had ever met. She was so cool, in fact, that she wanted nothing to do with him. She hated him. Well, she basically hated everyone, but with him it was personal.

As soon as she had been a Second Year, he had plucked up all his courage and dared to ask her out to Hogsmeade, because he knew a secret way out of the school to circumvent the prohibition for younger students. She had been puzzled for a moment – he'd never forget her expression. She had critically appraised him, her sapphire blue eyes narrowed, her marble brow slightly furrowed, and then she had shrugged and smiled that incomparable smile. "Sure, why not."

For approximately five seconds, he had been in paradise. Dear Merlin, his heart racing, his breath caught, he had smiled, too, but _then_ – _then_ his mates had appeared on the scene, who had overheard the conversation. They had screeched and laughed and cackled, Marlon holding his belly for laughing so hard, and Yaxley had shouted, "Look, she's blushing! Awww! Got a little crush on him, have you, Black?"

The others had made comments of a similar kind, and Lucius had been so stumped that he hadn't managed to react immediately. Narcissa _had_ reacted though. She had put on her iciest face, arched a brow and said coldly, "My, I hadn't yet figured _what_ a total prat you are, Malfoy."

And thus she had turned on her heel and marched away, straight-backed, dauntless, proud. He had called after her, in a last desperate attempt, "Next weekend then?"

She had not turned around, she had merely raised her arm and made a gesture that had unmistakably answered the question instead. Directly after cursing the guys (which had been seen by old McGonagall and brought him three nights of detentions), he had rushed after her, he had tried to explain, to apologise, but she would not listen. She wouldn't even be in the same room with him. He had written her letters, which she hadn't opened but thrown at once into the next fireplace. He had even sprayed a huge graffiti in the Entrance Hall at night, spelling 'Narcissa, Forgive Me'. She had never seen it, because Pringle, the useless caretaker, had caught him in the act and forced him to remove it – without magic! – only with a toothbrush, all through the night.

And since then, she had only gotten prettier, wittier, more excellent in each and every respect. There was no girl in this school remotely as pretty as Narcissa, was there? Blast it. Why the heck did he have such a selective taste? Unexpectedly, she had grown rather tall, and even in the unbecoming school robes, one could still tell that she had a great body, a body that promised to be as perfect as that face of hers. And what a face it was! If he hadn't found it beneath his dignity, he would have asked that Hufflepuff Mudblood that was currently dating her sister to draw her, even though no picture could ever capture those delicate features faithfully enough, those stunning dark blue eyes, the silkiness of her lashes, the velvet of her cheeks, the softness of those lush lips, the immaculate arch of her brows, the tower of ivory that was her neck… But he must not dwell on it, he kept reminding himself, it was no good. She hated him, and in turn, he was determined to hate her as well. All right, be careless, at least. All he needed was a bit more practise. She _was_ a smart aleck after all, was she not? What was he supposed to do with a girl who knew just everything, and everything better than him? What sort of relationship was it going to be, with a girl with more talent than he had?

"Uhm…" Graham cleared his throat, looking uneasy. "Er, Lucius… I just thought you should know, but –"

He gave a little start. "What?"

"You're doing it again –"

"Doing what?"

He lowered his voice. "You're – _staring_ – at _her_ – again…"

"No, I'm not!"

He looked down at the chessboard, finding that this total moron Goyle had beaten him in only twelve moves without his notice, and in a sudden uproar of anger, he hurled the board into the fireplace.

"I'm sorry," Graham mumbled, twisting his face and getting up to summon the figures. Yeah – Lucius was sorry, too, although not for losing his temper. He felt _entitled_ to lose his temper – being beaten by Goyle of all persons in chess – _ridiculous_!

He wasn't the only one with an awful crush on her; all the guys in school unanimously agreed that there was no other witch that could compare to her. His only luck was that she didn't want any of these blokes either. They had _all_ asked her out, every single boy in Slytherin and Ravenclaw, everyone with a little boldness in Hufflepuff, and even half of the Gryffindors. She had always refused; actually she was quite famous for her snide rebukes.

One of the first ones had been Elias Yaxley, Lucius' very own dorm-mate. Gee, he had been frothing with rage, downright telling Yaxley what he'd do with him if he _dared_ to approach her. Yaxley had been impressed, but not frightened enough not to give it a try nonetheless. In the middle of the Slytherin Common Room, he had boldly headed for her and put on his sleaziest smile. In _that_ second, Lucius had had _very_ violent fantasies, but he had called them off when witnessing Narcissa's reply.

Yaxley had coughed to raise her attention, but she hadn't looked up. "You should see Madam Pomfrey. Sounds like you've got yourself a serious case of bronchitis."

"What? Oh – er… I wondered if you've got any plans for the next weekend yet," Yaxley had said bravely.

"Yes."

Lucius had felt his tension slowly decrease. Yaxley wouldn't have any success there, so much had been clear – only the boy himself hadn't noticed yet.

"And the weekend after that? Or the Halloween Ball?"

"Get lost, Yaxley," she had simply said. Good girl.

"Oh, come on, don't be like that. You've got to give people a chance, Black!"

She had sighed, slowly straightened up and given him a very bored look. "So that's what I've got to do, you think?"

"Yes! Definitely! Look, you can't know how nice a bloke may be if you haven't given him a chance to prove it!"

"Ah, I see. And _you_ are one of those _nice__blokes_, right?"

"Indeed, you will see once you –"

"Get me right, Yaxley – I won't go out with you, no matter how much more you bother me. I haven't the faintest wish to find out anything about you, what I know so far is more than enough to convince me that I'd rather take the veil than spend only half an hour with you. Why don't you just spare your breath and pester some other girl?"

Yaxley had been deeply red by then, clenched his fists and spat, "You're ending up an old spinster, Black, which is all the better, I'd pity the poor lad who'd have to put up with you and your foul temper and –"

"For a _nice__bloke_ who wanted to ask me out thirty seconds ago still, that's an interesting statement, Yaxley. Doesn't really encourage any of the other girls round here to 'give you a chance', don't you agree? I suggest you reconsider your strategy and try it with a Hufflepuff next. I've heard they're not fussy."

Lucius had pulled himself together enough not to applaud and put on the most compassionate face he could muster when his mate had returned like a dog – beaten, growling, just waiting for a chance to bite. Served him right enough.

Now this was his first evening in Hogwarts after the holidays. Next to him Imogene, and five seats further down the aisle was Narcissa, lovely, gorgeous Narcissa. That wasn't prone to improve his opinion on his latest acquisition. Imogene chattered away, uninteresting stuff that he hardly listened to, while unobtrusively squinting over. Blimey, she was flipping _gorgeous_! Those cheekbones! The turn of her head!

"Lucius?"

"Hm?"

"Yes or no? Please, say yes! _Pleeeaaase!_"

Imogene smiled expectantly, and he racked his brains for what on earth she might have asked. "Sorry. What'd you say?"

Chloe, who sat nearby as well, sneered and snapped, "Get used to it, sweetie. He'll _never_ listen to a single word you say!"

True. Admittedly. But that wasn't due to a bad memory. Though they never, never talked to each other, he had registered and memorised every word he had ever heard Narcissa utter. He could have written an entire book on her, on each of her gestures, her facial expressions, the rare occasions when she'd smile, how her voice would change between chill and casualty, indifference and commitment, mockery and contempt. He knew her face like the back of his hand, her finely chiselled cheeks and chin, the length of her lashes, the royalty of her nose, the soft curve of her rose petal lips. He knew each hair on her head; normally she'd tie it up, fastening it with an opal clasp, but sometimes, only sometimes, she'd let it fall over her shoulders and it would pour down like molten gold, shine like honey and ripe barley and amber and sand in the sunlight, sleek and shiny, waist-long silk. She was the very epitome of elegance and gracefulness, of composure and countenance. She would never raise her voice – and what a pleasant voice it was! – she never lost her temper, she always remained calm and controlled.

Narcissa was perfection itself, and he would have given his right arm, all his father's money, if only this sweetest of all creatures liked him just a little bit!


	5. Kindred Spirits

For the first time in her life, Narcissa finds a friend.

* * *

_******–** _**I.4**_**. ****–**_

Kindred Spirits

* * *

_Ludere si cupias, aequos socios tibi quaeras._

_WALTHER – Proverbia Sententiaeque_

* * *

Narcissa turned the page, pretty much oblivious to the turmoil around her. She disliked the Common Room for all its commotion; she'd rather sit in the library or in her dorm, but on evenings such as this, she had to content herself with the noise and trouble instead. Students weren't allowed in the library after curfew, and the other girls were having quite a ball in their joint dorm. Jeanie had brought a trunk load of new clothes from home and they were trying them on while getting drunk on sweet liquor. De duobus malis minus est eligendum.

The book was a Christmas gift from her father and utterly fascinating, at least for someone like her. (in fact, it would have pleased the late author to see, surely, with which vigour one of the twelve readers who'd actually purchased the book, was devouring her lecture). Narcissa found Arithmancy thrilling, it was her favourite subject after potion-making, in fact, and she devoured her new lecture with utmost attention.

"Ehm… Excuse me…" A shadow fell over the pages, and irritably she looked up. A skinny First Year that she knew by sight from the library, was standing in front of her, his face showing awkwardness mingled with curiosity. "Forgive me, but I couldn't help noticing your book…"

"Yes…?"

"This _is_ Wildsmith's latest anthology, isn't it?"

"It certainly is," she said in mild surprise. Only the worst Ravenclaw swots in her year did know this author. It was _very_ advanced, and she didn't expect a First Year to know as much as the author's name.

"You see – I've wondered – uhm… You see, this book is not available from the library… _Yet_ – well, at least that's what I _hope_ – that they'll get it sooner or later, I mean, and…" Scarlet crept up his sallow cheeks; he clasped his hands, but didn't appear capable to utter any other word.

"You mean – are you telling me you wish to – what – _borrow_ it from me?"

"Yes!" He spluttered, obviously relieved, but his face only flushed more. "If it's not too much to ask, of course… I mean, I know how valuable it is, and you must be very reluctant to –"

"No problem. I've almost finished it, you know?" She was surprised with herself for that statement. She wasn't known for her niceness, and she had no wish to change this. She found other people tiresome and dull, infinitely preferring to be on her own, and consequently staying away from company. "But why the heck are you even interested in this?"

The kid was suddenly beaming, adapting an almost dreamy expression. "Oh, I've read everything from Wildsmith that I could lay my hands on – which isn't much, sadly – very expensive, naturally –"

"And very demanding to boot! You – you're a First Year, aren't you? Do you even _comprehend_ what you're reading there?"

"Not everything, no, of course. I have to look up a lot. But it also gives me hints what else I have to read next and –"

"What's your name?"

There must be no blood left in his body for it had all rushed up into his head. He was purple by now, his voice becoming a mere whisper. "I'm Severus… Severus Snape, Miss Black…"

She tilted her head and took a closer look. Everything was odd about this boy, his clothes for a start. They were worn-down, cheap cotton that was thin around the elbows, not so much black but a washed-out dark grey. Unlike her dorm-mates, Narcissa was no fashion expert, but she could tell for sure that those robes must be more fifth- than second-hand. The next drawback was his appearance as such. He was meagre to a degree that looked unhealthy, and 'unhealthy' was written all over his face as well, which was gaunt and sallow, and ruled by a very prominent hooked nose. Was he ill?

The next weird thing was his address. Except their teachers, _no one_ ever called her 'Miss Black'. 'Black', if people meant to be particularly polite, but most of the time they were more rude, and creative in making up names for her. Certainly, this boy couldn't afford to be rude, because he was only a First Year, because he wanted her to lend him that book, but still she was half amused, half intrigued.

"Snape, Snape… Are you American?"

"No," he whispered unhappily. "I'm from Birmingham."

"Funny. Never heard of a family by that name."

"Yes… Of course not… I – my – well –" He bit his lip, and for a second she feared that he might pass out on the spot. He opened his eyes again, announcing more boldly, "You could have heard my mother's maiden name though – she's a Prince, of the Kidderminster Princes –"

"Ah, yes, yes. So your grandfather is _the_ Severus Prince, right? The cauldron-maker?" He nodded feebly, and Narcissa suddenly got an unlikely idea. "So your father is Muggleborn then?"

"No…" He sounded deeply despairing, making her feel genuine pity. This was the oddest thing so far – he was a Slytherin, and Slytherin House would only take pureblood students. This boy was a half-blood, so he must have the other Slytherin qualities in abundance, or he wouldn't be here, right?

"Come on, kid. You ought to keep your head up high. What's a Muggle father when you've got talent to make up?" All right, so this was like the feeblest comfort she could have uttered. In Slytherin, pure ancestry was _all_ that mattered, at least in the eyes of the other students. Having Muggle parents must be an awful drawback in each and every respect, for every child that'd call themselves wizard or witch. But in Slytherin House, it was socially unacceptable. Poor boy. What had that sordid hat thought, putting him here of all places? Just to say something, she said, "My own cauldron was manufactured by your grandfather, incidentally. That kind of quality is no longer available, you know?"

He looked confused, and indescribably grateful for so much praise. "So says my mum… But…"

She couldn't account for what she said next. Was it sheer pity, or a sense of rebelliousness? In any case, she put on her best smile and said, "If you are indeed interested in Arithmancy in general, I might have something for you, Severus Snape."

She told him to wait, went to the dorm and fetched Mortimer Knightley's anthology about the influence of numerical mysticism on everyday matters. She returned, finding the kid hadn't moved an inch. "There you go. Here. Take it." He clearly was too petrified to stir, and she pushed the book into his hands. "It's very interesting, and they don't have it in the library either. Something to pass the time until I can give you this one."

His gaze alternated between the book and herself, thoroughly incredulous. "You – this – thank you _so much_, Miss Black, I – I don't know what to say, really, I – I am –"

"Relax, will you? Just take the frigging book and get lost." She smiled once more. "And tell me how you've liked it."

'Tell me how you've liked it?' At first, Lucius had watched from the corner of his eye, but after a minute, he had abandoned all caution and simply stared over. What _the hell_ was going on there? Why was this positively ugly kid talking to Narcissa Black there? And what was more – why hadn't she just kicked his butt, like she kicked everybody else's? But there – _there_ – yes. She had got up and marched away. Of course. The kid had looked as if he had been struck by lightning. Well, he was a First Year, he'd have to learn things, starting with the fact that one didn't simply address Narcissa Black.

But what was this? She came back? She handed him a book, and Lucius would have given a lot if he could have read the title. One glance was enough to know that the kid was an oddball, so what did he have to do with _her_? Imogene must have had the same thought, for in this second she cried, "That's fitting. He's as mad as she is."

"She's not mad."

"Oh, very well. _He_ is mad, and she's just a haughty old cow. Still, don't they make a perfect couple?"

Lucius merely shrugged. He would _not_ discuss the subject of Narcissa Black with anyone, least his present girlfriend. He wasn't so much scared of trouble with Imogene, but he would not acknowledge for the world that he had a soft spot for _her_ of all persons. He wasn't keen on humiliating himself. He kept on observing the two; the kid left after another minute, and under a pretext, Lucius followed him to his dorm. Two other boys were there, lying on their beds as well. The ugly kid was reading in Narcissa's book, the other two were playing chess. All three looked up in amazement when he entered.

"Bugger off and don't come back for the next half an hour." He beckoned at the chess players, and they obeyed without protest, but a visible amount of glee. The ugly kid looked scared, and strangely resigned. They all probably believed that Lucius was going to beat him up or something; some of the elder students did those things with juniors. The impression must have got stronger because Lucius hexed the door soundproof after the chess boys had disappeared. The kid cautiously put his book away and made a gesture as if to say, 'Go ahead, I'm ready'.

"I'm not going to harm you, keep cool. You –" He wondered what to say and narrowed his eyes. He had noticed this boy before… "Aren't you the kid who did that incredible transformation curse on that Gryffindor last week?"

"Yes, sir," the kid muttered.

"Yes? Well, I must say… That was _pretty_ good for a First Year!"

"Thank you, sir." His uneven features reddened and he stared at a point somewhere in the far corner of the room.

Lucius didn't get what was wrong with the child. He was being _nice_, wasn't he? He had made it clear that he would _not_ beat him, or curse him, he had even made him something like a compliment about his skills – which hadn't even been a lie. If this was indeed the student who had performed that curse in the Charms corridor, he was a diamond in the rough as far as talent was concerned!

He cleared his throat, and indicated the huge pile of books on the boy's bedside table. "So – so you're a reader, eh?"

"Yes, sir –"

"And what is it that you've been reading there?" He pointed at the book the kid had been reading when Lucius had entered the room.

"That's – that's not mine."

"I know, but that's not the answer to my question, is it?"

"Oh, the book! This is Mortimer Knightley's anthology on numerical mysticism."

That boy _was_ an odd number! "I take it you're keen on _Arithmancy_ then?"

"Yes, sir."

"But this – you don't have Arithmancy before your Third Year!"

"No, sir, but I found it interesting nonetheless."

"Aha…" He had imagined something more exciting than this, honestly! Alas, he hadn't come to debate this weirdo's choice of lecture. "So you've borrowed it? From Narcissa Black?"

"Miss Black was so kind to lend it to me, yes."

"Miss Black was so kind, oh yeah… Friend of yours?"

The boy was briefly confused, but vigorously shook his head then. "Oh no, no. No, I wouldn't call it that."

"So what _would_ you call it?"

"Tonight was the first time that I've ever talked to her, sir. But she was very friendly and obliging…"

Friendly and obliging? Narcissa Black? Why would she be nice to _this kid_ and treat everybody else like dirt under her shoes? "Was she? I see… So what did you talk about?"

"About – books…"

Boring. On the other hand – perhaps Lucius should give it a try and talk to her about books, too? Just that he didn't have much to say on that score – he made a mental note to ask his dorm-mate Damocles, he was the cleverest of their bunch. Anyway… Maybe he should try to gain the boy's trust? No harm. "I don't think I know your name, pal."

"My name is Severus, sir."

"Severus, right. I am Lucius Malfoy."

"Yes, sir, I know. Of course."

"Quit calling me 'sir', will you. Who are your folks then? Someone I should know?"

"No, probably not. But I have heard about _your_ family, naturally!"

Something was _really_ weird about that boy, about the way he was looking and speaking, but Lucius couldn't point his finger at it. It didn't matter either. What _mattered_ here was that Narcissa had been _kind and obliging_ to him. Lucius on the other hand was clever and sly, and that he hadn't got a clue _yet_ didn't imply that he wouldn't come up with some plot to exploit this source.

* * *

_Ludere…_ If you want to play, look for equal partners.

_De duobus... _Of two evils, pick the lesser one.


	6. Acts Of Charity

Narcissa gets to know Severus better and so does Lucius.

* * *

**– I.5. –  
**

Acts Of Charity

* * *

_But charity begins at home, and justice begins next door._

_CHARLES DICKENS – Martin Chuzzlewit_

* * *

It was a hard one to call who was most dumbfounded that evening. Neither the involved nor the bystanders could have given a plausible reason, least of all Narcissa. It was a chilling cold evening in January, the Slytherin Common Room was as crowded and rambunctious as ever, everything was as usual. Narcissa Black came in with a large pile of books – which was such a common sight that no one took notice except Lucius Malfoy, who always registered any of her moves.

She gazed around, found whom she was looking for and headed for the skinny First Year who was sitting on his own in a corner, brooding over his Transfiguration homework. She let the books slide onto the table before him, put on her best smile and announced, "There you go, Severus Snape."

He gave a start, peeked at the books, at her, and jumped up to make a little bow. "Miss Black!"

"I've written to my parents and they've sent me some things I've asked them for. Here's the Wildsmith, which I would like to get back when you've finished. You can keep the rest if you like."

The boy's gaze returned to the eight fat tomes on the table before him, he opened his mouth and shut it again, but no sound would come. Helplessly, he looked back at her – to the books – to her – and with a little shrug, she murmured almost as insecurely as he clearly was, "Well, don't you want to have a look at them, at least?"

"Sure!" He took one book after the other, his face eloquent with amazement and enthusiasm. They were valuable and rare; Narcissa had only chosen specimens that weren't available in the Hogwarts Library. She felt almost sorry now that she had wanted to do the boy a favour, that she had believed she could help him. She had thought that he could simply sell any of these books and gain enough money to get himself some decent robes, and that he would be interested in the contents themselves, but seeing his face now, she regretted her unusual helpfulness. This wasn't like her anyway, was it?

Perhaps her reservations were wrong though, because after half a minute, he whispered, "Thank you! Thank you so much, Miss Black! I'll give them back to you as soon as I can! Actually, I'm as good as through with –"

"Didn't you listen? You can _have_ them. They're _yours_." She shrugged again. "Unless you don't want to have them, of course."

It turned out that he did want them. He was just shy and humble and inhibited. Narcissa felt strangely endeared to this weird child, who seemed to unite some of life's greatest disadvantages, and who could only claim for himself to be rather bright and advanced in his reading. Perhaps he reminded her of herself, back then in her own first year in school. How she had hated it. How the prospect of seven whole years here had sickened her. Certainly, she still hated it, she still could hardly wait to see the day of her graduation, but she had accommodated well enough. The place was horrid, the classes were boring, and the other students unbearable – well, one simply had to deal with the unpleasant aspects of life. Maybe it was just this. Maybe she just believed little Severus Snape to be a kindred spirit despite all their obviously different circumstances.

They sat down together, the boy flicked through the books as if they were some treasure – carefully, cautiously, reverently. She revised her notion that it had been a bad idea. These books could be in no better, more reverent hands. In a low voice, she asked him after his classes, straining to be as friendly as she could, which was a new experience for her. Normally, she tried to be as distant as possible, with no wish to befriend anyone.

He _was_ clever. After a while, he had lost enough of his diffidence to talk more freely, and eagerly started speaking about his classes, the books he had read; both of them enjoyed their conversation since they had no one else to talk to about such things. They didn't notice one bit how every eye in the room began to stare at them, by and by.

"Now I know why she doesn't want to go out with _me_," Elias Yaxley growled ungraciously. "She's just a frigging child molester!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, will you get over it!"

"Don't talk so big, Lucius. If I remember correctly, she turned you down as well!"

"I _told_ you they'd make one lovely couple, Vampire Boy and the Ice Queen." Imogene looked thoroughly satisfied with herself, snuggling up to her boyfriend. "How foolish can a girl be, turning _you_ down?"

He rolled his eyes. "Well, it's been some years."

"Funny, back then you must have been in her target group, age-wise. Perhaps you were just too sophisticated for her taste."

"Yaxley," Lucius snarled, putting as much menace in his voice as he could. "Perhaps _you_ remember the curse marks I gave you then? Trust me, I've become even quicker, and I've learnt some nastier curses since then, too!"

"Calm down, pal! Why are you getting worked up about this? We're just having some fun."

"She's an arrogant bitch, she deserves it," Imogene said in a tone as if the matter was settled.

"Perhaps she _is_ arrogant, but she's also smarter than _you_ lot put together. And the same's true for the kid."

"Since when do _you_ meddle with First Years?"

Lucius adapted an indifferent expression and said lightly, "Oh, I've talked to him. He's all right."

Yaxley lifted a brow. "You are aware that he's a Mudblood, right?"

Nope, Lucius had _not_ been aware of this, and that little piece of information explained _a lot_ about the boy's obvious oddness, but he wouldn't let it show that Yaxley had taken him by surprise. "Yeah. So what."

"So _what_? You taken a Bludger to the head, buddy?"

"He's not about to marry one of your sisters, Yaxley. Why don't _you_ calm down?"

"He's a disgrace for our entire House! What's this abomination doing in _Slytherin_?"

That _was_ a good question, if he indeed was a Mudblood, but Lucius was too much out of humour to side with Yaxley right now. "The Sorting Hat must have known what it was doing. Who are _you_ to judge?"

"I beg your pardon?" His roommate looked at Lucius as if he were showing the first symptoms of Dragon Pox. "Seriously, Lucius, you might want to see Madam Pomfrey. You're not feeling well."

"I am just fine, I assure you," Lucius drawled. "It's just that you are _so_ getting on my nerves! _You_ are here by default, man, because you are too stupid for Ravenclaw, wouldn't fit in Hufflepuff either because you'd sell your own grandparents if the prize was good enough, and you've got nothing to do in Gryffindor because you're a bloody cowardly chicken." He glared over, subtly touching his wand through the fabric of his robes. Yaxley got the message, shut his mouth, and Lucius added less hostile, "Just leave the kid alone."

Imogene was visibly proud of her sweetheart and padded his shoulder. "Right. Let's all be a little more social. My mother always says that more charity is what our community needs."

"Giving your old clothes to the Witches of Mercy isn't exactly charity," Chloe butted in. "Not enough fabric to warm the poor."

The two girls exchanged a couple of venomous scowls; Imogene prevailed in the end by simply taking Lucius' hand and putting it on her thigh. For Merlin's sake, he had enough. He reclaimed his own limbs, pushed her up and said coolly, "Fancy a walk, dear?"

"Sure!" She gave a shrill giggle. "Nothing as exciting as taking – a _walk_ – with you, after hours!"

He returned to the dungeons as a free man – Imogene returned as a weeping bundle. He had endured her insipidity long enough, and for the first time in some years, he was determined to remain single for a while. Sex wasn't everything, was it?

That night in their dorm, Bertie remarked confidentially, "You don't stand a chance. You know that?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I can well understand why you would dump Vaisey. A dozen sound reasons to get rid of the apeth. Yet I can't help feeling that you've done it for the wrong reason."

"And that would be?" Lucius glared at him, ready to curse him on the spot.

"Relax, Luce. I mean well."

"Oh, do you?"

"Yes, I do. I'm not blind, you know? Don't make a fool of yourself; you can have every chick you want. Don't waste your pride and time on _this one_."


	7. The Chosen Few

Narcissa and Lucius begin to bond over young Severus in Professor Slughorn's little club.

* * *

**– I.6. –  
**

The Chosen Few

* * *

_Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference._

_WINSTON CHURCHILL_

* * *

Traditionally, Slytherin House was the smallest – in numbers – among the four Hogwarts Houses. If one looked at the statistics, the figures would say that in average, 50 out of 120 First Years went to Hufflepuff, 35 made Ravenclaw, 20 were sorted to Gryffindor and no more than fifteen children received the green Slytherin emblem. Naturally, there would have been more sly than truly brave, or even erudite, children, but only Slytherin made the extra request of a pureblooded ancestry, meaning that, usually, at least all four grandparents were wizards and witches.

Curiously, the pedigrees of almost every Slytherin went back much further. Those families that set store on a pure bloodline took care that their offspring continued to stick to the tradition, so most students there hadn't got any Muggle ancestors since the eighteenth century, if that was enough. The Muggle ancestors of most dated back to even earlier times. Among those older families, the Malfoys were the most ancient, purest dynasty by far, followed by the Rosiers, the Lestranges, the Mulcibers, Rookwoods, and last but not least, the Blacks, of course.

The latest offspring of the London branch of this family, which incidentally dated as far back as to the Dark Ages, were the two sons of Orion Black and his wife Walburga, and the three daughters of Orion's older brother Cygnus and his wife Amandine. All five children recommended themselves by their great looks and apt skills, but otherwise they could hardly have been more different from one another, to a superficial observer.

The eldest and most trying to her parents' nerves was Bellatrix. She had been a handsome child, which had led her parents to spoil her to no end, and had grown up to be a true beauty. She had sleek black hair and fiery black eyes, a determined chin and dramatic brows. More dramatic than her brow, however, was her character. Benevolent observers would say she was fierce. The rest of the world would call her foul-tempered. She was restless, easily annoyed and highly irritable, completely lacked patience and self-control, and combined those shortcomings with an unsettling amount of talent for curses and nasty jinxes.

Her poor mother had stopped counting the owls sent home on her account, reporting incessant trespassing of every rule that had ever been laid down. Mr Black, who was a man of steady principles, had punished his child in every way he could think of, but the only result he had obtained was an ever-growing alienation between her and her parents. After her graduation from Hogwarts, she had assigned for Artemis College, taken a flat of her own, gotten married – all in six months – and only returned to her father's house on special occasions.

Not only had Bellatrix moved out at the earliest occasion, she had also married the first man of pure ancestry who'd worship her. This wasn't just a phrase; he did worship her and the ground she tread upon, reading every wish from her eyes, never disagreeing with her, never restricting her in any way, in short: a man nine years her elder who enabled her to follow each of her whims and caprices however and whenever she wanted.

Still, Rodolphus was too nice, in a manner of speaking, and sadly, not the sharpest tool in the shed. But Bellatrix was bright, extremely bright, and she admired talent when she found it in others. In combination with her long-standing interest in the Dark Arts, she quickly found the right place for sheer and heartfelt happiness – she and her husband joined the ranks of a certain warlock, who had returned to England after many years of travelling. This wizard styled himself 'Lord Voldemort', but his disciples did not pronounce his name, reverently calling him 'Master' or 'My Lord' instead. He had founded an Order in which the Dark Arts were practised, and from Bellatrix' point of view this meant: there were clear rules to follow, and retribution when they were violated, there were demanding tasks, and praise when she succeeded. She had found at last what she had been looking for.

The next sister, less dark and far more moderate, was Andromeda. She was a sweet girl in fact, not _quite_ as accomplished as her sisters (which didn't say much), but making up by much more pleasant manners. She had not once given their parents a sleepless night, her marks were very good and so was her appearance, with her shiny auburn hair and light brown eyes, even features and slender figure. Later on, she would trouble her parents beyond words, but at that time, there was no indication whatsoever that she could ever fail in delighting her family.

The youngest girl was Narcissa. She was fair, the essence of a fair girl really, and although it seemed almost impossible, the most beautiful of them all. She was her parents' pride and joy, finally reconciling them to all the trouble they had had with Bellatrix. She could boast many talents of magical and other nature; she had a special gift for languages and music, for drawing and most of all, she was a great reader. At first, her proud parents were nothing but delighted by her quiet ways, but Narcissa was _so_ quiet and reserved that their anxiety for her sake had grown with each year. It could not be healthy, it could not.

As a first measure, they had dragged her to every good family with daughters roughly the same age. They couldn't have done worse. The poor girl abhorred everything about that scheme: playing for the hosts, piano, flute, violin or harp, or if nothing else was available she was coerced to sing, delighting everyone older than thirty, disgusting anyone younger than that. After this, she was sent upstairs to accompany supremely belligerent children, sometimes boys who would pull her hair, but mostly girls who would scowl at her and mock her and make up rude insults.

Other remedies tried had included horseback riding – her dislike for horses had grown by the hour; sailing – which she had actually enjoyed, but after a minor incident her father would not permit her closer to open water than fifty feet; and enrolling her in a choir – which had been so awful an afternoon that she had been sick on the next four dates, until her mother had showed some consideration and cancelled again.

But the very worst of all had yet been to come. Her eleventh birthday, and with it her Hogwarts letter. How she had begged her parents to let her stay at home! She had literally been on her knees, imploring them to go on like before, with some capable tutors… But she had shed all her tears in vain; as much as Mr Black doted upon his darling daughter, on this point he remained inexorable. Hogwarts it was, a dormitory with four other girls it was, classes with twenty to forty other students it was. Narcissa lacked an adequately profane vocabulary to describe the ghastliness of it all.

In Hogwarts, she also met with her cousin Sirius, three years her junior. He, too, was exceptionally good-looking, and as smart as his older cousins promised. Unfortunately, he had got a share of Bellatrix' unstable temper and recklessness. He also had a ridiculously high opinion of himself, though this was perhaps a general family defect, and was too proud for his own good. Narcissa and Sirius couldn't stand the sight of each other; she avoided him if she could, he wouldn't stop taunting her whenever he got the opportunity. With Andromeda, he got along much better. She had a more sociable disposition, and her easy-going attitude impressed him enough to bridle himself.

Sirius was in many ways a blend of his cousins' tempers. Bellatrix' fire, Andromeda's easy-going attitude as far as his friends were concerned, Narcissa's cold contempt for those he detested. Although he was only a First Year now, he was vastly popular among the members of his own house – the first Black in four centuries who hadn't been made a Slytherin, and to make it all worse for his mother, he had instead gone to _Gryffindor_… Walburga Black could have handled a Ravenclaw son, but _Gryffindor_ she regarded as a bad omen. Her first born was obstinate enough as it was, and his new House _couldn't_ but make it worse, she feared. This fact had toned down her former criticism of her sister-in-law's 'lax' education considerably. Cavilling at Bellatrix when her own flesh and blood was going so much further astray – nah, not even Walburga was that much of a hypocrite.

The youngest of the lot was Sirius' brother Regulus. When the former rejected his cousin Narcissa, one could well state that he downright detested his little brother who was their parents' favourite, being so much more gentle and obedient. Where Sirius was rebellious, Regulus was submissive, where Sirius would stamp his foot, Regulus would duck and cower. The softer Regulus was, the more Sirius despised him, and the more cruelly Sirius treated him, the more Regulus tried to please him. It was a vicious circle, and Orion and Walburga only made it worse by favouring Regulus so blatantly.

Sirius was ashamed of his own relations. Those cocky cows – always excepting Andromeda, who was pretty cool – and his brother sucking up to them still. All that ridiculous pureblood rubbish, the _noble_ family, the _sacred_ values, the _wonderful_ Slytherin House! Idiots, all of them! On the other side, Narcissa wasn't exactly _ashamed_ of her cousin – she'd rather be embarrassed by Regulus' frequent bouts of dim wit (he was so desperate to please, he often enough made a fool of himself!) – but she strongly disapproved of Sirius' complete lack of manners, the disparaging fashion in which he'd talk to his own parents even, let alone everyone else. She could only despise the way he'd jinx everyone whose nose he didn't like, and that he particularly enjoyed humiliating little Severus was unpardonable in her eyes. That little hypocrite! On the one hand, he'd nag and complain that his parents set great store by the purity of people's pedigree, on the other hand he tormented a kid as unfortunate as Severus!

This one was the most grateful object for attention one could possibly imagine. Poor kid. Literally. His parents had no money at all; apparently his father wasn't only a Muggle, but also a complete waste of time and space, a drunkard, unreliable, choleric and good-for-nothing. Narcissa would have pitied Severus' mother, but then again – why had she married this bloke? She had no one to blame for that but herself. The boy had been sent to school in hand-me-down robes, his shirts so grey that no magic could bleach them white again – Narcissa had given it quite a few tries, and she was usually very gifted with spells. His textbooks were so old and worn-down that they positively fell apart, mended by masses of spell-o-tape, just to rip on the next use.

She had written to her mother to send her some of her own old school books, which were much better-kept, but that had only worsened the boy's embarrassment, and Narcissa decided she wouldn't humble him again. Why had the Sorting Hat placed him in Slytherin, eh? To humiliate him in every possible way? Not only did he have that infamous Muggle parent, which would have been bad enough in the midst of all the pure-bloods here who looked down on him. Poverty was second only to a lack of pedigree in the eyes of most Slytherin students – even those families that had no money at all would go and pretend, rather taking up mortgages than sending their kids to school in second-hand robes. Clearly, Severus' mum hadn't thought of that, or her vile husband didn't allow her to equip their son properly.

His situation had slightly bettered since Lucius Malfoy had made it clear that nobody was to touch the kid. He couldn't force the boy's dorm-mates to truly respect him though, and Severus was too proud to be a telltale, so Lucius never got to hear of the majority of snide insults and jibes that the child had to endure from his peers. Lucius had indeed increased his efforts to befriend the boy, and was more than pleased both with himself and his protégé. As it turned out, the boy was truly as apt with curses and hexes as any senior student, more than most in fact. He was intelligent, and endlessly grateful for the great Mr Malfoy's attention. To be sure, he flattered Lucius' vanity well enough, and he had already found a possibility to assure the kid's genuine affection. The Quidditch team was wildly admired, and it was a long-standing tradition that each member of the House Team had a kind of personal assistant for all sorts of jobs, like taking care of the brooms, fetching books from the library, mending the Quidditch robes and so on.

The boy entrusted with the honour to do so for Lucius was one Delbert Harper, and he was doing his job just fine, additionally he came from a good family. There was no actual reason to dispose of him, so Lucius played a nasty trick on him at the cost of his own broom. What the heck, he had wanted to get the new Comet 250 anyway. Harper was chased out of his office, and Lucius gave the spare post straight to his new protégé.

Severus Snape was flabbergasted. He had spent his first months in Hogwarts like a Pariah, and all of a sudden, he had _two_ great patrons? The great Lucius Malfoy, unrivalled hero of Slytherin House, who had everything in abundance that Severus himself was so totally without, and the incomparable Miss Black, who was the most impressive witch in the entire school – in the entire universe, as far as Severus was concerned! He didn't know what he had done to deserve such luck.

Admittedly, he sometimes felt like a child of divorce, because his two great friends… Well. To stay in the imagery – Miss Black must have been the one to file for the divorce, and wanted nothing to do with Mr Malfoy. He, on the other hand, was eager to hear every tiny detail about her, demanding absolute secrecy, and showering Severus with good will in return. He was only twelve years old, but he had some imagination, and it was rather easy to guess that Mr Malfoy had quite a crush on Miss Black. Still, this was none of Severus' business, and he wouldn't have gambled with his friends' benevolence for the world. 'Tua quod nihil refert, ne cures,'Miss Black used to say, and right she was, as always. This wasn't simply submission on Severus' part – Miss Black – erm, _Narcissa_ was really always right. She knew everything, she had read everything, and her judgement turned out to be right every time, too. As far as the boy could see, her only error in judgement referred to Lucius Malfoy, who was so much nicer than she'd give him credit for.

Not only was Severus allowed to take care of Lucius Malfoy's things, next he was introduced to their Head of House's little club, to which only selected students were admitted. Mr Malfoy just took him along, and indeed, he was quite warmly welcomed by Professor Slughorn, although it was obvious that he would never have been invited if it hadn't been for the Professor's favourite student.

"Look what the cat's brought in. Snape!" The voice was familiar, Severus didn't need to turn around to know who had called out.

"Slowly, slowly, Mr Black," Professor Slughorn chuckled genially. "Mr Snape, let me begin by welcoming you, and introduce you to your fellows."

He indicated at a number of students, mostly older Slytherins, like Narcissa Black's older sister, who was in the same year as Lucius Malfoy. There was yet another sister, who had already graduated from school. Severus had never met her, but he had heard a _lot_. She was a legend in Slytherin House; it was said that she was as fierce as a dragon on the war path. However, he knew that _his_ Miss Black should be here as well, the Professor was very fond of her, but she flatly refused to go. "I spend too much time with people I don't like already," she used to say, "I have no desire to waste my free time on them as well."

"Please welcome Severus Snape. He's a good lad, Mr Malfoy's help and very deft in potion-making. Listen well, Miss Evans, you two could found a study group together!"

Lily Evans dutifully nodded, gave Severus a smile and he nodded back. She was the only person he had known when coming to school – the Evans' lived not too far away from Severus' own parents. She was very nice, she was… Well… He had hoped she'd be a Slytherin, too, a friend in this new environment, and even though he had known that it was highly unlikely, he had believed it possible. Lily Evans was a marvellous witch already in his eyes, and that was what Slytherin was all about, wasn't it? About greatness? About power? Or why else had _he_ landed here, a son of a Muggle among all these purebloods?

He wondered if Mr Malfoy and Miss Black would approve of his Muggleborn Gryffindor friend. Surely they wouldn't. But one of the first principles young Severus had grasped in his short life so far was this – one needn't tell everything. Omitting truth wasn't the same as lying – he wouldn't dare to lie to his benevolent protectors. He was an appallingly bad liar anyhow. Instead, he simply wouldn't mention Lily. Senior students took scarce notice of First Years anyhow, all the more when they came from other houses. And Severus didn't feel like – well – _sharing_ – his friendship with Lily either.

"Sir, my sister wishes me to offer excuses on her behalf," Andromeda Black said now. "She is preparing for a test."

Slughorn chuckled again. "Yes, yes, Miss Black is a very avid student. Take an example from her, lads."

Some of them rolled their eyes, others forced themselves to smile, only Sirius Black would sneer and hiss, "Come on, Andy. You needn't lie for her. Dear Cissy's just too full of herself to come!"

Andromeda sharply replied, "Leave her alone, Sirius!"

"Andy –"

"You've _heard_ me."

She received a well-meaning glance from Lucius Malfoy for her sister's defence, which she did not return. Yes, Severus thought to himself, Mr Malfoy did like Miss Black _very_ much. Who could blame him?

Narcissa was very fond of the boy, too; he was a loner like herself, and by far the cleverest wizard to walk around in this school. Strictly speaking, he was in no need for help with his homework either, but she wanted to do something for him and so they had started to do some extra work that was beyond his own level of classes. When she heard that Lucius Malfoy had dragged the poor boy to old Slughorn's club and how Sirius had behaved, she instantly decided that she'd for once accept the regular invitations and go, too. Severus needed a little backup – Malfoy wouldn't help him anyway. In all probability, he only took him there to humiliate the poor child!

The kid had taken the surprising news with much more dignity than her Head of House. And how lucky that she couldn't witness Lucius Malfoy's caper of joy when Severus mentioned it, or she might have lost the last scraps of respect she harboured for him.

Severus' impression of being a child of divorce would have deepened that evening, if it hadn't been for his enormous pride and the struggle not to let it show too clearly. He was on his way to his Head of House's club-evening for selected students. Was he on his own? No! Was he accompanied by one of his great friends? Nope! He was accompanied by _both_ of them! Walking right between them! Ha! He would enter that office together with the two coolest people in the whole school; beat that, Black!

Lucius was similarly pleased. He couldn't remember when Narcissa Black had last permitted him so close. That she didn't give him a single smile was but a minor drawback. All in due time. She looked magnificent though, as always. And Severus was a bright kid who was also well-instructed. He'd know what to do.

Professor Slughorn expressed his delight when the royal couple entered his study, especially welcoming Miss Black and almost completely ignoring Severus, but Narcissa would not have it. She smiled sweetly, and answering the question what had made her change her mind and attend the meeting, she said with a honeyed voice, "Because of Severus here. He positively enthused on the previous gathering, and swore that I just _had_ to come, sir."

"Let me tell you how glad I am that you'd interrupt your studies for the sake of our little gathering, Miss Black."

"Not at all, Professor. You are welcome," Narcissa said deliberately gracious.

Andromeda stifled a giggle and stuffed her mouth with a pastry instead. She also silenced her cousin who was about to open his mouth by urging him to take a piece as well, and munching, she murmured, "Bite your tongue, cos. Or the pastry if you've got to."

He obeyed in so far that he kept his voice low, "I get sick of that regal attitude! Who does she think she is!"

"My little sister, so shut up."

"And the other two jerks?"

"Malfoy certainly _is_ a jerk, but why don't you just leave the nipper alone? I don't get it!"

"Malfoy's lapdog? Two of a kind!"

In the meantime, Lucius, Narcissa and their charge had settled in some very comfortable armchairs and been equipped with drinks – Severus had done as Lucius had told him. Picking the most comfortable chair at first and then, when his two friends had taken their seats at his sides, he'd suddenly 'noticed' that his own chair was _much_ more comfortable than Miss Black's and urged her to trade places. Well done, kid!

Narcissa would have thought that Malfoy had contrived this little manoeuvre, had she believed Severus capable of partaking in such a scheme. Malfoy had this inner drive – nay, _obsession_ – to make a pass at _every_ girl coming his way. He had tried it with her, too, at the start of her Second Year, and as soon as she had consented to go to Hogsmeade with him – yes, she had been so incredibly naïve – he had pulled off the nice mask and shown his true face to render her the national laughing stock in front of all of his insipid mates. She didn't put it past him though that he'd make another attempt to test how silly she could be, and _no_, she wouldn't grant him another victory for his insatiable vanity.

Narcissa had been to only four or five of these meetings in the four years she was in Hogwarts, the last one more than a year ago, so she gazed around quite curiously now. Who were the rising stars of the wizarding community? Because Slughorn truly had an eye for this, she'd give him that. He recognised people who would make it far, be it for their talent, or other qualities likely to advance them.

Here were the members of her own family, invited because they were _Blacks_ and thus prone to make it _very_ far in life. The same was true for Lucius Malfoy and Frank Longbottom from Gryffindor, _old_ blood, _old_ money. Damocles Belby was the son of his father and a brilliant potioneer himself, Everett Bobbin from Ravenclaw would inherit the country's largest chain of apothecaries. Next to them, there was Bertram Higgs, recommending himself both by heritage and talent – the only thing he basically sucked at was Quidditch. Over there, the pretty girls, both Seventh Years from Slytherin, respectively Hufflepuff – Venus Yaxley, daughter of the well-known Law Wizard Maxwell Yaxley and a talented potion-maker herself, and Tallulah Tatting, the startlingly pretty granddaughter of Macaulay Tatting, the current manager of Twilfitt and Tatting – oh, by the way, both had been going out with Malfoy for two or three weeks last year, too, of course. Who hadn't!

That were the students she knew by sight and name – much more interesting were the others. The most eye-catching was a girl in robes bearing the Gryffindor crest. Judging from her height, she was a First Year, and she was uncommonly cute. Her hair was a blend of mahogany and red, but more intriguing yet were her eyes – almond-shaped, impossibly green eyes. For a minute, Narcissa wondered whether the girl was here due to her blossoming beauty, or because of her talent. She forgot that Severus no longer sat next to her right side, slightly bowed over and whispered, "Who are the two girls, and the boy with the glasses?"

Lucius was surprised and elated to hear her addressing him, and most ready to reply in a low voice, "Gaspard Shingleton – Ravenclaw, talent for charms, Althea Penrose – Hufflepuff, niece of old Phoebus, and Lily Evans from Gryffindor, rising potions star."

She gave a start when realising who she was talking to, but what the heck. "Which one is the redhead?"

"Evans."

She nodded and went back to observe the unknown kids. Slughorn was relating some boring story, and she already regretted that she had come in the first place. So far, Sirius had behaved, but she didn't deceive herself whose merit this was. Maybe she should simply talk to Andy and ask her to ask Sirius to leave Severus alone in the future?

Her mind trailed off – she constructed potions in her head when she had nothing better to do, it was a good training for memory – when she was awoken again by a soft nudge from Malfoy. She realised that Slughorn seemed to be talking to her, and Malfoy muttered under his breath, "You – supervising – Potions Club –"

"Bugger," she whispered just as lowly, but smiled at their teacher.

"What do you say, Miss Black?"

"I don't think I'm the right person for this sort of thing, sir."

"Nonsense! You'd be perfect! You're an ace in potion-making, and our younger talents, like Severus and Lily here, could benefit greatly from your guide and experience!"

"Sir, I'm not made for _guidance_, I assure you."

"She's also very busy with her studies, Professor. Magnificence is hard to achieve," Malfoy butted in. She was almost grateful, especially when seeing Slughorn's now pensive face.

"Yes… I see, yes… Well, perhaps you will allow that occasionally, some younger student can ask you and Mr Belby here for help with their homework …?"

"Certainly, sir," Narcissa said, and gave an inaudible sigh of relief. Nobody except Severus would _dare_ to approach her.

The evening went along with useless chit-chat, although Narcissa did not mind it as badly as feared. Some of Slughorn's favourites were fairly smart after all, making sensible remarks, and even Lucius Malfoy wasn't exclusively the spoilt, silly brat that she had taken him for. Why would this guy waste his time with his moronic friends and Quidditch if he was so clever? And eventually, she could also fulfil the purpose for which she had come.

Slughorn trailed off to look for a certain book, and the students began talking more casually. A plate with hors d'oeuvres was handed around, and just as Narcissa shook her head to decline and passed the plate on to Malfoy, she heard her cousin chortle.

"Good choice, Cissy. _I_ wouldn't eat anything that the little greaseball's touched before either!"

Narcissa shot him an irritated look, taking one second to process his meaning. She jerked the plate back out of Malfoy's hands and picked the next best bite that looked as if it wasn't made of meat, shoving it into her mouth with a challenging glance. She chewed the distasteful snack, swallowed it, all the while glaring at her cousin, and said at last, "Seeing how unfortunate I am concerning some of my blood relations, cousin, I am indeed glad that I can at least choose who my _friends_ are. Severus is worth ten of _your_ kind."

"Only ten? I ought to try harder then!"

"Please, do so. Maybe you can do us all a favour and get yourself expelled after all?"

"What's happened, Cissily, that you are so wildly fawning over Malfoy's lapdog? Are you really that desperate?"

She rather felt than saw both Lucius and Severus twitching, and before they could say anything, she replied quietly, "Careful, cousin, _careful_. You don't want to mess with me."

"True. I'd much prefer to have a bit more fun with your eeny weeny protégé." Sirius grinned haughtily. "I don't curse girls, you know."

She laughed. "Oh, as long as it stays in the family, you _really_ shouldn't bother with such conventions, cousin. Come on, walk it like you talk it. Hm? Suddenly scared, now that your petty little friends aren't there to back you up?"

They glared at each other, Sirius angry, Narcissa disdainful, both forgetting about the initial reason for their little fight and focusing on their own feud of old. Slughorn was still standing in front of a bookshelf, obliviously searching for the book he meant to give to Belby, but all the students watched the two combatants curiously. Sirius drew his wand with an expression of loathing, pushing down Andromeda's restraining hand.

"Go ahead, cousin, if you dare," Narcissa said coolly.

"Who do you think you are, Cissily?"

"It doesn't matter who I am. What counts is that I'm quicker than you." She smiled brightly, not bothering to take out her wand just yet. She was really good at duelling – it was inevitable with a sister like Bella.

Andromeda stepped between them, scowling at both of them alternately. "Stop this shit at once, both of you! Are you out of your heads?"

Narcissa was smiling still. "What did I do, then?"

"Put away your wand, Sirius! Honestly, this is beneath you!"

He obeyed reluctantly, hissing, "One of these days, Cissily, one of these days!"

Slughorn returned with the book he had looked for, noticed the tense atmosphere and asked witlessly, "Gryffindor versus Slytherin, eh? There are still two more matches to go for Gryffindor, Mr Black, you still have the technical chance of making it."

Sirius gawked at him, incredulous at so much thickness. Narcissa suppressed a laugh, like most others, and couldn't help it but kindle the fire some more, cooing, "But it's only a technical chance, isn't it? You're not going to allow them to win, are you, Lucius?"

Lucius was surprised, and delighted with such a friendly address. "Absolutely not!"

"Since when do _you_ have a clue about Quidditch, Cissily? You know how many balls are involved?" Sirius grunted.

"I know enough to understand that our team is the best by far. Isn't that right?" She innocently gazed around, aware that the room was full of Slytherins, each one of them a Quidditch enthusiast. In this moment, Lucius loved her. Positively loved her. Sure, she simply meant to tease her unbearable cousin, but still. She had never before said anything remotely nice about him, or to him. Now she looked at him, smiling shark-like. "I have complete faith in our Captain to win this year, yet again."

She calculated that annoying her Quidditch-obsessed cousin would outweigh flattering Lucius Malfoy's vanity by far. The other present Slytherin students, except Andromeda who loathed him, applauded wildly, while Sirius adapted a greenish tinge.

Before dismissing them all, Slughorn elicited Narcissa's promise to come the next time, too, and she, Severus, Lucius and Damocles Belby left together. The latter received a clandestine nudge from his roommate to speak up. "Coming back to Slughorn's idea, Narcissa – can I persuade you to come to one of our next potions club meetings?"

"Isn't it enough that I endure Slughorn's own club evenings?" she replied in a surly tone.

"But that's different! I should truly like to work with someone who knows their recipes, and I've heard great things about your proficiency!"

"And I have heard in turn that you need no help to be an excellent potioneer yourself, Belby. I'm not cut out to be a team player, you're better off on your own."

She thought this had been it, but she was mistaken. Only a few days later, she was approached by the girl with the startling eyes, whose name had slipped her mind for the moment. For a minute, she was irritated at some stranger, a Gryffindor even, addressing her, but then she realised with some surprise that the girl knew what she was talking about.

"Professor Slughorn has mentioned Memory Potions in our class, and from Severus I've heard that you possess Hector Dagworth-Granger's Compendium on Dragon Blood, which appears to cover the subject. I wonder if you would lend me the book?"

"What is it with you First Years nowadays? You won't have it before your fourth year!"

"I simply like to experiment."

She shared nothing of Severus' inhibition or submissive air, in fact she was lively and self-confident, looking straight into Narcissa's eyes, smiling. She lent her the book, and a couple of others she'd ask for in the upcoming weeks, growing increasingly interested in the girl. If she truly understood what she was reading there –

"You've got classes with that Evans girl, Severus, haven't you? Is she any good?"

"She's really good with potions. And charms," he muttered, not lifting his head to look over.

"Perhaps you should study with her then. Her lecture for Potions is extraordinary."

"She's already studying with Damocles Belby."

"Yes, so what? Join them! He's excellent. Total genius in potion-making. You can only profit from his knowledge."

"No, I'd rather not… I'm not – you know… I don't fit in there…"

"For Merlin's sake, Severus, we really need to work on your self-esteem. The Evans girl hasn't only got a Muggle _father_, but a complete _set_ of Muggle parents, and do you see her hiding away because of that? And if Belby is practising with her, he doesn't appear to mind either!"

"It's not only that… She's really good, you see… I don't want to make a fool of myself…"

"You achieved an 'O' in your last test, didn't you?"

"But only because you've helped me."

She rolled her eyes and used the following evenings to make her little protégé fit for joining Belby and the Evans girl. He was good enough in her opinion, but with a little training, he was genuinely excellent, even more considering that he was merely a First Year. Eventually, she even agreed to accompany him to his first meeting, as a bit of psychological backup. Belby was surprised, though not unpleasantly, to see her, and in return, Narcissa got a pleasant surprise that night finding how much she was enjoying herself. Belby did know what he was doing, the Evans girl was an amazing talent too, Severus performed well as always, and in the end, she thought she'd have to revise her opinion on clubs – a certain kind of club, at least.

"And? Coming back next week?" Belby asked with a grin.

"I should see if the concoction turns out right, shouldn't I?"

They met every Thursday night at seven o'clock, with a special permission by Slughorn to trespass curfew if necessary. Quite incredulously, she registered that she was finally drawn into this whole school business, something she had successfully avoided for more than three years. Once a week she met with her Potions Club, every fortnight, she attended Slughorn's meetings, and Severus talked her into watching the match between Slytherin and Ravenclaw – which was more fun than she'd admit. Slytherin played Ravenclaw into the ground; Lucius Malfoy alone scored eighteen goals, but then nearly broke his neck when colliding with his opposite number.

She liked Damocles, or 'Cle', as his mates dubbed him. He was a genius, no doubt about it, single-minded, inventive, creative, and they all benefited from his engagement. He in turn would admit that the 'kids' – even Narcissa was two years his junior – inspired him to further greatness by contributing brilliant ideas. Old Horace Slughorn was very satisfied with himself.

One of the rather charming aspects of Damocles was the fact that he made no whatsoever attempt to get off with her. Despite the fact that Narcissa wasn't fifteen yet, approximately five dozen boys had tried to ask her out so far, and it was getting severely on her nerves. Why couldn't they just leave her to her peace? Was that truly too much to ask? Were they keen on being humiliated, or did they truly believe that she'd make an exception for the one asking? That they were more special than their fellows? However, Damocles wasn't like this. He treated her with respect and nothing else, seeing a potion expert in her, not a pretty girl.

She had no idea why Damocles was so unobtrusive, and he wouldn't have told her either. It wasn't as if he was oblivious of her sparkling beauty, or her outstanding intelligence. In fact, he found her more perfect the better he got to know her. Still, his own roommate and friend Lucius had such a terrible crush on her, he didn't have the heart to approach her in any other way than that of friendship. His mate was jealous enough as it was.

"Why do you forbid me to come?" Lucius asked, lurking. "There's something going on there, be honest!"

"Yes, there _is_ something going on, namely serious potion-making, Luce! And that's also the exact reason why I do _not_ ask you – the two First Years would put you in their pocket. Sorry, pal, but it's true! You haven't got the standard to –"

"Perhaps I'd be less _substandard_ if you allowed me to come!"

"These aren't extra lessons, Luce. Come on, you don't want to make a fool of yourself in front of _her_."

"I got good marks in Potions!"

"I don't say you hadn't! But for once, Sluggy loves you, he'd never give you a bad mark, and then, you simply do what the book tells you. You haven't got the right sort of _spirit_ for –"

"Stop quibbling, mates," Graham said in his sonorous bass. "And why don't you let him go just once, Cle, it's _his_ business after all."

Damocles turned his eyes to the ceiling and shook his head. "Luce, I'm your friend. For all I care, come as you like, but as your _friend_, I also seriously advise you not to."

After his initial outrage had dissipated, Lucius did realise that Damocles wasn't entirely wrong, and _no_, he had no taste to be humiliated in front of Narcissa. But it needn't be like that, right? He interviewed his roommate about the upcoming plans of their study group and for the first time in more than half a year, he actually went into the library. He also wrote home to have one of the servants send him a bunch of books, and seriously began to study and catch up. Some First Years, beating him! Ph!

This new commitment got in the way of some of his other hobbies. Being Captain of the team, he could not cut back on Quidditch practise. He had to attend the Deputy Headmaster's meetings for the Prefects, too. Having little intention to live a monk's life in celibacy (his numerous vows to remain single never saw a week's end), he had to share his remaining time among his respective girlfriends and his chums. Neither took that very kindly. He and some of his closest friends had a club of their own, and since there were seven of them, they had come up with the name 'Sepulture Septuplet' – corny, all right, but they had tried to find, and failed, a better word matching 'Septuplet'. Next to Lucius, there were Damocles 'Cle' Belby, Graham 'Golly' Goyle, Marlon 'Crabs' Crabbe, Evan 'Rosie' Rosier, Bertram 'Bertie' Higgs, and Horatio 'Gibbs' Gibbon, and the lot of them had fun. Honestly, _fun_.

There was plenty of money between them, ample talent, and most of all, a hunger for adventure and challenge. They vied with each other, coming up with various stunts and pranks, collecting trophies, discovering ways out of the school, they had fantastic parties – public ones in the Slytherin Common Room, clandestine parties in secret places only for themselves. Cle, for example, had made himself a name for actually managing to slip a Giggling Potion into the kitchens, spiking tea and coffee for all house tables, _and_ the staff. Golly and Crabs, less clever than their friends but all the more mischievous, had set all the school's nifflers free, causing havoc at breakfast time because the little buggers had invaded the Great Hall and hurled themselves at every piece of shiny metal they would find, regardless whether it was jewellery, cutlery, or braces. Gibbs had transformed the central court yard into a snake pit, and Lucius had excelled himself by gaining two free days for all the students. He had invented a couple of spells to block every class room door, jam the corridors and confound the staircases.

They had given themselves rules, naturally, and albeit rule number one being complete secrecy, there were little doubts among students and teachers who was in and who wasn't. Narcissa knew it, too, and if she hadn't, she would have learnt it by her acquaintance with Damocles, because the other six regularly turned up to fetch their mate. Whenever she met Lucius Malfoy, he showered her with compliments, and one evening in late February, he even dared to attend one of their potions club meetings.

She sneered at him. "Wrong door, Malfoy. _This_ is the potions club. For people who are apt at _potions_, you understand? That girl you're probably looking for must be in the room next door."

Damocles burst out cackling, but seeing his friend's scowl, he pretended to cough instead. Malfoy's face transformed as well; he smiled brightly at Narcissa and exclaimed, "The only girl I'm looking for is you, Black. Cle's told me about your latest work, and my father has made it very clear what will happen if my marks do not improve. Come on, give me a chance to prove to you that I'm not the moron that you take me for."

"Big talk, but that's your speciality, isn't it? Come on then. But I've got to warn you – Lily here is a Gryffindor. Bear in mind that her entire House will laugh at you if you mess this up."

Even though she was only a First Year, and Muggle-born to boot, little Lily Evans grinned and stepped forth, waving boldly. 'Good girl,' Narcissa thought gleefully. 'Stupid cow,' Lucius thought, but did not cease smiling. He was well prepared – he would glory in Narcissa's presence, plus he could have an eye on Damocles and her. And he would show the little Mudblood her place.

Narcissa closely observed each of his moves, keen to discover a mistake. Sadly enough, she found none – he was no ace, but he wasn't half as bad as she had expected either, and once again she asked herself why he wouldn't make more of himself. Some practise, some _interest_ to begin with, and he could be great! Truly great!

"How am I doing, Black?"

"You should be more exact."

"I prefer to think on the grand scale."

"Story of your life, Malfoy!"

* * *

_Tua quod..._ Don't mind businesses that aren't your own. (Plautus, Stichus)


	8. Staking The Territories

Narcissa and Lucius have a brush in the library.

* * *

******–** I.7. **–**

Staking The Territories

* * *

_Quae modo pugnarunt, iungunt sua rostra columbae._

_OVID – Ars Amatoria_

* * *

"And that's the next thing we're going to practise, dear. You're an appallingly bad liar!"

"Lying is for cowards, isn't it?"

She sniggered. "Only if you're a fat-headed Gryffindor. The rest of us are smarter than that. Honestly, there are loads of things you've got to learn yet, Severus Snape. For a start: Cowardice isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's much to be preferred to foolhardiness, for an instance. And there will come many situations when you don't want to let show what's really going on in your head. Take your feud with my horrible cousin, for example. You'd have so much more spare time, if you didn't always blurt out that you've cursed him and spend your evenings in detentions."

"He'd give me away anyway, and I don't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me degrade myself and lie!"

"I appreciate your self-respect, but that attitude won't take you anywhere, trust me. Listen closely, Severus, I believe I can teach you some very handy lessons." She winked at him. "Number One – know your enemy. In the case of my cousin, you could already know some helpful things like –"

"Like him being a total arsehole?"

"So much is obvious, isn't it. But please, mind your language, at least when you're talking to me. Anyhow, he is a Gryffindor, and maybe you haven't been long enough in this school yet to understand, but those folks have something like a code of honour. Sirius _is_ an awful person, but one thing he's not – a traitor. It disagrees with _his_ self-respect. He wouldn't incriminate you. So – let us say old Slughorn is the one to interview you on the case – what'd you do?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

"For a start you have to appear genuine, no matter who's asking you. No guilt written all over your face, no pride, no contentment. You must look perfectly unconcerned, and of course, you have no idea what they're talking about until _they_ tell _you_ what's happened. Unless it's absolutely obvious. Mind you, it's not believable when you of all persons are informed that Sirius was hit by a curse and you appear like you were _not_ gleeful. It's all about the right measure. Got me so far?"

"Yes –"

She doubted that he fully comprehended; it was written all over his face, but she carried on regardless, "Of course, this is all very obvious; you automatically do the same when you lie to your parents –"

"I never do."

She hesitated and frowned. "I beg your pardon? Omnis homo mendax, Severus! What are you, some sort of saint?"

"My mother… She…" He bit his lip and looked on his hands, before raising his head again and adding in a more steady tone, "As for my father – oh well. I've preferred defiance so far, you see?"

"Defiance? Why? Because he's a Muggle?"

"Rather because he is a complete jerk – excuse the term, but he really is. He doesn't _deserve_ the effort."

"I see… Well, so it means you've got to start from scratch, that's all."

"I'm sorry, but – do I really have to – well – learn this?"

She smiled slyly. "Mark my words, dear, but it can only be advantageous when it's _your_ choice whether you tell someone the truth or not."

"True," a well-known voice said and Narcissa was quite proud that she didn't give a start. When she looked up, she appeared as calm as ever, seeing Lucius Malfoy stand before them, casually leaning against a shelf. "Listen to her, Severus."

She didn't want to be backed up by Lucius Malfoy of all persons, not him, but what could she do? "Eavesdropping, are you?"

"That's a harsh accusation. Actually, I happened to be searching for Severus here. And when I saw you and heard that you're trying to teach him how to lie, and actually backing your lecture on the topic up with scripture quotes, it was just too interesting."

"Was it," she said tersely, every fibre of her body willing him to leave. Didn't she see enough of him already! She couldn't stop him from attending the Potions Club meetings, but why she ought to endure him in her free time was beyond her.

"It was. I wonder what you mean by it though –"

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Severus asked and got up, but Narcissa pulled him back. She didn't look at him though, but glared at Lucius.

"You're not his servant, Severus!"

"Uh – I am, in fact –"

Lucius clearly tried to look as nice as he could, still he couldn't help but show his usual sneer. "You are not my _servant_, Severus, but my _aide_ –"

"Boils down to the same thing!" Narcissa intensified her scowl. He _must_ eventually understand that he wasn't wanted here, right?

He wasn't impressed, sadly, simply continuing in that habitually smug manner of his, "And not only my aide, but my friend."

"You've got a strange concept of friendship!"

"Look who's talking!"

"Do you chase your other friends down to the Quidditch Pitch in pouring rain, too? Only to clip some twigs on your broomstick?"

"But that's my job," Severus muttered.

"Yes, and do you think it entirely sensible to be bossed around only because of _Quidditch_?"

"He can leave if he wishes, but it appears he doesn't want to. Unlike _you_, I don't try to control him and everything else around me."

"I do no such thing!"

Severus had got to his feet once more. "Please, Narcissa –"

"_Sit down_, Severus!"

He exchanged some looks with his great _friend_, on his part helpless, on Malfoy's part – well – somehow indecipherable. "Speaking of bossing around, Miss Black! Ts ts ts… However, Severus, I was looking for you to ask you if you would be so kind and grease my leather gloves before the next training."

"Certainly!"

"Your homework is more important than greasing his gloves, Severus!"

"And I thought you had already finished, seeing that you were about to give him a lesson on the extracurricular subject of deception. I know you think nothing of Quidditch, so to _you_ everything must be more important. But she is a genius, Severus. I think you do well to obey her –"

"He needn't _obey_ me! He can do as he pleases!"

"Can he really? He's got up two times already and you've urged him not to, and he has _obeyed_." He shot her a suggestive smile, and turned back to patronise the kid, "Which was very good of you, Severus, don't worry."

One side-glance at the boy sufficed to see how unhappy he was with the situation. She inwardly cursed Malfoy for bringing him into such a predicament, but that was just like him, wasn't it, he simply enjoyed giving others a hard time! But she wouldn't play his game, even if that meant that he got his will. She shut the book before her with a loud _clap_, gave Severus a gentle smile and said, "I think we're through anyway, dear. Run along, I know how you guys like Quidditch."

"Is that really all right by you?"

"Absolutely," she said and smiled yet more sweetly, only to glare at Malfoy in the next second. "It's fine. See you tomorrow, same time?"

She had hoped that Lucius would vanish with him, but she was disappointed bitterly. He left his comfortable position by the shelf and strolled over to her table, glancing at the books before her.

"You are one busy bee, aren't you?"

"Can I help you with anything?" She was pleased with herself for giving her voice just the right amount of spin.

"You could, yes…"

He looked straight into her eyes, penetratingly really, but she wouldn't allow him to make her look away first. "And…? What would that be?"

He didn't answer and he didn't turn his gaze away, neither did she. Despite herself, she noticed the remarkable colour of his eyes; she had noticed it before, of course, it was impossible to miss. Almost like silver, like, two lunar orbs, like a day in November shortly before the sun would come out – but never before she had seen his eyes from so close, and for so long. Before she got entirely mesmerised, she arched a brow, inviting him to speak.

"Well… For a start I'd be truly interested in the subject you were just about to teach our mutual friend."

She gave a mocking laugh. "I believe you're already a proficient expert."

He raised his brows. "What makes you say that?"

"Oh please! Do you really mean to tell me that you cannot _lie_?"

"I'm not a novice like good Severus, admittedly. But I don't think I'm as good as you."

"Sounds like a compliment, feels like a slap." She gave a fake smile. "Well done, Malfoy. I think _that_ is something I could learn from _you_."

"Actually, I'm just copying you."

"Aww, thanks, I feel so flattered."

"You can. Imitation is the highest level of admiration."

"You truly are a gift to human kind, aren't you?"

"See? That's what I mean. On the surface, you are all calmness and composure, with a seeming glint of politeness here and there, occasionally. But underneath, you are frothing with anger, and still you are very apt in concealing it."

"But I couldn't fool _you_, eh?" If she forced herself to smile any more like this, her face would become stuck, and for the rest of her life, she'd roam the world looking like a total idiot!

"You look nice when you're smiling."

For a second, she thought he was taunting her, but either he was an _excellent_ liar, or he was serious, and both unsettled her. "Oh, you should see how nice I look if I'm smiling for _real_, Malfoy!"

He turned his eyes to the floor. "What would it take me to make you smile for real?"

"Leave?" she suggested dryly, seeing him smirk.

"Why am I bothering you so much?"

"Why do you bother me at all?"

"I would like to know you better."

She burst out laughing. "I bet you would. But let me tell you a secret – I'm every bit as nasty as people say I am. There's nothing else to discover."

"I don't believe you."

"I thought I was such a good liar?"

"You do put on a brilliant show, but I know you better."

She snorted. "What would _I_ have to do to make you _leave_, Malfoy?"

"Go out with me."

She shook her head in exasperation. "Oh, for heaven's sake, what do you take me for?"

He looked very earnest. "I think you are a very, very pretty, and even more intelligent girl –"

"If you truly believed that I was _intelligent_, how could you seriously assume that I'd be so silly as to fall for this rubbish?"

"Will you go out with me?"

"No!" He gave her a long, intense look, but this time she did look away. She packed her books into her bag, rolled up some parchments and put them away too. "Anything else? Good, because _I_ will leave now!"

She got up, shouldered her bag and marched away without looking back. He was right. She was fuming with rage. That guy had a nerve! Asking her out! Ph! And then, she let herself be chased away, from her very own territory! The library was _her_ space! He never went into the library, he'd rather send Severus to get him the books he needed! _She_ stayed away from the Quidditch Pitch, he could have it, as long as he didn't go into the library and –

She stopped abruptly. What was she _thinking_ there? _Her_ space, _his_ territory, for goodness' sake! She prided herself to be a thoroughly rational, sensible person, and ten minutes conversation with this idiot drove her utterly mad? She took a deep breath, counted up to ten, checked herself and went on, calmer, and as serenely as she could. Still, such insolence! Asking her out! _Her!_ She couldn't possibly feel more insulted. Ranking her with those insipid little sluts he else went out with! And if he was only going out with them, she would not bother, but all _this guy_ wanted from a girl was sex and another trophy, and _she_ would not lower herself like that, never!

On her way to the dungeons, she passed her sister, who was holding hands in broad daylight with the Hufflepuff Prefect, Ted Something. Oh, Andy! Couldn't she at least be careful? Anyone could see them! That concern wasn't merely rooted in Narcissa's sense of decency and her abhorrence of the public display of caresses, but the deplorable fact that Ted Something was Muggleborn. He was nice, according to Andromeda, that wasn't the point, but their parents would make such a fuss if they ever got wind of this! And did she really, _really_ have to pick a _Hufflepuff_? A House praised for its utter mediocrity?

She walked by and uttered under her breath, "Pull yourself together, Andy! Frankly, you need to get a grip!"

Andromeda gave a giggle and stepped a bit closer to her companion. "Why don't _you_ just get a _life_, Cissy?"

* * *

_Quae modo…_ Pigeons that are fighting now, will be billing tomorrow.

_Omnis homo..._ All men are liars. (Psalm 116, 11)


	9. Crime And Punishment

Lucius is so put out by his quarrel with Narcissa that he makes a big mistake.

* * *

**********–** I.8. ******–**  


Crime And Punishment

* * *

_Sacrilegia minuta puniuntur, magna in triumphis feruntur._

_SENECA – Epistulae Morales_

* * *

He was unfamiliar with the whole concept of sadness. He had a faint acquaintance with frustration when things didn't go the way he wanted them to take, but mostly they did anyhow. Disappointment and depression were new for him and he had no clue how to handle them. And he _was_ depressed, there could be no doubt about it.

So far, he had comforted himself with the notion that deep down, she might like him a _little_, enough to allow him to make her like him a little more – damn it! He was _charming_! He could be! All those girls were crazy for him, so why couldn't _she_ be? But no, no, she wouldn't stand to be in his company for more than five minutes! She'd rather go to a nunnery than go out with him only once! Why had he even bothered all spring to learn potion recipes and spent his evenings poring over fuming cauldrons, if she didn't deign to give him the time of day anyhow! She –

In his fury, he knocked over a pile of books, making the lunatic librarian throw a tantrum, but he wasn't in the mood to simply beg her pardon or leave. Instead, he yelled back at her, that it was her damn _job_ to collect books and store them away, that it wasn't _his_ fault in the first place that the entire place was a mess, topping it all by calling her an 'evil vulture'. He received three nights of detentions from Professor McGonagall for this, who had heard the argument – well, hardly anyone in the castle could have missed it, they had both been screaming at the top of their lungs – and rushed by.

"Have you taken leave of your senses, Mr Malfoy?" Her lips were thinner than he had ever seen when she jerked her head to indicate he should follow her to his Head of House.

"And if I have?"

She drew her breath, doubtless to give him an exhausting lecture on manners and rules, but for now he was spared this because she had found another object for her anger. "Mr Tonks!" she snapped. "You, too, are _Prefects_! You ought to set younger students an example! And as for you, Miss Black – I am _very_ surprised at you!"

Lucius suppressed a laugh; there stood Narcissa's big sister, and three seconds ago she had still been tightly entwined with her Hufflepuff Mudblood boyfriend. That sister at least knew how to have fun! Even if she had bad taste in choosing with _whom _to have it, but that was another story! McGonagall docked five points each from Hufflepuff and Slytherin, and another five from Slytherin because Andromeda had given a saucy reply – "We _are_ giving a good example for cordiality among the Houses, Professor!" – but then his reprieve was over.

"Just because you are your father's son, Mr Malfoy, or because you are Captain of your House Team, does not entitle you to any privileges! Speaking like this to Madam Pince! You, a _Prefect_! I wouldn't have _believed_ it, if I hadn't heard you with my own two ears! I've never met with such insolence, and if you were in _my_ House –"

"Which luckily I am not –"

"Oh, be still! I know that Professor Slughorn thinks very highly of you, but don't you believe you will get away this time!" She continued in this manner, and he simply did what he was used to – his father couldn't get through the day without at least one of those speeches – he completely ignored her and let his thoughts trail back to his _real_ problems. Narcissa Black. How was she to be worked on? What should he _do_? He made a mental note to send her some flowers for a start. He didn't believe it'd work, _that_ was the crux of it, and he racked his brains what else he could try.

One good thing had come out of this – he smiled at the notion. For so long he had wondered how her eyes would look close up, and at last he had had the chance to inspect them! Good Lord! Her eyes were of the darkest blue on the outside, getting brighter closer to her pupils, and tiny sparkles of turquoise were sprinkled in. Had the world ever seen such eyes? Certainly not! Like a well reflecting heaven, like –

He was rudely disturbed in his romantic reverie because McGonagall furiously hammered on his Head of House's door. Predictably, old Slughorn wasn't exactly pleased with his favourite's performance, but also far from McGonagall's level of just outrage. He tried to placate her, but she wouldn't calm down. "Such behaviour must have consequences, Horace!"

"Three nights of cauldron cleaning will surely do the job, Minerva."

"No, they will not, and you know it! I demand that he be banned from the next match, perhaps _that_ would suffice to make an impression!"

Both the old Potions Master and Lucius gasped. "_What?_" Lucius burst out, goggling at her incredulously.

Old Sluggy stared, too, but then broke out in merry laughter. "That was a good one, Minerva, I give you that! Yes, you've given him a good fright there!"

"I was perfectly serious!"

Lucius protested heatedly, "That's not up to _you_ to decide!"

"Seriously, Minerva! I know you must be sore from losing the Quidditch Cup once _again_, I must say, to Slytherin, but sabotaging the team in such a blatant way should be out of the question!"

"I don't _care_ for the Cup – not in _this _case, anyway! But you, as the Deputy Headmaster, cannot possibly allow any student to walk around and mortify staff members in such a way! And mere detentions are a joke for him!"

"No!" Lucius knew when it was the right time to proverbially fall down to his knees, and this was it. "Professor McGonagall – Madam – I _know_ I've behaved very badly, and I can only assure you that I do not take detentions as a joke! Make it a week if you will! A fortnight! I will do whatever you think is right, but _please_! You only want to punish _me_, and I surely deserve it, please do not punish the whole team, I pray you!"

"Spare your smooth talking, Mr Malfoy! I have no wish to punish your _team_, but if I do, you've only got yourself to blame!"

Dishonest, but all the more eloquent repentance on Lucius' part, dextrous negotiating on Professor Slughorn's and most of all, a soft core underneath McGonagall's iron-hard case, finally achieved a fair deal, or the best they could get out of it. A whole month of detentions – two weeks with Mr Pringle, two with McGonagall herself – and a formal apology for Madam Pince. The punishment was ridiculous, compared with the offence, Lucius still found, but he would not complain, as long as he could play. There was one condition though – the next major offence, and he'd be banned from the team for the rest of the year.

As soon as McGonagall had grudgingly left, Lucius inquired what exactly constituted a 'major offence'. Slughorn grinned slyly. "You will not insult staff members, and this includes Mr Ogg and Mr Pringle. You will not curse anyone –"

"Oh, _come on_!"

"_No__ curses_, Mr Malfoy. I may perhaps turn a blind eye on the occasional jinxes and hexes, but you really shouldn't try your luck. And if I might give you a word of advice – try to avoid all other Heads of House, they could want to better the chances for their own House Team by taking you out."

Lucius nodded and trotted out, back to his dorm. To be honest – he was pretty certain that McGonagall, as well as Flitwick and Summerby, were above such sneaky tricks. That was rather Slughorn's domain. Still, he had to be careful; sometimes he tended to act a bit too rashly, or too strongly. He was more inclined to curse someone than endure cheek – or mediocre performances from his team-mates – and every now and then he would curse someone because he didn't like their faces, okay, okay. So he had to give up that habit. Term was about to end, he would get along without cursing anyone in the coming two months. Should be easy, shouldn't it?

* * *

_Sacrilegia…_ Little crimes are punished, great ones celebrated.


	10. The Restless Muse

Narcissa is so unsettled by Lucius that she uses drastic measures to keep him away.

* * *

**– I.9. –  
**

The Restless Muse

* * *

_Je t'adore à l'égal de la voûte nocturne,  
Ô vase de tristesse, ô grande taciturne,  
Et t'aime d'autant plus, belle, que tu me fuis,  
Et que tu me parais, ornement de mes nuits,  
Plus ironiquement accumuler les lieues  
Qui séparent mes bras des immensités bleues._

_Je m'avance à l'attaque, et je grimpe aux assauts,  
Comme après un cadavre un chœur de vermisseaux,  
Et je chéris, ô bête implacable et cruelle!  
Jusqu'à cette froideur par où tu m'es plus belle!_

_CHARLES BAUDELAIRE_

* * *

She stared out of the half-opened window that let in the gentle breeze of the early May night, which in turn rustled the parchments on Narcissa's desk. The pale full moon stood low still, and was reflected in one of the window panes, thus creating the vision of two silvery orbs on the clear, cloudless sky. There were countless stars, lights on the black fabric, sparkling and deceptive – she thought she'd only have to reach out to touch them so close they felt. All she'd have to do was get up and go over to that window, climb onto the sill and – _what_, she thought angrily. Step out and drop dead, because she'd fall from the fifth floor on a romantic whim? She wasn't romantic to start with, she found the movement sentimental and ridiculous. 'Pull yourself together, fool!'

She was sitting in the library, at her usual place, looking for a certain article in a book, but she couldn't find it. She flipped through the whole book, page by page, but it was all mixed up, an article on mistletoe followed another article on rosebuds, poppy seeds followed daisy petals, and still she couldn't find what she was searching for. She took the next book, finding that she had never even heard the title before.

Those weren't her books. But this was her place! How could anyone exchange the books on her table without her noticing this? Or was this Severus' copy? It was about potions, so how come she had never heard the title? This got her all the more curious and she opened the book. The pictures were – well – strange. She didn't see what they had to do with the contents of the book, or what exactly they were showing to begin with. Still, she liked them, they were colourful and rich in details that she didn't understand, but which appealed to her the more.

'_Abyssus__abyssum invocat_' – this was written underneath a mainly black picture, whereas 'black' did it no justice. She was a trained painter, yet she had never imagined so many shades of _black_. Dull like a tar pit, glossy like the pupils in the eye of an intelligent person, uncertain like a shadow in a new moon night, greyish like Severus' worn-down robes, glittering like opals, deep like the surface of the water of a small pond in the forest, unfathomable like the night sky, plush and velvety like the curtains in Bella's old bedroom, sweaty like the skin of the awful horse she had once been urged to ride, grainy like the beaches of Lanzarote –

_Abyssus_ _abyssum invocat_... She had been fluent in Latin since she was six, yet she couldn't remember where that quote was from, and even less she could see why it would be printed in a potions book. She muttered the words as if that would help to make more sense and went on to leaf through the book. She found the recipe for Amortentia, and some potion she had never heard of on the following page, Philialitiis. She eagerly scanned the ingredients, ever interested in new knowledge, especially in potions – pomegranate, vine grapes, passion fruit – what was this, a fruit salad? Oh no, there came the digitalis and the dragon blood, poppy seeds, snake skin, bitter almonds, a good splash of Firewhiskey and, amazingly, champagne…? Furthermore, ground oysters and a vampire fang. Apparently the grapes' only function was to make this ghastly mixture taste a little better!

Interesting it was nevertheless, so she read on. 'Squash the grapes with your fingers – knead them and squeeze them… Slowly pour the dragon blood – put the cauldron on the fire – slowly heat the mixture to boiling point and stir it with your wand – stir gently – stir fiercely – make sure the heat remains on maximum level – stir anticlockwise – add the poppy seeds and keep an close eye on them while they pop…'

"Interesting read?"

She gave a start and looked up. Oh no. Since when did he regularly hang around in the library, eh? He displayed his habitual sneer – no teeth, the right corner of his mouth slightly curled upwards, the dazzlingly grey eyes sparkling mischievously. He threw a half-glance at the book before her and said in a low voice, "Philialitiis, eh? Is that entirely proper for a decent young lady such as yourself?"

"Beat it, Malfoy!"

"This is a public place, Narcissa. I happen to be waiting for this –" He beckoned at the book before her. "I'll just stay here until you've finished."

She pushed it away. "There you go, you can have it. It's not mine anyway."

"Thank you. I'll wait for the others, too, though."

He stepped closer and she could smell his cologne. Everything about him seemed to be made of silk, his robes, his tie, his _hair_ – blast it, it was entirely inappropriate to do as much as _notice_ this! She forced her mind to draw away from these superficialities, and suddenly saw the light. "You've taken away my books, haven't you?"

"Have I now? Why should I do such a thing?"

"Because you want to annoy me!"

"If that _had_ been my intention, I would have failed completely. You appeared quite content when I got here."

"That's not the point!"

"What _is_ the point?"

"Just leave me in peace, Malfoy!"

He did show his teeth now, grinning broadly. "Am I robbing you of your peace then?"

"Go _away_!"

"But why? I'm doing nothing. Go on and read your book."

"I don't want to!"

"So what _do_ you want?"

"I want you –"

"You want me?" He stepped right to her table.

"Don't you dare go twisting my words! I want you _to__leave_!"

He bent forward until his tie touched the open page before her, his face directly before her own. She wanted to draw back, jump up, get away, but she couldn't, she was completely immobile – had he stupefied her without her notice? She couldn't even draw her _gaze_ from him, staring right into that supremely arrogant face, taking in those amazing eyes, the smooth, even features, the sleek, silver strands; she smelled his scent that was both pleasant and infuriating, and she racked her brains what spell he might have put on her, but that scent bedazzled her too much to grasp a clear thought.

She heard her own voice which seemed to come from a far away place, and sounded utterly unfamiliar, pleading, begging almost. "Please go away…"

"You don't want me to go away."

"Yes, I do!"

"No, Narcissa, you don't." He smiled, slowly stretching out his hand – she shivered, but she still couldn't move, couldn't speak, or protest – and by some evil spell she suddenly _wanted_ him to touch her, could hardly _wait_ for him to stroke her skin. She saw his slender fingers reach out for her, in slow-motion, she strained for him to hurry up, and finally, at last! he brushed a strand of hair from her temple. His fingers were icy and hot at the same time, the spot where he had touched her was burning and tickling, she felt the small hairs on her arms stand up straight.

Out of nowhere, her guardian angel appeared to rescue her, in the unlikely form of little Severus Snape. She suddenly heard his voice, calling for 'Miss Black', and she was so relieved to hear him coming closer, she wasn't even scornful that he addressed her in that formal way. Lucius Malfoy straightened up and stepped back, sneering again and appraising her closely.

"Miss Black!" Severus turned around the corner and his jaw dropped. "Oh Lord – oh – I'm so sorry, I – don't want to disturb – oh my –"

He turned on his heels, Narcissa couldn't find her voice, but Lucius Malfoy spoke up instead. "Why don't you stay, Severus?"

'Yes! Stay! Keep that nasty man from – from – whatever it was that he was about to do before you came!' A thousand words and pleas rushed through Narcissa's brain, but she couldn't form a single useful sentence. Naturally obeying his great friend, Severus stopped, but decidedly averted his face. Lucius Malfoy told him to have a look, but the boy shook his head vigorously.

"Miss Black," he coughed. "Miss Black, why are you – uh…"

Of course, he was surprised to see her here with _that guy_ of all persons, and finally, she found her voice again. "It's fine, Severus! Come here. Sit down with me."

The head shake got more frantic yet, and he still wouldn't look at her. "Miss Black… Uhm… Perhaps you haven't noticed – or perhaps this is on purpose, but nonetheless –"

"What? Haven't noticed _what_?"

"But Miss Black!" He gesticulated, faintly fluttering his hand in her general direction. "Miss Black, you are – you are – erm – showing a bit more skin than – usually –"

What the heck was that weird child talking about? She looked down, giving a scream of shock. She was _naked_! Well, not _completely_ naked, she was still wearing her school robes, but unbuttoned, and nothing, _nothing_ underneath! She was on the verge of fainting, yet energetic enough to explode. "You bastard! I'll _kill_ you, Malfoy! I will curse you! I will rip you into pieces, you are scum! You are worse than scum, you are – you are – _awww!_ How could you do that? Are you really so desperate?"

"Ho, ho! _I_ didn't do that, honey!"

She grabbed her lapels and pulled her robes over her bare chest, livid with fury. "Of course you did!"

He gave a laugh. "No, I'm afraid I did not. You did that all by yourself, Narcissa!"

"Not for my life!"

She faintly registered that Severus ran away, and Lucius Malfoy took another step back, slowly letting his eyes wander from her waist up to her face, with _relish_. "You are a very beautiful creature, Narcissa! I suppose that's why nobody told you earlier that you – well, I guess you've simply forgotten to get entirely dressed in the morning. You appeared at breakfast like this, you know?"

"_What?_"

"I must say I was delighted with your forgetfulness," he said in a low voice and came closer again, slowly, cautiously. "Such a gorgeous body… Such beautiful skin… I wonder how it would feel under my fingers…"

"Don't…" Her voice was hoarse; she stared at him like a rabbit would stare at a snake.

"Don't? Come on, Narcissa. I know you want me. As a matter of fact I know that I am the only one you've ever wanted…" She meant to ask him how he could be so abominably full of himself, but she couldn't, she could merely look at him. His voice had dropped so low, it was barely audible, but he went on relentlessly, "You dream of being touched. You tremble at the idea of how my fingers would roam your flesh – how my tongue would trail down your neck – you wonder if it is true what the other girls say – you want to try it out yourself…"

If she couldn't look away, she could at least close her eyes. Suddenly she felt the coldness of the chilly room – why hadn't she felt it all day – icy shivers ran down her spine, she got goose flesh. She knew he was very near now because the scent got more and more intense. Would he touch her? Would he kiss her? She hadn't the faintest clue how to kiss! He would think her a totally daft cow!

"Thou art more lovely than the darling buds of May…" She had always found this to be one of the cheesiest lines _ever_, but it sounded seductive from _him_, and he went on in this manner, "Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, knowing thy heart torments me with disdain, have put on black, and loving mourners be, looking with pretty ruth upon my pain…"

She completely forgot that they were in the library, that Madam Pince could turn around the next corner, that _anybody_ could appear any moment now. She also forgot that she couldn't stand him. She even forgot to clasp her robes. All she could focus on were these eyes, these perplexing silvery eyes… She faintly heard that he was still talking – "If thy soul check thee that I come so near, swear to thy blind soul that I was thy will, and will, thy soul knows, is admitted there…" – but she couldn't grasp the meaning, her head was spinning, her heart was beating like mad.

She couldn't say what happened next, but all of a sudden, she was laying in his arms, on the table, his hands all over her. Something was bursting inside her; she pressed her lips on his, oblivious of the fact that she still had no idea how to kiss a boy. He was pleased enough with her, wasn't he, groaning her name, swearing that she was the only one for him. She let her fingers glide through his silky hair, down, down, stroking over his athletic body, willing him to do the same with her, and he did. He understood her.

He kissed her neck, savagely pulling on her open robes, and grabbing her, stroking her, pressing her close; she felt like dying. If this was death, it was heaven; she clawed his long hair, keeping him exactly there, exactly like that. Lucius – Lucius – _Lucius_ –

She was sitting bolt upright in her bed, breathing hard, and clasping her throat. Oh _Lord_! What – what – awkwardly clear memories rushed before her inner eye, each making her squirm. Oh for _heaven's_ sake! Thanks Merlin that she jinxed her four poster bed soundproof each night before she went to sleep, what if she had made some sort of sound during this – this – this _nightmare_!

She pulled her covers up to her chin, after squinting down to make sure that she _was_ completely dressed. Of _course_ she was! This was _ridiculous_! She was furious with herself, her own subconscious, for this was _all_ it was, a nasty, nasty trick that her subconscious had played her, without a doubt caused by that most impertinent person! His image flashed through her mind, making her tremble once more and this time for real. She shook herself. This must not be. It was absolutely unacceptable.

One could well say that Narcissa was a control freak, as far as she, her pose, was concerned. This included her dreams. She would not – _not_ – tolerate such slips! Her desire for total control suggested that she wouldn't consider any possible implications either. She did not _want_ to want Lucius Malfoy, so she didn't. That was all there was to say about it. It was preposterous anyway. _Lucius Malfoy!_ Ph!

She wasn't blind, all right. So he was extremely good-looking, but what was that to her! Nothing! She did _not_ care for superficial things like silky hair, an athletic build, or dazzling eyes. She appreciated noble features because she had a sense for _aesthetic_, but Lucius Malfoy wasn't the only boy in school with a good face, just as well she appreciated Solomon Goldstein, Ben Harper or Thornton Mortlake. Or even her unbearable cousin Sirius, who was an idiot, but at least a handsome idiot. Beauty was a variety of _art_, it didn't impress her in _any_ other way!

He was insufferable! He was haughty, lazy and vain! He had nothing but Quidditch and girls in his head! He believed to be the hottest thing that had ever hit the planet, and that he could have everything, by whatever means. Did he want to get off with her? Probably. He'd think he had wasted his time if he hadn't had every single girl in school before his graduation! She was too good for such a guy! _Much_ too good! And also too proud, by no means inclined to be number sixty-seven on his hit list.

All right. She would not deny it. There had been a time, _yes_, when she had fancied him a little bit. Okay, more than just a _bit_. But she had been _twelve_ then! That didn't count! In her first year in school, she had still been a little – _desperate_, she hadn't settled in, she had hated anyone and anything, and her sisters hadn't been enough to make her get over the absence of their parents, the only people in the world that she valued without too many conditions. She had been easy prey, simply looking for someone to distract her from her loneliness, and there he had been, that handsome senior, who had always pretended to be so nice around her. She had rather thought of him than all the things that had been troubling her, it was as simple as that!

But he had shown his true colours soon enough. She still couldn't say what she had done wrong – she believed that she hadn't let her crush show, nevertheless he had noticed it, and decided to expose her in front of his mates. She had never been so mortified in all her life! He had driven her over the edge; she had used language that she normally wouldn't have taken in her mouth for anything. She _wouldn't_ use swear words, she _treasured_ her countenance, and he had made her lose it completely! But that was _then_, she had been a very little girl then, and she wasn't going to let it happen _again_.

She gave him the goby at breakfast table after this terrible night; she couldn't help it but _hear_ him, though. He was talking animatedly to his buddies, about the match next Saturday, discussing some sort of manoeuvre. Graham Goyle, one of his moronic buddies, cried, "But it all comes to nothing if you're not allowed to play, Luce!"

"Don't you rack your big head, Goyle. I _will_ play and –"

"Are you quite sure?" Ben Harper butted in. "Because I can replace you if you will."

"I'd rather replace myself with a sack of beans, Harper, _if_ I didn't play myself, which I will do, of course. Don't make such a fuss!"

"Uhm – no offence, Malfoy, but do you seriously believe you get through a single week without cursing anyone…?"

"Shut up, Derrick."

"Come on, Malfoy, we need to be prepared for all possible cases! What do we do if you _don't_ play?"

Narcissa had overheard it all, at first thinking that he might be ill or injured, so Madam Pomfrey could prohibit him to play. Then she realised that this was unlikely. He appeared to have cursed someone and if he cursed someone else, he'd be banned from playing. Now that wasn't like old Slughorn, was it? It was Lucius Malfoy's hobby to put nasty spells on people, and Slughorn had never done much about it, after all he was a Quidditch star, and his father financed the team, the school choir, the drama club and who knew what else. Enough, anyway, to keep his wayward son out of trouble.

A ray of light on such a black morning, she thought gleefully. Lucius Malfoy had got himself into real trouble, ha! Served him right! He had it coming! She couldn't bridle her curiosity, and when she met little Severus in the library, she plucked up courage and asked him what had happened, to add some fuel to her spite. It turned out that Malfoy had had a severe clash with Madam Pince, and that must have happened right after she had left the library the day before. Good! So not only she had been vexed! Some more balance for the scales of justice in the world!

Lucius himself knew nothing of all this, of course. He had no idea that his lovely Narcissa had heard of his latest faux-pas, and naturally, he was perfectly ignorant of the sort of dreams that would haunt her at night. _Had_ he known anything about _this_, his happiness would have been complete, but as things were, he felt nothing but downcast. He, too, had had a little chat with Severus, and inquired why on earth Narcissa would hate him so much, or rather: what he'd have to do to make her hate him a little less.

Severus had been thoroughly embarrassed by the topic, but a bit persistence had done the job. The answers had been so obvious, he wanted to slap himself for even asking. According to Severus, Narcissa would criticise his laziness concerning anything like education. _She_ thought that _he_ thought that Rodin was a sort of black pudding and Ulan Bator a Balkan politician. Oh well. He knew that Ulan Bataar was the capital of some far-away country, though he had never heard the word – name…? – 'Rodin' before… He got the gist, okay. He could do something about this easily.

Her other objection was his long row of girlfriends. Severus had at once crushed his hopes that this might be due to jealousy. She found it bad style, apparently. Lucius wasn't disheartened so quickly nevertheless. She minded? She would get her will! He had long got bored with those fatuous chicks anyway. And perhaps Narcissa would look at him with a more friendly eye then! And once she no longer rejected him so fiercely, she might be coaxed into some sort of date, and _then_ he could prove her that he wasn't just some uninformed oaf, and for heaven's sake, in _that_ case she couldn't be completely immune to his looks and charms, could she?

He would not be discouraged, that wasn't his way. And feeling so crestfallen wasn't like him either, he _did_ things, he didn't simply wait for them to happen by chance. Consequently, he marched into the library after his last class, despite Madam Pince – who clearly still had a grudge on him. He decided to start with an anthology about French Poetry – Severus had mentioned that she was very fond of this crap. Madam Pince eyed him grimly, but what the heck!

'_Ma pauvre muse, hélas! __Qu'as-tu donc ce matin?_

_Tes yeux creux sont peuplés de visions nocturnes,_

_Et je vois tour à tour réfléchis sur ton teint_

_La folie et l'horreur, froides et taciturnes._'

'_Alas, poor Muse, what ails you so today?_

_Your hollow eyes with midnight visions burn,_

_And turn about, in your complexion play_

_Madness and horror, cold and taciturn._'

This was something about a – _muse_, right? Haunted by nightmares – and they didn't flatter her complexion? And Narcissa _liked_ this? He flipped through the book; maybe he had just had a bad start. 'There you go', he thought, '_Galanteries'_. That sounded more like it.

'À la très chère, à la très belle…' He stuck his tongue in his cheek and arched a brow. With verses like _that_, he could persuade even Chloe to come back to him! These sly French blokes, they knew how to do it, eh? Sure, it was the corniest thing he had ever heard, but he'd bet a hundred galleons that it'd work still! Admittedly, for Narcissa, he'd need more than that, but he would keep this stuff in mind for the less gifted chicks…

He also knew that she was fluent in French, and he wasn't. Perhaps he should give it a try with English poetry for a start. Under Madam Pince's stern observation, he brought this book back and fetched another. The names in the table of contents clearly indicated that half of the authors were Muggles, but he wouldn't give up because of that. Narcissa was fond if this – he would read it – and that was that.

For two whole hours, he brooded over that dusty tome, less interested than assiduous. But two hours must suffice. He was going to take his NEWTs next year, and he might be a lazy dog, but he wasn't stupid. He didn't pretend to work hard, but he did do enough to come through just fine, so he got up to put back those cheesy poets and fetch a couple of Transfiguration books instead.

On his way he tried to dodge Madam Pince and made a small detour, when he came across the very reason why he had come here in the first place. He was slightly startled, but Narcissa seemed downright shocked; her cheeks turned paper-white and her eyes wide. It was never too late, he told himself, to make a good impression, so he put on his best smile, but before he could open his mouth, she already snapped at him.

"What are you doing here? Are you pursuing me or something?"

"What? Listen, this is a public place and –"

She looked as if he had slapped her and cried, "Oh, _shut up_!"

He made a soothing gesture, both because he _really_ didn't want to quarrel with her, and because he couldn't afford another brawl with Madam Pince in his situation. She glanced at the books in his arms and furrowed her brow contemptuously. "What's _this_? What would _you_ know about _poetry_, Malfoy?"

He straightened his back. This was the opportune moment to exercise his newly-gained knowledge. "Oh, you know, just a bit of light reading. 'Ma pauvre muse, hélas! Qu'as-tu donc ce matin? Tes yeux creux sont peuplés de visions nocturnes – uh – hang on – et je vois tour à tour réfléchis sur ton teint la folie et l'horreur, froides et taciturnes.' I want to polish my French, you see?"

He had thought this would impress her; his pronunciation hadn't been so bad, right? But instead she stared at him as if he was a dragon. Her hand flew to her lapels and gathered her robes over her chest. "You – _you_ –"

"Oh, come on, Narcissa. Why are you so constantly offended as soon as I open my mouth?"

She made no reply; he could literally see how she was working on her countenance, but he didn't grasp what he had done wrong this time, for goodness' sake! She was always so composed – he had seen her cool and serene while fierce insults were hurled at her, boys who wanted to ask her out had made complete fools of themselves in front of her and her face had shown no reaction, but one crappy poem would give her a heart attack?

"Malfoy," she said flatly. "You will stay away from me. You get me? Stay. Away."

"What's your bloody problem?"

"Listen. This is what you will do now – you keep your mouth shut, turn around and walk away. You will stay away from me, at least twenty feet, and you will not address me in any possible way –"

"And why should I do that? You're not entitled to boss me around!"

"No… Not _entitled_ perhaps. But capable." She had regained her composure and smirked icily. She gave him a pointed glance, then looked over to the next bookshelf. "I tell you what I will do. I will knock over this shelf, and perhaps set a couple of books on fire. I will scream at the top of my lungs, and when Madam Pince rushes over, I will tell her all the _horrible_ things you said about her, and that you've made all that mess."

He crossed his arms and sneered. She went on, "As an effect, you'll be banned from the Quidditch team. Such a shame – someone else will be the Captain and lead the team to the Cup. But you'll be sitting in the stands applauding, that's not so bad either." She crossed her arms, too. "Unless, of course, you will give me your word to keep away from me. It's easy. When you spot me somewhere, you simply take a little detour. I'm easily avoided, believe me."

He gave a laugh. "Are you trying to blackmail me?"

"Yes. I'm a top student, no teacher has ever complained about me, I haven't got a single bad mark on my record. Who do you think is more credible, you or I?"

"I hadn't thought it possible that I could ever have underestimated you, and still you are capable of surprising me…" He smiled. "What if I gave you that promise now, but wouldn't stick to my word?"

"In _that_ case, I'd make sure that you be expelled from Hogwarts."

"I'm rich, I don't need to finish school."

"But you care for your image. I can slander you, I can ruin your reputation."

"Let me get that straight. It is so extremely important to you that I keep out of your sight that you'd be willing to do this all? Set sacrosanct books on fire? Have me thrown off the team? Pursue my expulsion?"

"If you will put it like that."

He saw that she was absolutely serious and briefly considered his options. He knew what he wanted. "All right. Knock it over. Start screaming. Have me expelled from the team. I don't give a damn. But in return, go out with me."

She laughed incredulously. "Why on earth are you so desperate to go out with me? I don't get it! I won't sleep with you, Malfoy, I will _not_. _Never_. Can't you get that in your head?"

"That's not what I'm talking about. I merely want to have a date with you. No sex. Only talking and a nice dinner."

"Yeah, sure! For Merlin's sake, I hate those cows, but I still _hear_ what they're saying. I _know_ your way. And trust me, no one, especially not you, can treat _me_ like that."

"My dearest Narcissa. Now you will listen to _me_ for a minute. Yes, I've behaved shamefully, towards a whole lot of girls. Yes, I had no further interest in any of them, apart from having sex with them. I cannot and will not deny the truth of all that. But that isn't what I want from you. I _know_ that you're not like that. Your uniqueness is one of the reasons I value you so much. I cannot claim that I wouldn't like to – you know – because you are utterly beautiful and sexy. But I know that it won't happen, and that's fine. I just want to get to know you."

She shook her head, laughing in exasperation. "But _I_ don't want to get to know _you_!"

"Why don't you give me a chance? One single chance, that's all I'm asking for!"

"I'm getting tired of this. If you don't take me seriously – there you go." She rolled her eyes and took her wand out. "Last chance, Malfoy. If I were you, I'd take it."

"Go ahead. The only chance I want is with you."

She put her threat in action, pulling down four shelves in total and yelling like mad. He observed her in silence, and was astonished at his own calm. In fact, he was almost alarmingly happy. Yes, he wouldn't be the Captain of his own team, he would sit in the audience when they'd win the Cup after all. Yesterday, it had still been so terribly important to him to stay on the team. But now it no longer counted. He had suddenly realised that she did _not_ hate him. He was no expert at psychology, but he understood enough to know that she wouldn't have made all this fuss if he were nothing to her.

Madam Pince came, half stumped, half furious. Narcissa threw him one long quizzical look as if to say, 'You can still prevent this', and he smiled in return.

"Madam Pince, I suggest we go and see my Head of House. I have said some awful things about you, Miss Black here defended you, we began to argue and then I – well – overreacted a little bit."

* * *

_Je t'adore..._ I worship you, O proud and taciturn,

As I do night's high vault; O sorrow's urn,

I love you all the more because you flee

And seem, gem of my nights, ironically

To multiply the weary leagues that sunder

My arms from all infinity's blue wonder.

I skirmish and I climb to the attack,

I, a worms' chorus on a corpse's back,

O fierce cruel beast, I cherish to the full

The very chill that makes you beautiful.

(From: Charles Baudelaire, 'Je t'adore à l'égal de la voûte nocturne'. – English translation by: Jacques LeClercq, NY, 1958)

_Abyssus…_ Hell invokes hell. (Psalm 42, 8)

'_Thou art…_' Inspired by: William Shakespeare, 'Sonnet No. XVIII'.

'_Unthrifty loveliness…_' From: William Shakespeare, 'Sonnet No. IV'.

'_Thine eyes I love…_' From: William Shakespeare, 'Sonnet No. CXXXII'.

'_If thy soul…_' From: William Shakespeare, 'Sonnet No. CXXXVI'.

_'Ma__pauvre muse...'_– English translation by: Roy Campbell, NY, 1952. (From: Charles Baudelaire, 'La Muse Malade')

_'A la très chère..._' – To the dearest, to the most beautiful (from: Charles Baudelaire, 'Hymne')


	11. Resigned

Narcissa surrenders…

* * *

**********–** I.10. ******–**

Resigned

* * *

_Saepe dat una dies, quod totus denegat annus._

_WALTHER – Proverbia Sententiaeque_

* * *

Poor old Slughorn hadn't believed his own bad luck. He had been forced to ban his favourite student – and Senior Prefect – and, what was certainly worst, _Captain_ from the team, the best player! Lucius hadn't defended himself, as a matter of fact, he had hardly listened. His mind was more pleasantly engaged; he kept gazing over at Narcissa, his stomach did one back-flip after the other, while she was determined to pointedly look anywhere but at him. That was okay. In fact, it was brilliant. She could have been gloating, but instead she seemed to be nothing if not embarrassed.

He didn't know what terrible headaches he caused Professor Slughorn, who had to write to Abraxas Malfoy. But even if he had known it, he wouldn't have cared the slightest bit. All he cared about was that enchanting girl over there. If he had been in love with her before, he now was madly in love, at least. The fierceness and resourcefulness, the sheer determination she had shown betrayed a capacity for genuine passion underneath that icy exterior, thrilling him all the more.

They were dismissed at last, and he hurried to follow her. "Go out with me, Narcissa."

She stopped in her tracks and whirled around. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

"Nothing. I've just given up my only hobby, and I did it gladly. Now you can no longer demand that I stay away from you."

She sneered. "Can't I?"

"Why are you so scared of me?"

"I am _not_ scared of you!"

"Great! Then you can go out with me."

"Which part of _no_ is so hard for you to understand?"

"You've done all that only to get rid of me. You must have a reason."

"Yes, I have indeed! I can't stand you!"

"Oh, you don't like anyone, but only for me do you make such an effort."

She gave a small, reluctant laugh. "Because you are more persistent than the rest!"

"Come on. In five minutes, I'll have to face my team and make them understand that they'll get a new Captain, in the last two months of the season –"

"You could have avoided that easily enough."

"You made me choose between Quidditch and you, and I can't manage without you."

"Oh _please_, just stop prattling, Malfoy!"

He gave her his most heartfelt smile. "Come on, Narcissa. You've said it yourself – I'm persistent. I won't stop asking you, no matter how often you say no. If nothing else, do yourself a favour and take a short-cut."

She groaned and closed her eyes, lightly shaking her head. "And if I agreed to go out with you _once_, exactly _one_ time, under the condition that you'll leave me alone after that?"

"Deal!" He was beaming at her.

"I can't believe I'm doing this."

Still shaking her head, she turned on her heels and started walking back. He cried after her, "Was that a yes?"

She hadn't stopped shaking her head, sighed once more and marched back to Slughorn's office without uttering another word. She contemplated her decision – going out with Lucius Malfoy – how could that have happened? How could she sink so low? Good Lord. And what the _hell_ was she doing _here_? He _deserved_ his punishment! He had it coming a long, long time! But her behaviour in the library didn't sit well with her this way or that; it wasn't like her and she resented his power over her to make her do something so silly and underhanded. At least _this_ part of the disaster she could remedy.

She knocked, the Professor asked her to come in. She explained what had happened – omitting all details relating to the true cause – smiled her sweetest smile, pretended repentance, promised to come to his next party, and got away without further consequences.

That had been for several reasons on the Deputy Headmaster's part. First – this was the first time ever that the youngest Miss Black had put a toe over the line. As much trouble as he had had with the eldest, so perfectly behaved was Narcissa. The next but much more profound point was his immense relief. Slughorn would not have to inform Malfoy senior, giving him no reason to withdraw his money, which practically ran half of the school. He was also more than grateful that Malfoy junior could remain Team Captain – he was fond of the cup on his desk, and there was nobody comparable in talent to replace the boy. The only problem would be Minerva McGonagall, but he would manage. He'd rather challenge his colleague than Abraxas Malfoy.

Very, very slowly, and feeling utterly beaten down, Narcissa trotted back to the dungeons. Had she really just agreed to go out with Lucius Malfoy? She was going to be the national laughing stock! This aspect didn't truly bother her, let them laugh, what was some morons' opinion to _her_? What was by far worse – her self-respect was beaten. She had promised herself to never go out with him, all the more since… – Heat crept into her face, remembering the previous night's dream.

And anyway, what was that poetry book supposed to mean? She had wanted to sink into the ground when he had quoted that particular piece, as if he had read her thoughts, as if he had known that she had just had a sleepless night because of him. Was he a Legilimens? She gave it a thought, but concluded that this was highly unlikely. He was too lazy to voluntarily learn something so demanding. Sheer dumb luck had made him find a line that would knock her out cold!

She crossed the Common Room and passed the object of her nightmares, who was just about to justify himself in front of his team-mates. In passing, she said as casually as she could, "Professor Slughorn sends his regards, Malfoy. He wishes me to inform you that there has been an unfortunate misunderstanding. You're still Captain, you won't be banned, and _you_ can wipe off that smug grin, Harper."

From the corner of her eye, she saw Lucius Malfoy shoot up and head for her; she tried to reach the girls' dormitories before he could reach her, but since she forbade herself to run and he had no such scruples, he caught up with her ten feet before her sanctuary that boys couldn't enter. She took a deep breath and looked at him. "What is it?"

"You've talked to Slughorn then?"

"No, he's just so impressed with your Chaser qualities, he can't do without you."

He winked at her and smiled. "Sure. Thank you nevertheless."

"For what?"

"For being the bearer of good news, if you don't want to be credited with anything else."

"Is that all? Because I need to go."

"That would be all – for now."

Narcissa turned around and escaped, thus missing her _date's_ enthralled face, staring after her. Lucius' mind was blank, a clean slate; he was almost dizzy with elation. She had said 'yes' – at last! Yes! _Yes!_ Narcissa – _his Narcissa_ – had finally agreed to go out with him! She had even put things right with Sluggy – she needn't have done that! Out of the sheer goodness of her heart, she had spared him! Oh Narcissa, lovely, gracious, wonderful Narcissa! He could hardly grasp his own luck!

* * *

_Saepe dat..._ Frequently, a single hour grants what has been denied the whole year.


	12. Join The Big Boys

Narcissa and Severus go to a fancy party.

* * *

**- I.11. -**

Join The Big Boys

* * *

_Prima creterra ad sitim pertinet, secunda ad hilaritatem, tertia ad voluptatem, quarta ad insaniam!_

_APULEIUS – Florida_

* * *

Abraxas Malfoy had left on his business trip with gripes and something bordering on a migraine. His good-for-nothing son wouldn't even deny that he'd seize the opportunity for a party, and all Abraxas could do was admonish – caution – alright, threaten the boy – if any of the invaluable artefacts or pieces of furniture suffered damage, be it oh-so-small, Lucius was going to spend the rest of the summer in a Romanian monastery, without his wand, with a dragon guarding the door to his minuscule cell. The boy had merrily giggled at that announcement, and Abraxas had left for the South African diamond mine he meant to acquire, taking a large bottle of Anti-gastritis potion.

Lucius didn't simply want to throw a party – he had ulterior motives. Marlon had miraculously managed to finish Hogwarts, so the Sepulture Septuplet had a vacancy to fill, and it hadn't taken much persuasion to make the other guys agree on the replacement he had in mind, even though the chosen candidate was a girl, and not just any girl, mind you, but _she_. Graham hadn't minded at all, he'd agree with everything Lucius wanted anyhow and liked her in the first place. Evan and Horatio, being the Benjamins of the group, hadn't had much to say, while Damocles and Bertie were quite delighted with the idea for aesthetic reasons.

Only Narcissa hadn't been interviewed regarding whether she even wanted to join, which made Lucius more than just a little nervous. She was known for her stubbornness, and for never having joined _any_ group at all. Although the Sepulture Septuplet was a very exclusive club that many students would have died to join, it was quite possible that Narcissa might feel less honoured than molested by the offer, which would be grievous, and humbling for him. She was their only choice – his only choice. And since he had no mind that they'd be known as the Sepulture Sextuplet… Oh well, he'd just have to convince her, right?

At least she had agreed to come after he had told her that he'd regard their deal for a date done if she came. He had thought long about this, he had mulled over plan after plan in his head. The one perfect date, where to take her, what to do, how to dispel her doubts and mistrust… In the end, he had chickened out, kind of. And also, he thought that _this_ scheme might yield a more lasting success. Once she got to know him better, she might finally realise he wasn't such a bad guy, right?

He prayed that the party might soften her up a little. He could only hope, after organising everything to the best of his ability, and not being picky about the guests for a change. He had told all of his friends to bring whomever they liked, which was a clever move. Narcissa wouldn't have admitted that she wanted to go, preferring to claim she merely advanced her protégé Severus, who hadn't protested. He was only a Second Year – not even that – he'd be a Second Year in September, and Lucius Malfoy and his mates were the coolest kids in all England, and _he_, Severus Snape, whose own father was nothing but a shabby Muggle, would go to a party at the famous Malfoy Manor, personally invited by Narcissa Black, who was the epitome of 'cool'… He couldn't believe in his own luck, honestly.

"Wow! Look at it! _Look_ at it!" The boy couldn't close his mouth, completely awed. Every window of the vast Manor was lit by candles, fairies illuminated the trees and bushes, in the distance there were a couple of bonfires blazing. In case somebody – blind and deaf and completely silly – was wondering where the party was, there were real gnomes holding up signs. Myriads of glow-worms were forming sparkling ornaments, peacocks strutted around, and there were two giraffes with a rope drawn between their heads and a house-elf balancing on the rope, juggling with burning pins.

"This is – it's unbelievable, isn't it?" Severus whispered.

Yes. Admittedly. Unlike Severus, she wasn't too impressed by the party decorations though, but the _building_, the estate as such. Boy! It wasn't as if she had never seen a stately manor before; the country boasted hundreds of these places, and she had visited all the interesting ones, even if they were owned by Muggles. _This_ however – goodness, it was breathtaking! After passing a gate house thrice the size of the house of Severus' parents, adorned with the imperial code of arms – a lily entwined by a snake and a dragon – they had walked through a park-like garden for more than ten minutes, until the Manor itself was in sight.

The closer they had come, the more Narcissa had gaped. It was _huge_ for a start, showing all kinds of styles in the various extensions and remodelling. There was an ancient weir tower with a moat, adjoining a Gothic abbey that was connected to an Elizabethan manor, which in turn abutted a Palladian edifice and a neo-classicist mansion, the unmistakable traces of the Great everywhere, surrounded by absolutely mindboggling gardens. This house – one could not possibly call it _house_ though – and its gardens were the most magnificent thing she had ever seen, but she wouldn't want to admit her enthusiasm, even though it was hard not to gape.

"Get a grip, Severus!" she cried more harshly than necessary.

"Don't you think it's unbelievable?"

"If a guy like Malfoy's throwing a party, it's supposed to look like this, Severus!"

"The giraffes!"

"I bet he's hiding a bunch of elephants somewhere, and of course – penguins to serve the drinks."

"Really?" He gazed around intently.

"No, _not_ really, this was a joke, for heaven's sake! You know how waiters always tend to resemble penguins…? Oh, never mind now."

They had arrived on the terraces, where fifty people, give or take, were already sipping their drinks, which were mixed by a rather gargantuan spider. With so many arms and eyes to spot waving guests, he was rather quick, too. Narcissa tilted her head. "Okay, so now _this_ I did not foresee, I give you that."

She would have been disappointed if they hadn't been welcomed by the host himself immediately after their arrival, and she wasn't let down. Next thing she knew Lucius was with them, smiling cheerfully and putting his arms around their shoulders, chum-style. "Hey kids, welcome to the show! You're enjoying yourselves?"

Narcissa beckoned at the bar. "I'm not sure how easy-going I can be in the vicinity of a gigantic predator."

"I thought you liked spiders?"

"I do, I'm just not used to have my drinks done by one."

"If it is of any comfort to you, this is really just a bartender from Bangkok who happens to be an Animagus. Best Bloody Marys in the Northern Hemisphere. He's not going to eat you, even though you smell so good, Black!"

She pushed his arm away, but didn't seem too offended otherwise. "Indicating that you're standing too close, Malfoy."

"Come on, let me get you drunk, hon."

"You know that I'll never be _that_ drunk, right?"

"Worth a try! What about you, Snape? Want a beer? A cocktail?"

"I'll have what she takes, sir."

"Cut out that sir crap, Snape! You're not one of the house-elves!"

"Leave him alone, Malfoy, and bring us two glasses of champagne."

"Back in a minute, sweetheart!"

He left and Severus whispered, "I've never had a glass of champagne in my whole life…"

"Of course not! How old are you, not yet thirteen? Your mum's very good not to let you drink. Speaking of her – when do you have to be back home?"

Even in the vague light, she could tell that he was blushing. "Oh! No special time… My mum was actually so – uhm – distraught when I left, I dare say she hardly noticed."

"Well, in that case I guess you'll be back by ten, because _I_ have to be home then. Unless I can convince one of the guys to take you."

"Take him?" Lucius returned with some glasses and Narcissa explained the situation to him. He grinned slyly. "Oh, that's all taken care of. _You_ can stay here, pal, and _you_ –" He glanced at Narcissa. "I'll take you home myself."

She sneered. "That is such a kind offer, but I think I will decline nonetheless. I can Apparate home on my own."

"Of course you can, but it wouldn't work out that way."

"It wouldn't?"

"No. Look, I foresaw that your good parents would expect your return at such an ungodly hour, so there's a cauldron full of Polyjuice Potion waiting to be honoured by one of your admirable hairs, and Marlon's sister has actually volunteered to drink it and impersonate you until you _truly_ want to go. That's when I will bring you home, we'll mount my broom in front of your house, fly up to your room and you two change places again."

"You must be kidding!"

"Absolutely not, my dear! You're the reason why I'm giving this party in the first place despite the fact that I'll have to spend the next six weeks in a monastery. You're the guest of honour. I can't let you go at ten. Impossible!"

Narcissa tried to hide the fact that she did feel more than just slightly flattered. "I bet your present girlfriend will be delighted to hear you say so!"

"_If _I had had what you call a 'present girlfriend', I would of course have dumped her yesterday."

"See, Malfoy, that's the reason why it's never going to be 'us'. I don't approve of your dumping rate."

He laughed and winked at her. "You'd prefer me dating someone else while hooking up with you?"

She chuckled, too. "You and I will never 'hook up', as you call it."

"Why, am I not your type?"

"Most certainly you are not."

"Have another drink, Narcissa!"

She didn't know why she let herself be talked into such madness, but one hour later, at a quarter to ten, she was standing in her parents' hallway again, knocking on the parlour door, she made a bit of small talk, said good night, then went up to her room, opened the window, let Sherilyn Crabbe in and slipped out herself. Malfoy was hovering in front of the window and helped her to climb on the broom. He had to pull himself together to pilot his broom safely to the ground because feeling Narcissa's presence so close, sitting right behind him and clinging to his waist was confounding him profoundly. Not two minutes later, they were back in the splendid gardens of Malfoy Manor, and Lucius forced himself to appear relaxed again.

Narcissa, not used to flying and decidedly unsympathetic to the concept, was swaying slightly and grabbed for his arm once more to steady herself. He would have supported her, but she instantly shrank back again and put on a bit of a scowl. "I swear, if I find out that she's been sniffing through my stuff, I'll hold _you_ directly responsible, Malfoy!"

"Why, is your diary full of you pining for me?"

"Do you expect an answer to your insolence?"

"What if I offered to stop making passes at you?"

"Well, I'd be extremely pleased! I thought we had agreed on so much to begin with!"

"Come, let me get you a drink and I'll tell you what we'll do."

The spider mixed some concoction of champagne, vodka, cranberry and pineapple juice, they toasted and he led her away from the crowd, which had quadrupled by now and was soundly partying. She told him once more that he wouldn't be so lucky, but he laughed and assured her that this wasn't what he had in mind at the moment. They were joined by Marlon and Graham, Damocles and Bertram, Evan and Horatio, giving her a notion that something very mischievous was to follow, and all of them went inside, past some house-elves guarding the second floor. Narcissa had been a little anxious – she didn't trust those guys – but her concerns were dispelled by Graham's genial expression.

"You really needn't worry, you know," he said under his breath and looked so candid that she had to smile. She couldn't have said why, but she was somewhat fond of the boy, although he was lacking everything that she normally required in a person. He was slow and dim-witted, his head was full of Quidditch, silly pranks and not much else, but there was an honest humility in him that must disarm her habitual contempt. It had taken her some time to acknowledge this; at first, she had thought he was just another of Lucius Malfoy's devoted mates.

She gave him a little smile. "Because you'll be looking after me, right?"

"I know that you can look after yourself. You're going to like this, I'm sure."

"What are you two whispering there?" Lucius gave Graham a strict look. "Secrecy Statute number one, Golly!"

"He only said that I can relax, Malfoy!"

_In Bibliothecis Immortales Animae Loquuntur_ was written in intricate letters above an exquisitely carved door, in front of which the other boys had come to a halt, glancing at their leader and suppressing suggestive grins. Narcissa didn't perceive most of this; her curiosity was sparked off and kindled by the idea how the library of such a place might be like.

They entered and despite herself, Narcissa goggled. This was heaven – it had to be – she had never seen such a beautiful sight! The library consisted of a suite of rooms, all the walls covered with book shelves up to the twenty-five foot ceiling, made of mahogany and engraved crystal. They walked through the first three rooms, then got into a hall-like place with a huge cupola of tinted glass, where a group of very comfortable-looking armchairs were assembled, and then they all settled down and each grabbed one of the glasses of Firewhiskey that were hovering in the air above their seats.

"I have to admit it, Malfoy – this is – this is fabulous!"

He beckoned at the portrait of a wizard with a smug, cunning face in Renaissance robes, who arched a critical brow at them. "Pay him the compliments, the library was his design."

"You've got a nerve, boy, I give you that. Young Abraxas will have your wand for bringing strangers here," the portrait said with unveiled glee.

"Probably, but one must set priorities, as he keeps on telling me." He turned back to Narcissa. "However, it might have slipped your notice, but our dear Crabs will not return to Hogwarts this autumn."

The other boys applauded mockingly, and Marlon feigned some solemn bows like an actor on stage. Narcissa grinned. "Well done, Marlon."

"Yes, we were all surprised," Lucius continued. "As flattering as this is to Crab's unsuspected academic capacities, it leaves the rest of us in a somewhat awkward position. We are short a pal, if you want to call it that. Now you might say that the school is full of possible candidates, but you couldn't be more wrong. We have the highest standards, we cannot accept just any rake who comes our way. Bertie, please!"

"Thank you, Luce. As before-mentioned, the Sepulture Septuplet sets high standards. We expect a certain class for a start, a talent for curses, hexes and jinxes, a sense of humour and a bent for mischievous schemes. We want a personal style, taste doesn't hurt, determination and nerve are a must, and the capability for extreme secrecy. Until recently, we requested our members to be male, but we are willing to go with the times."

"You're _so_ modern, boys," Narcissa mocked, finally having a presentiment what this was all about.

"We have broken one of our most important maxims by bringing you here," Damocles said in fake earnestness, "and thereby officially revealing the identities of our members –"

"No offence, boys, but _everyone_ knows who's in and who's not!"

"It was suggested we might Obliviate you after this –"

"You'd neither dare nor manage," she said with a challenging smile.

"And you are lucky to already have a patron in our midst who downright rejects tampering with your admirable brains, who's by the way also the one who recommended you for the vacant position, so you needn't worry," Damocles went on with a grin. Narcissa shot Lucius an incredulous, yet amused glance, while he made an innocent face. "To cut a long story short – we want you. You are more than welcome –"

"– desired, more like –"

"– to join our jolly club. You possess every quality we want in abundance," Damocles continued. "You are frightfully clever and talented, you have exactly the sort of humour we're looking for, and let's face it, also the looks to make _us_ look even better."

"Being modest, are you?"

Lucius grinned ironically. "I flatter myself that I know you a little bit, so I have foreseen that your first impulse would be to decline outright. You are one proud girl – another reason why you're so desirable for this position – and the whole school knows that you wouldn't want to join any society for your life. So let me do a little advertising here. The Sepulture Septuplet is singlehandedly the most exclusive club in all Hogwarts – not that this was going to impress you, I merely want to explain why you want to change your mind. So, there is hardly a student in the entire school – and certainly not in Slytherin – who wouldn't want to be in your place right now. And why is this so, you ask? Because we're having _fun_, dear. You know very well how dull Hogwarts is, especially since Dumbledore's taken the reins. You are bored to tears, don't you deny _that_. And we have the means to change this. We can entertain you in a way that you haven't fathomed yet. I strongly suspect that you've believed so far that the only real _fun_ in life could be found in books – obviously I have chosen this place to meet with some calculation. Beyond the pleasures we have to offer by becoming one of us, this library should be a unique selling point to you. It contains two million books, and I can grant you free access to it –"

The portrait laughed spitefully. "Can you, boy?"

Lucius shot him a swift, withering glance and proceeded, "Name the book you want and I can get it for you, and as long as my father isn't at home, you can rummage through the books as much as you like. I'll have one of the servants draw up a catalogue for you, if you like –"

"You've never offered that to any of us! Has he, pals?" Evan asked.

"For one, you take as much interest in books as in sewing your own robes, Rosie, and then, you haven't got a figure like hers to inspire me to risk my personal health for you."

"I'm allowed in the library," Damocles said calmly. "Even by Abraxas himself."

"If it wasn't for his sacrosanct bloodline, he'd extradite me for good to that godforsaken monastery and adopt you, pal."

"She enjoys books even more than I do, so perhaps he'll permit her here officially as well."

"No frigging way. He's a terrible misogynist, second only to the pope – no intention to offend your mother, Black. Anyhow, where was I? Ah, among the many privileges we can offer you is this library, and I expect you to particularly appreciate something else. As you already know, we've been so far guys-only, so it is only natural that every sort of flirtation among members is totally beside the point. Join us, become one of the mates, and I can guarantee I will never make a pass at you again."

He winked at her and looked expectantly, so did the others, and Narcissa felt compelled to speak up. "Am I supposed to commit myself straight away?"

"Say yes, darling!"

"Yeah, be our number seven, princess!"

"Join the club and have the time of your life, honey!"

"You cannot let us down, precious, we've such high hopes in you!"

"Quit your drab existence and discover the meaning of fun, sweetheart!"

They had spoken in turns and now it was up to Graham, who didn't look half as complacent as his friends, but gave her a genuinely pleading glance. "Come on, Narcissa, it'd be so great with you around. You wouldn't regret it, I promise."

"Hold on for a minute, guys! Don't you think I should know a bit more before finalising any decision? You've mentioned some Secrecy Statute – what's that about, for instance? What's expected of me? Can I resign if I don't like it? What –"

All right, so she had sort of suspected their agenda since she had seen with whom she had left that party, nevertheless she was flummoxed by their proposal, and astonished at herself for being not quite as negatory as she ought to be about the idea as such. The Sepulture Septuplet had a Secrecy Statute? Well, Narcissa Black had Treasured Tenets, and _her_ number one was 'Never team up with anyone under any circumstances!' What was more – she thought these guys were true idiots – not necessarily unintelligent, like Lucius, Bertram and Damocles, not necessarily unkind, like Graham – but all in all childish and up to no good and… She was cross with herself for even _considering_ their suggestion for a single minute! There was nothing in there for her! Okay, okay – the library. That was tempting, sure. But Malfoy had a weakness for her, hadn't he, perhaps she could persuade him to let her use the library anyway? Could he be vindictive enough to decline?

While the boys explained more to her, she tried to make up a list with the pro and cons in her head. Being in cahoots with those jackasses – a definite con. Getting into this marvellous library – pro. Having something to do in Hogwarts – a pro, too, kind of. Malfoy's word that he'd let her alone in the future – pro, _if_ he kept it. Doing the maths, she wasn't happy to find two and a half pros and only one con – perhaps she should count each of the boys individually on the jackass side.

"So what's it going to be, petal?" Lucius asked, dropping his usual self-confident sneer.

"I have to answer straight away? I can't sleep on it?"

"If your answer was more favourable then, we _could_ be talked into giving you more time, but it wouldn't be half as much fun."

"Excuse me?"

"I don't know if I can talk the zoo into lending us those giraffes longer –"

"If they make difficulties, we can simply steal them again!"

"Shh, Gibbs, don't scare her. We'll only involve you in crimes if you want to, Black," Bertie Higgs said soothingly.

"For a start, anyway," Horatio mumbled.

"The giraffes ought to be mandatory."

"Why's that, Bertie?"

"She's the first newbie we've ever accepted. It ought to be huge. Giraffes are the least!"

"What?" Narcissa gazed around. "Am I supposed to balance on that rope or what? First you try to talk me into your little club, and then you seriously expect me to agree to something like this?"

"Nothing will happen to you," Marlon said, speaking up for the first time. "I'll watch over you."

"No offence, Crabbe, but you're not exactly the kind of safeguard I'd pick!"

"Where's your adventurous spirit, Black? You've heard rule number two – trust your mates!"

The whiskey tumblers had been magically refilling themselves the whole time, and Narcissa blamed _them_ that she gave in at last. She said yes, ignoring every ounce of common sense inside her, and they got to their feet again, the boys beaming, Narcissa with a wry expression. Lucius turned to Damocles and asked, "Show us to the exit, Cle, if you please."

"You're so drunk already you can't find the exit anymore, Malfoy?"

"Au contraire, ma chère! You'll soon find out that this library is well protected – thanks to old Alexandrias there, the founder. There is only one exit, and it keeps on changing each time one enters. Cle has worked out a system, and I'm sure so will you once you've got acquainted with the place, but I myself have never figured it out."

She thought he was joking, but Damocles tried three doors that only led to more, formerly unseen rooms full of books – she felt slightly delirious about it – finally finding the right one.

"Are you remotely aware what a treasure this is, Malfoy?" she asked, almost breathless with genuine enthusiasm.

"My father keeps on preaching it at me. Maybe that's the reason why I've never come to fully appreciate it."

"A library to get lost in… One could read one's whole life without coming to an end…"

"You're a little bit tipsy, Narcissa, aren't you? I've never seen you so sentimental!"

"I'm in _awe_, Malfoy, I will not deny it! And I cannot grasp what an ignorant lout you are that you don't take any interest in it at all!"

"Nah, that's not true. I do take interest – this library spares me the annoyance to deal with the one in Hogwarts. I simply write to our butler to send the books I need, that's so much easier than waiting for the borrowed books in school, handling the old hag there, I can take out any book I like to any place I like… I _am_ aware that it's brilliant."

Whatever she had to do next, it was worth it to befriend Malfoy, she had no more doubts. They evaded the party crowd and took another way out – in fact, Lucius had chosen this way to show off before sweet Narcissa and parade some of the precious objects of art, the famous paintings, the full unrivalled splendour of the Manor. He had vowed to leave her alone, okay, but that didn't decrease his wish to impress her, and he still believed that he'd find a loophole in their agreement.

Malfoy Manor was ridiculously huge, and so were the boundaries surrounding it. The eight kids crossed the moat and headed for the shrubbery, crossed it and went on to the fringes of the forest on the northern side. No fires were lit here, only the full moon and the light from their wands showed them their way, and Narcissa felt suddenly nervous. The boys had fallen silent, and she hadn't even protested when Lucius had offered her his arm. After some more minutes, they got to a clearing on a bank, and she smirked when her eyes got used to the darkness – over there were the giraffes.

Lucius unceremoniously let go of her arm – she faintly noticed that it was strange to have him no longer making a pass at her at every occasion – and he muttered some incantations, igniting a dozen fires around them. He conjured seven golden goblets for each of the boys, then ushered Narcissa to stand in front of Marlon, they made a circle and raised the goblets.

"My dear friends, we've drunk together uncountable times, but tonight we have assembled not only for drink but for celebrations," Lucius said, mocking the earnest tone of vicars and news speakers. "It is sad for us all to say goodbye to our valued friend, our daring partner in crime, who will pass on to a higher level of knowledge and wisdom. Vince mero curas et, quicquid forte remordet, comprime deque animo nubila pelle tuo! Cheers to you, Crabs, and the fabulous times we've had!"

Everyone except Narcissa had a goblet and drank from it, then passed it on to their neighbour, only Marlon passed his on to her, and Lucius went on, "Yet we needn't mourn our loss for we have found the most excellent replacement. So let us also drink to her – possibly the smartest of us all, and certainly the lightest – here's to you, Cissa!"

"To you!"

She hesitantly sipped; this was some potion, no alcohol, though she didn't recognise the taste. It wasn't bad though, only a little bitter, and in the next moment, she felt a surge of adrenaline rush through her veins, which wasn't unpleasant either. All her doubts fell away immediately; she felt adventurous and easy, almost a bit quirky.

Marlon muttered quietly, "You needn't drink it all, Narcissa. It's pretty strong."

"Is it – well – dangerous?"

"It will knock you off your feet, but not in a bad way," Lucius said. "You needn't drink it though. That's up to you."

"Of course she'll drink it! She's supposed to be one of us now!" Horatio cried.

Lucius gave him a withering glance and hissed, "Leave her alone, Gibbs! She'll do what _she_ wants!"

"It's all right, Lucius. I'll drink it. I like it as a matter of fact." And she emptied the goblet with three big sips. For a few seconds, she thought she'd get a heart attack, but before she had time to panic, the feeling ceased and was replaced by sheer elation. Right now, she felt she could conquer the world. "In vino feritas, guys!"

The three of them who actually understood the joke laughed, and Bertram continued, "Will you be true to your mates?"

"Yes!"

"Will you stick to the sacrosanct Secrecy Statute?"

"Yes!"

Originally, the boys had planned some very solemn vows, but Narcissa had made it clear that they shouldn't push it too far with her. She was lucky to have negotiated the conditions _before_ drinking that stuff, because right now, she would have been up to pretty much anything. They officially welcomed her with another toast, and then the giraffes came into play. Evan and Graham led them onto the clearing, the rope was still in place, and Lucius pointed his wand at Narcissa. "You trust your mates, Cissa?"

"I must, right?"

He laughed and levitated her, slowly and gracefully, up to the rope. She found her balance with outstretched arms, and could eventually take a look around. God, this was so beautiful! The boys had diminished the fires on the ground for a better effect, the moon and the stars seemed so close that she thought she could touch them if only she stretched a little more. She could see the forest around her, leading to a park – over there was a laurel maze, there were the magnificent gardens, and the palatial buildings forming Malfoy Manor as such. She could see the party guests and scurrying house-elves, tiny like insects – in every other moment, she would have ridiculed such stale clichés, but the drink, the situation overwhelmed her critical sense. She noticed that Lucius had undone the spell stabilising her, but when someone on the terraces shot firecrackers into the sky and the giraffes gave a start, she lost her balance and fell. Marlon hadn't lied; he caught her at once with a spell and let her slowly hover down to the ground again.

"Silly beasts," Lucius ranted and kicked the giraffe next to him against its leg. The animal didn't wince, but retaliated at once and kicked him back, sending him to the ground. He brandished his wand at it, but Narcissa stepped between them and helped him up.

"Leave her alone, Lucius. She couldn't help it, she got scared."

He would have glared at the animal, if it hadn't been for Narcissa's enchanting smile. "And? Did you like it?"

"Great sight, yeah! The giraffes were somewhat unnecessary though."

"But they added a nice touch, didn't they?"

"They sure did," she muttered and shot him a radiant smile. Realising what she was doing, she looked away and exclaimed in a firm voice, "Come on, let's do something! And you must give me the recipe for that potion, Damocles. Fabulous mix, honestly. Come, come, don't be so lazy! So what are we going to do? Oh dear, I forgot the kid – he must be bored out of his mind – doesn't know anyone, does he – send someone to look after the kid, Lucius – and now move your lazy bottoms, guys!"

Lucius and Damocles smirked about her enthusiasm, knowing full well what had got into her. They had debated if they could even offer her that potion, Damocles' own invention. It was strictly illegal, half of the ingredients were banned, and the inventor had had scruples about giving it to the girl. Lucius had succeeded though, he always did, and in this special case, no one had any intention to mess with him anyway. They all knew what Narcissa Black meant to him, they all felt that it was partly their fault that she rejected him so thoroughly; they had given in to his suggestion to have her join them because she was a talented, glamorous girl, sure, but chiefly because it was _she_, the girl whose name Lucius would always speak in italics. And if he wanted to bedazzle her with that potion – oh well, he'd watch over her under all circumstances, no worries.

When she had been standing on that rope, Gibbs and Bertie had made jokes if they could glimpse under her skirt, receiving a harsh reprimand. Lucius himself had just been gazing up to her, bewitched by the vision. Her blonde hair had beautifully contrasted the otherwise dark silhouette. Her dress gown had floated around her, making her look so utterly beautiful that it'd taken his breath. Thank Merlin that Crabs had kept his attention, because Lucius had been far too distraught to catch her when the giraffes broke out; he had been shocked and angry that something could have happened to her, and that he was robbed of this unearthly sight –

The potion put her in the mood to party and that was what they did. They went back to the party for a while, drank more, decided to take a short trip to the bartender's resident bar in Bangkok, went for a swim in the Indian Ocean, after which Lucius yearningly envied Graham, for he was allowed to dry Narcissa's robes with his wand, and returned to Malfoy Manor when the sun had already risen. There were still bunches of people everywhere, dancing, drinking, snogging, vomiting and sleeping, and a miserable looking house-elf rushed to his master.

"Young master Lucius," he sobbed and clenched his loincloth. "Strangers have broken into Master Abraxas' wine cellar – the precious fairy goblet's damaged – someone's relieved himself on the Persian rug in the Golden Parlour – couldn't find you, young master – oh sir, Master Abraxas's going to be so outraged! Several portraits slashed – the amber cabinet's been pushed over…"

He wouldn't find an end to the litany of destruction, following Lucius along, stumbling and cowering. His master had shown a face of amusement at first, but the longer the aggrieved elf kept complaining, the angrier he got until he kicked the servant out of his way. "Get off me, Izzy! Come on, guys, help me clean up, will you – Cissa, please have another drink, we'll be right back and I'll take you home then."

She was giggling and sauntered over to the bar, trying very hard to walk straight. "Brilliant place you've got yourself there, Phan," she mumbled in the general direction of the spider. "Excellent – great music – fabulous drinks – hey! Did you happen to see a weird kid? Four foot eleven, I'd venture – black hair – oddly-cut robes – rather shy? And give me one of those funny mixtures!"

To her great surprise, the bartender transformed into his human shape, turning out to be a handsome Asian, who gave her a radiant grin and a drink. "You're the girlfriend of the bloke who threw the party?"

"What? Oh, no! No, no, no! Not my girlfriend – his boyfriend – oh, you know! Absolutely not."

"Good!" His smile got even broader.

"Yeah. Whatever – so did you see the kid? I feel kind of responsible for him."

"Your little brother?"

"Nah… I just brought him here, and then I kind of forgot him… Terrible, isn't it? _I'm_ terrible!"

He leaned over to her. "Oh, no… You could never be _terrible_. A little – _naughty_ – maybe?"

"Only tonight. My first time being naughty, you could say…" With some delay, she realised that she was actually talking to that man in a rather misleading fashion. Just because she had discarded some of her major principles tonight, that didn't mean that she'd need to break with all of them! She stepped back, snatched her glass and turned around. "Excuse me. I got to find the bloke who isn't my boyfriend – and the one who isn't my brother –"

She went into the house, instinctively following the traces of chaos and the occasional screams. She found Graham and Bertram in a smaller parlour, doing repair spells. Behind her, three college boys ran down the corridor and out of the house, and looking over her shoulder, she saw that they had been badly cursed. One of them was limping and bleeding, his fellow had tentacles growing out of every visible piece of skin, and the last one had the head of a giant ant.

"Luce's upstairs, kicking out some people, if you're looking for him," Bertram said casually, inspecting the shattered pieces of an antique vase.

She wanted to appear disinterested in Lucius, so she asked, "And the others?"

"Some idiots got stuck in the library and Cle's trying to get 'em out. I think Evan's – _accompanying_ – some unwanted guests out, too – and I have not a clue what the rest're doing. Merlin, this is going to be the last time you or any of us see Luce – his father will go _berserk_ when he comes home. He'll just kill him!"

"Ah, it won't be that bad, I'm sure."

"You clearly haven't met Malfoy senior. _Baaad_ temper, that one!"

Some more rampaging kids came her way when she went on looking for her ticket home, finding him in his father's study. Two portraits were dressing him down at once, though he didn't seem to listen, instead tidying the place up.

"You useless idiot," the left portrait ranted, "you silly son of that Teutonic bitch! How dare you lead strangers into your forefathers' house! How dare you let them into your father's study!"

"Not even _you_ are allowed in here!" The right one scowled down at him, wildly gesticulating. "Shhh! Out! Get out!"

"I believe one of them was a Mudblood even, Hector!"

"He surely looked like one! Hey, you wayward dog there! Listen to us when we're talking to you!"

"You know he _never_ listens, Hector! That's his speciality!"

"I swear, this is all his awful mother's fault, Cesar!"

"Just a minute, Cissa," Lucius said when he noticed her, giving her a weak smile and beckoning at the pictures. "And please excuse _them_."

"Another stranger! Ha! Oh boy, wait until your father hears that you've brought one of your sluts into his study!"

Instead of an answer, Lucius brandished his wand, slashing the left portrait, whose inhabitant could duck away just so. "Leave _her_ out of this!"

"I'll – I'll just go – yes. I'll wait for you downstairs."

"No, I'll come with you right now. I needn't do this crap anyway – I'm in trouble either way."

"Nothing that could not be repaired, right?"

"Exactly! The old man will throw a tantrum for the sake of it. He _enjoys_ flipping, you know? And those two oafs in there will be delighted to fill him in on the tiniest details."

She felt strangely sympathetic, and patted his shoulder, somewhat timidly. "By the way… did you come across Severus? I feel a bit guilty for having abandoned him like that."

It turned out that the kid had simply laid down to sleep and that Lucius had already seen to it that he'd be taken home – that was where Marlon had gone to. Lucius was amazingly good-humoured in the face of destruction and involuntary hermitage in some Third World country behind the Iron Curtain, she thought, asking him about it and seeing him grin.

"You've been having fun, haven't you?"

"Yes –"

"See, then everything's fine. I knew how this would turn out. It's always, always like that – each party's the same in that way. And this one was supposed to be special and celebrate our newest pal – that's you, Cissa – so it's totally worth it."

"You're crazy!"

"Now I'd usually reply that I'm crazy for you, but given tonight's events and oaths, I'm at a loss for quick repartee."

"Just think of me like you think of Marlon. I'm his substitute after all!"

"Can you grow a huge belly for that?"

"I'll do my best."

"Of course, we'll have to obey to the Secrecy Statute, so when we're back in school with other students around us, I've got to act the usual way around you until you're sufficiently fat."

"Hey! I thought we had a deal!"

"And I stand by that. In such a case, you simply need to remember that it's a mere act."

"But it's always been nothing but an act!"

He suppressed a woeful smile. "See? You're halfway there."

* * *

_Prima creterra... _The first goblet is for the thirst, the second for the merriment, the third one for lust, the forth for madness!

_In bibliothecis..._ In libraries, immortal spirits whisper.

_Vince..._ Vanquish your sorrows with wine, defy what torments you and banish the clouds from your heart.

_In vino..._ In wine there's wildness.


	13. What A Man Can Do

Narcissa learns taking matters more lightly.

* * *

**- I.12. -**

What A Man Can Do

* * *

_I'm going to take my time – I have all the time in the world _

_to make you mine. It is written in the stars above. _

_The gods decree you'll be right here by my side, _

_right next to me. You can run, but you cannot hide. _

_Don't say you want me, don't say you need me, don't say you love me, it's understood. _

_Don't say you're happy out there without me, I know you can't be 'cause it's no good._

_DEPECHE MODE_

* * *

Lucius had survived his stay in Romania. So had the dragon that he had cursed with the wand he had stolen from one of the monks – he was probably the first delinquent who had managed to be thrown out two weeks before his scheduled release. Abraxas had fumed with anger and threatened to make his son spend the remainder of his summer holidays in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, but had given up at last. The boy was a hopeless case in his father's eyes anyway.

Narcissa hadn't yet come to regret her decision to join up the Sepulture Septuplet – even though she didn't stop mocking the silly name, just like her new '_pals_'. As her first, and so to speak initial, act, she had jinxed the Sorting Hat – it had consequently lost its voice, desperately trying to cry out to which houses the students ought to go, but not succeeding. One can't lip-read from a piece of talking headgear. She was more than just a little proud that even Dumbledore himself had needed half an hour to fix the hat again, and that both Lucius and Damocles had recommended her most warmly had been another source of secret joy. These guys knew their jinxes after all, didn't they?

The school year meandered along like every other, if not quite as unpleasantly from Narcissa's point of view as the previous four. Lucius had not exaggerated his praise – they did have fun indeed. They regularly met in various secret places – abandoned greenhouses, magically enlarged broom-cupboards, somewhere outside on the extensive grounds or in the attics of the many towers and practised or downright invented spells together. They planned pranks to disrupt their classes, to annoy teachers or to get back on some students, or other Houses altogether, mostly Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. One could normally tell who was the originator of a certain scheme. Damocles' and Narcissa's ploys usually were the most subtle, and if one wanted to call it that, intellectual. Bertie had a deft hand for intricate mechanisms, Lucius was apt with powerful, yet elegant spells, Graham was more simple-minded but had a genuine sense of humour singling him out. Horatio's and Evan's pranks, at last, were usually the most vicious, which didn't really surprise anyone. They were the youngest of the boys and what they lacked in the elders' experience and knowledge, they tried making up with ferocity. Also they always attempted to prove themselves, causing Narcissa to smirk pitifully, Lucius and Damocles to roll their eyes, Bertie to give them long lectures and Graham to rap them on the heads.

"Stop it!" Horatio shouted one afternoon and slapped Graham's hand away.

For good measure, he received another headbutt for his obstinacy, and Bertie gnarled, "You are so stupid, Gibbs, I cannot fathom how you manage to find your own arse! You make the Aubrey brothers look like true intellectuals."

"And why's that!"

"You know what could have happened if that blasted beast had attacked someone?"

"But it didn't!"

"Only because Cle transformed it in time!"

"I didn't hear you making such a fuss when Lucius set free that bunch of cobras!"

Bertie grinned recollecting the event, but strained to put on a strict face again. "And you really cannot tell the difference between setting free some snakes in the staff room, and unleashing a giant scorpion among a group of First Years? Pal, you're even thicker than I had given you credit for!"

Horatio put on a pout and Lucius asked pensively, "Is it possible to trace that scorpion back? Did someone see you, Gibbs? Could old McGonagall…"

"I'm not that stupid!" the boy snapped, hurt.

"Don't you get stroppy with me, pal. I'm trying to keep your arse safe."

"Oh, is that so! I got the impression you're more worried for your own arse!"

Lucius smiled, but it was a cold, dangerous smile. "True. I'm not keen on getting into trouble over such a matter. You know what could have happened? Do you really want to get expelled? Do you want us all to be expelled?"

"But nothing did happen, and none of us will be thrown out either! You're just happy to have found an opportunity to lord over us once more!"

Oh well, after this little incident, a period of coolness ensued, and Narcissa had much more time to mind her own businesses again. Oddly though, she didn't enjoy her regained freedom as much as she would have expected. How quickly she had got accustomed to having the boys around her, sharing a laugh, a joke, a prank... At least, she had Severus' company. He fulfilled every hope she had put in him. His hexes had always been excellent, but she had to credit Lucius Malfoy for refining the boy's skills in that quarter further. Severus' potions were worthy of a Fourth Year, at least – actually, half of Narcissa's own classmates from the fifth year couldn't have matched him. He eagerly picked up on any book recommendation Narcissa made, and also developed a bit more self-confidence, standing up to his ill-willed roommates with seeming indifference. _Seeming_ indifference, but she trusted he would in time master _true_ indifference, as well.

Fortunately, most Slytherins left him alone nowadays. His curses were famous despite his tender age, and that the great Lucius Malfoy had him under his wing made the members of _their_ House refrain from most too overt hostilities. No Slytherin voluntarily got in the way of _him_. The members of the other Houses – or more precisely, certain members of Gryffindor House – were, deplorably, not to be impressed by either of the two boys. Sirius Black had his own Septuplet – well, a quartet, anyhow – and for some reason completely beyond Narcissa's grasp, their favourite pastime was making little Severus' life hell. They mocked and taunted him whenever they met, they challenged him to fight, and even if he managed to take down one of them (she was proud of him that he nearly _always_ managed to curse at least one of the little beasts in the end), the other three weren't above overwhelming him by sheer numbers.

Oh yes, Narcissa had strongly disliked her cousin before he had ever set a foot into Hogwarts. But eighteen months into his school time, she positively despised him more vividly than she had ever thought possible. They were a truly nasty lot. Vain and full of themselves, skulking through the castle with that sort of swagger as if they had just vanquished an entire goblin rebel squad! But the very worst of all was the abominable condescension with which they treated other students. Narcissa didn't care for any of them, but she did care for Severus, who was their favourite target.

She knew full well that she was considered to be supremely arrogant, too, and she didn't mind it. But _she_ only dished out scathing remarks if pressed, if people didn't leave her alone! Sirius and his little gang of miscreants on the other hand would tease other children because they were just standing there, because they belonged to the wrong House, because they had a squint, or a leer, because their robes were worn-down or their hairdo stupid, because someone was a lousy Quidditch player or supported the wrong team. Sirius always in the foreground with his inevitable buddy whatshisname, the other two slightly more silent in the background, delivering the cheers and giggles. Tedious, loathsome, vile little boys, ph! And she was related by blood to the worst of them!

"I can teach him a lesson he never forgets," Lucius offered her time and time again, and she knew that he could. Knowing him a little better by now, she knew that he had a formidable knowledge of the Dark Arts already, even though he had never received any proper training. "Just tell me."

"You'd get expelled in a heartbeat."

"I remember a time when that seemed more than palatable to you."

And that was always the moment when she laughed. "Yes. But now you're a _pal_, are you not?"

"I could teach him the sort of lesson I wouldn't get expelled for, just a few weeks of detentions with Pringle."

"Believe it or not, Lucius, but _that_ lesson I can teach him myself."

"And why don't you do it if the little cockroach annoys you so much?"

"Because I wouldn't do Severus any favour with it. Because Sirius and his nasty chums would only torment him the worse, and because it'd be a humiliation for him to have someone else defend him as if he couldn't do that himself."

"He clearly can't."

"He can't because it's four against one. It's nothing libellous in losing when you're thus outnumbered."

"We could easily outnumber _them_ in turn, if you want. One word from you, Cissa –"

"I don't curse Second Years, and mind you, neither should you. So unsportsmanlike!"

His lips twisted to that trademark curl, that always managed to annoy her as much as intrigue her. When he directed it at her, it was far more friendly though – to be quite honest, she liked that little curl quite a lot by now. "_Unsportsmanlike?_'

"It's like setting a Doberman on a turtle, Lucius! _I_ won't lower myself to be on a level with my wretched cousin and his irksome little friends. And if you want me to hold the tiniest bit of respect for you, you'll steer clear of them, too. I worked hard to knock some self-esteem into Severus' head, I won't stand-by watching you taking that away from him again by acting like his nanny!"

Lucius didn't say that he had strong doubts whether the constant humiliation the kid suffered through by being cursed in every possible and impossible way, was likely to heighten, or even maintain his _self-esteem_, but he would never openly disagree with Narcissa. He was too grateful that she was talking to him nowadays, that she bore with his presence and gave him an occasional smile – or praise. Little Snape was all right, but he wasn't worth losing darling Narcissa's good graces. She was more obstinate than he had reckoned with anyhow. Salazar knew, Lucius had tried every trick in the book to get off with her, sod his pledge to leave her alone. The better he got to know her, the more impossible it was for him to get her out of his head.

Sending her flowers – she had laughed, and used the two hundred roses for a spell, entertaining the other students at breakfast by transforming them into rotten tomatoes, harassing Gryffindor table. He had _stopped_ seeing any other girl – no reaction at all, none whatsoever, not even the _tiniest_ remark on her part. He had _started_ dating three girls a week, even the ugliest, even one of her dorm mates, just to make her jealous – her only reaction was unveiled, contemptuous ridicule. He read poetry books, spell books – for heaven's sake, he had even read some of the Muggle authors she had praised so warmly – but apart from a benevolent smirk, her impression hadn't gone any further than 'See? I knew you weren't unintelligent, Lucius!'

What could a man _do_? He had paid her every compliment ever uttered under the sun – and all of them, _all of them_, had been absolutely heartfelt and sincere! And did she ever do as much as _listen_? Oh, she did listen, but only to twist and turn the words against him in scorn, or simply retort, 'Good one, Malfoy. Finally a remark that you haven't got out of 'Ten Fail-Safe Ways To Charm Witches'!'

The more she withstood his advances, the more desirable she was to him. He had always thought she was plain perfect, but little had he known how right this appraisal had been. Since he had gotten to know her for _real_…

Ironically, he frequently _forgot_ how badly he wanted her, how he craved to touch this delectable body, find out if her skin felt only half as silky as it looked… Listening to her let him forget to wonder how it would feel to kiss those rosy lips. Watching her spell work made him forget to roam her body with his eyes. And the dreams at night when he was shagging – no, never _shagging_ – not _Narcissa_, to her he _made_ _love_ in his dreams – these dreams however had been incrementally supplanted by images where he was just holding her hand and listened to her and trembled like an aspen leaf simply because she'd give him one of those indescribable smiles.

He had been forced to stop going to the potions club nights; he did need his time to prepare for his NEWTs, and incidentally, Narcissa had anyway offered to study with him for the exams instead. Share her with Cle, Severus and the bold little Gryffindor, or have her all for himself – it wasn't exactly hard to choose, was it. When she put her hand on his to show him how to move his wrist when cutting up a flobberworm, or how to squash a scarab most effectively… The way she would smile at him when some concoction turned out just the way it should. How she would sit with him outside next to the lake for _hours_, testing him, actually cheering when he gave a particularly good answer. It was almost enough to make him the happiest creature on earth. _Almost_.

The potions club was flourishing, with or without Lucius' partaking. Professor Slughorn couldn't have been any prouder. He credited himself for being the one introducing these four prodigious students, just as he was ready to take all the credit for the youngest Miss Black's slight defrosting, and young Snape's impressive performance. In retrospect, he would claim in all earnestness that he had _immediately_ recognised the boy's destiny for greatness; in _his_ head it was a matter of truth that _he_ had been the one to recommend Snape to Malfoy junior and the delightful Miss Black in the first place.

"Please, wait a moment, Mr Snape," old Slughorn cried after class; Severus had just mastered a particularly difficult soothing potion at the first attempt. "I've got a book that you might want to take a look at."

The boy obeyed, grateful, and marvelled at the five-hundred year old tome in his hands while maundering out of the classroom at last. He willed himself not to give a start when hearing the all-too-familiar voices behind his back, cackling, and kept on staring at the open pages.

"Now here's an eager beaver, don't you think, Sirius?"

"What's this, Snivellus? Looking for a beautifying potion?"

"No beautifying potion could help him with _that _mug, pal!"

Severus inhaled deeply like Narcissa had advised him to do, turned around and glared at the foursome. "Is that all you can come up with, Potter? You've been more inventive than this."

"Sorry, swotter, it's just that your ugly face distracts me so much," Potter snarled with a sneer.

"Anything else? Come on, you can do better, can't you?"

Black giggled. "Yes, James, you _can_ do better!"

The end of this was, after some more banter, they all snatched their wands. Severus aimed his new-learnt Twitcher Hex so well that Potter not only lost grip of his wand, but with the same jerky move slapped his bosom buddy Black on the pristine cheek. All right, so next thing, Severus found himself on the floor with a leg-lock curse that Lupin had cast on him. Who could say what would have happened next, if Professor Slughorn hadn't been alarmed by the noise from outside, snatching Potter and Lupin by the nape of their necks and dragging them upstairs to see their own Head of House, with Pettigrew and Black – who had his best mate's fingers imprinted in glowing red on the cheek still – in their tow. Severus stayed where he was, knowing full well what was expected of him – Professor Slughorn would give him the same punishment that Lupin, Potter and Black were in for, but he'd never do that in front of the other House's students. In turn for such benevolence, it was an unwritten Slytherin law that the student in question co-operated, for example by not fleeing the scene of the crime.

"Severus, Severus," Slughorn wheezed and swabbed his forehead when returning and leading the boy to his office. "You're one intelligent lad – when will you get it into your head that you cannot _win_ when outnumbered four to one?"

"It's all just a matter of the more powerful spell, innit?"

The teacher gave him a sharp, inquisitive glance. "What do you mean?"

The boy looked bewildered. "Well, like I said – numbers should be no problem if you have the right spell to neutralise them. Isn't that right?"

"Oh!" Slughorn laughed, sounding relieved. "Yes, of course. _Neutralise_ them, yes. Well, you just keep on learning from your friends Miss Black and Mr Malfoy, it can only do you good."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll expect you, seven o'clock here in my office, Severus. Bring your dragon-hide gloves, you're going to stock up our tar beetle provisions."

"Yes, sir."

There was some justice in this world after all, Severus found out after dinner. He met Lily in the corridor, who – chuckling gleefully – reported that Potter, Black and Lupin had got themselves detentions with Mr Pringle, the disgruntled caretaker, and were in for a night of polishing the flagstone floors without magic. His own punishment was a piece of cake compared to this, and he thought that was only fair. _He_ hadn't started this brawl, after all!

"Why don't you try to get along with them?" Lily asked.

"Why don't you ask _them_ to just leave me alone?" he asked back.

She grinned and patted his shoulder. "Because _you_ are smart and reasonable. Talking to Black and Potter – I may as well try talking to a brick wall!"

She strode away with that remark, up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, and Severus watched after her, feeling strangely elated. He was woken from his silent reverie by another hand on his shoulder, and turning around, he looked into the piercing grey eyes of his patron.

"I heard you were looking for an appropriate spell to take down four attackers at once, kiddo?" Lucius Malfoy curled his lips into a conniving smirk. "Miss Black won't have me be your nanny, but I do believe there are a couple of things I can show you still!"

Severus smiled back at him. "That – that'd be fabulous!"

"Meet me in the Common Room once you're through with your detentions, and I'll see what I can do."

He winked at the younger boy, and this one gave a laugh, before recomposing his features into a more serious mode. "Is this something I'd rather _not_ mention to Nar- Miss Black?"

Lucius sighed and twisted his face. "Let me put it this way – perhaps don't tell her for now, and if you are successful in using it, without getting yourself into more trouble… Well, in _that_ case I'd be disappointed if you did _not_ let it slip, my dear boy."

And with these words, he did take his leave, smiling just as other-worldly as Severus had when he had found him.

Incidentally – it worked. Lucius taught him a jinx, similar to a Shield Charm, that would sweep any number of people in a certain vicinity off their feet. He took a week of practising, and the great moment came, Black made a disparaging remark about Severus' hair, and after sending them all to the ground indiscriminately, Severus raised his chin, mocked Potter's stupid gesture of ruffling his hair, and turned on his heels to walk away with his head up high without a further comment.

"I am so proud of you," Narcissa commended him with a wide smile. "_So_ proud! I'm always the one to say, 'Don't pick up a fight if you can avoid it,' but they had it coming. Boy, they had!"

"Actually, it was Lucius showing me…"

She cast him an arch glance. "Yes, that's what I supposed. And why shouldn't he prove every now and then that his intellectual range goes beyond catching and throwing a Quaffle? Every monkey could do the same."

"I – I know, it isn't my place, Narcissa, but… He really isn't stupid, you know?"

She gave a dry laugh. "I know _that_, Severus. That's why I find it so unnerving that he wastes it all on useless nonsense. Look at yourself, look at little Lily Evans – you two are superior to him in many respects, and you're five years his junior!" Seeing him blush, she added, "You _are_, Severus, never forget that. You are very special, and I find it admirable that you are willing to improve still. That's another thing I want you to always remember – you can achieve anything you want, if only you set all your capacities in it. _Anything_, you hear me?"

"You are very gracious, but I…"

"It says a lot for you that you wouldn't see it that way, dear. That is, after all, what distinguishes you from a guy like Malfoy. _He_ always thinks the best of himself. Even in his worst moments, he's inclined to see the opposite."

He shook his head. "Honestly, Narcissa, he's not half as bad as you – I mean – he's not bad _at all_. He is really nice, you know? Without him – and you, of course – I'd still be – you know… And –"

Narcissa felt awkward about the boy's embarrassment, so she cried lightly, "Nonsense, Severus, _nonsense_! Maybe Lucius and I made things a little easier. _Maybe_. Because real talent, and brains, cannot but prevail in the end, and you've got both. _Now_, you might get the impression that fancy, expensive clothes count, or handsome faces, or who your parents are, but that's really not true. It's the _magic_ that it all comes down to, and you got plenty of _that_. I truly thought you knew that yourself!"

"Well, _yes_ – I mean, I hope it's like that."

"See?" She was satisfied and shot him a warm smile. "I don't understand what we're even arguing about."

"I merely meant… You must not always be so hard on Lucius, he really tries to –"

She didn't let him finish, her expression suddenly sour again. "Lucius, Lucius! What _does_ he try, after all! He's got everything, _everything_ on a silver tray – _silver_? Make that platinum! He's got the talent, and the brains, and for what end does he use them! To entertain his mates, to play Quidditch, to seduce every stupid girl he comes across, and _if_ he will invent a spell, it's something that's of no use for _anything_ good! I mean it, Severus – if you want to follow someone's example, don't let it be Lucius Malfoy's! That's a dead end, can't you see that?"

"I think he _is_ good," Severus murmured timidly but nonetheless stubbornly, not daring to meet her gaze, but feeling obliged to defend the boy who had done so much for him.

"You do?"

"Yeah! He's not evil, he couldn't be…"

Surprisingly, she broke out in merry laughter and patted his back. "Of course not! Oh my! I didn't mean to say he was _evil_, Severus!"

"You didn't?" He was confused.

"I _said_ that he's up to _no_ _good_, Severus! There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy!" Seeing that he got even more puzzled, she thought she had to elaborate on the point. "Life isn't about _good_ and _evil_. As a matter of fact, there _is_ no such thing. They don't _exist_ for real! They're nothing but a human concept – to explain the world, you see?"

He didn't, she could tell by his expression, and tried again. "Look… The entire idea is really archaic – old, _overcome_, you understand? It was made up to coax people into a certain type of behaviour. There's good behaviour, and bad – meaning: appropriate, or inappropriate, for the respective person and situation. And what's considered so always depends on time, place, the persons involved… It's all a mere matter of perspective. Different people, different times, different societies – they all had their very own idea of good and evil, and little consistency between them, if any at all. You comprehend this, don't you?"

He nodded pensively, and she patted his back once again. "I knew you would," she said fondly, proud as usually on her clever little friend.

* * *

_There are more things between heaven... _From: William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act I, scene 5.


	14. Truth Be Told

Justice will prevail as truthfulness and revenge go hand in hand.

* * *

**- I.13. -**

Truth Be Told

* * *

_The truth is rarely pure and never simple._

_OSCAR WILDE – The Importance of Being Earnest_

* * *

"So, kids, I want to see results. What have you got for me?" Damocles rubbed his hands with a mock expectant face and looked around, settling on Narcissa, the most senior member beside himself.

She showed him a series of protocols documenting their latest experiments and was duly ashamed that they had nothing more impressive to show for. As it was, they had been experimenting with a potion based on Veritaserum which was, in theory, supposed to heighten a person's concentration (with the working hypothesis that undeliberate truthfulness would serve as a sort of 'filter' for one's brains to keep focused only on the significant), but truth be told, despite all their most single-minded concentration on the topic, they hadn't gotten anywhere much since Cle had last asked. Due to his upcoming finals, he did no longer partake in their meetings and only popped in now and then to look how his protégés were doing.

"The by-products are rather interesting though, don't you think?" Severus muttered awkwardly.

"By-products? I don't think I see what you mean, pal."

"Well, we didn't get any closer to our declared aim, admittedly," Lily inserted, sparing poor Severus another blush. "But we have sufficient evidence that _this_ line –" She picked one of the protocols and waved with it – "brings exactly the opposite result."

"It's called 'backfiring', kid," Damocles said with a benevolent smirk.

Narcissa shook her head. "The opposite results of Veritaserum, Cle."

"Well, that _is_ rather wonderful. I'm just not sure what you mean to do with a potion that turns a person into a compulsive liar? The only thing I can think of is sending it to the Ministry of Magic, but I'm afraid they won't need it. They're proficient in this subject without our humble assistance."

They all sniggered and, reluctantly, agreed to give up on that particular project. They'd been researching it for almost half a year now with little enough to show for. Before long, Narcissa would interrupt her attendance, too, in order to prepare for her OWLs, so they decided together with Damocles what to do next so that Severus and Lily could do some basic work before she'd join them again in autumn.

"Don't look so disappointed, Sev," Lily comforted her companion after officially adjourning.

"We put so much work into this..."

"You needn't tell _me_. But it wasn't useless altogether. Me, I learnt an awful lot about truth serums."

"I have a feeling we were really on to something, Lily."

"Well, we might have been. But you really got to know when something's really, really over." He looked surprised and she elaborated, "You've heard Narcissa and Damocles. We'll start with the experiments on Claudandum next week. You don't seriously want to argue with Narcissa about it, do you?"

He absent-mindedly put the useless protocols into his bag. "Blimey, no... I just thought – we could keep on doing this on the side, could we not? We've come so far and –"

Lily shook her head. "Where did we get, then? Because Damocles is right; what's anyone supposed to do with it?"

He opened his mouth as if for a reply, but shut it again. The was no point in arguing with Lily, that was for sure, all the less since he couldn't even put his finger on why he thought they might be successful after all. And as for Narcissa – he would never have _dared_ to argue with her. Despite her friendliness, she sometimes intimidated him with her decisiveness.

Well, boys of a less diffident disposition than he were intimidated by her as well, if for very other reasons. A girl half as pretty as Narcissa Black would have sufficed to incite keen interest in the opposite sex in a school full of adolescent teenagers. A girl of her kind of extraordinary beauty, however, simply drove a lot of boys mad, and her strict refusal to do as much as look at any of them only heightened the attraction. Therefore it was little wonder that Lucius Malfoy wasn't the only one by far who strained to win her good graces by whatever means: clumsy poems were written on her behalf, Quidditch victories were dedicated to her, but nothing ever changed her mind. In fact, she gave the impression she hardly noticed the efforts more than she'd notice some irksome insect – she just brushed them off absent-mindedly. From trying to persuade her to trying to coerce her, it was only a small step.

One Saturday afternoon in the Great Hall, she was brooding over her Transfiguration notes to start preparing for her OWLs, absent-mindedly stirring her coffee, just lifting the cup to her lips, when she noticed an ever-so-faint, hardly discernible smell. She wrinkled her nose but otherwise ignored it, only a far-out corner of her mind registered habitually 'blueberries – poppy seeds – dragon blood – a _hint_ of leather…' She always did that, counting all the potions coming to her head containing such ingredients as means to train her memory. It also worked to impress her father when she did the same with a good vintage wine. Blueberries, poppy seeds, dragon blood and a trace of leather could be included in… Hubanum… Veritaserum… Emphalis… Amorandum…

She had almost taken a sip when that thought caught up with her. Amorandum? The nose-wrinkle got more pronounced and discerned further smells, all of them ingredients of Amorandum as well, which was a strong, illegal love potion she had read about lately. Narcissa was no fool. She could easily imagine why someone would spike her drink with such a substance, and the sheer thought enraged her as much as it disgusted her; she found the usage of love potions only one, and a very small one it was, step from rape. To test her theory, she raised her wand, flicked it and murmured, "Freia?"

Not a minute later, her great eagle owl flew in and landed on the table next to her. Narcissa fed her a piece of cake, patted her feathers and whispered, "I am so sorry, hon, but you've got to help me. If I'm mistaken, you'll just have a drop of awfully bad coffee. But if I'm right…"

Freia trustingly ruffled her feathers and opened her beak, so Narcissa could feed her a biscuit soaked with some drops of coffee, and saw in the next moment that her suspicion was well-founded. Freia's eyes turned blurry for a minute, then she darted up into the air, shrieking shrilly and purposefully towards the entrance, where Narcissa could just see someone turning around the corner and out of sight. Oh, just as well.

_Just as well_, indeed! The few drops of love-potion-laced coffee affected the poor bird for no more than two hours, but the effects on the perpetrator lasted much longer. That night at dinner, Elias Yaxley, that abominable git, showed up with an entire set of lovely scratches inflicted on him by a lovesick owl, and decidedly avoided looking over to his intended victim. Narcissa pursed her lips in contempt. Yaxley's older sister Venus was renowned for her talent with potions. No doubt she had equipped her brother with that stuff! Venus Yaxley, ph! She was another of those school beauties, pretty beyond words and taking advantage of it in every possible way. She'd also dated Lucius Malfoy for two weeks or so two years ago. Until he had dumped her, that was!

"What's wrong with _him_?" Graham asked before shoving a half a kidney pie into his mouth.

Bertie giggled. "His first attempt on shaving?"

"Side-effects of a love potion," Narcissa snarled drily and received some curious glances for that remark, forcing her to elaborate, "I found it in my coffee today –"

Lucius stared at her. "What?"

"I literally sniffed it out and fed it to my owl then."

Bertie appraised Yaxley with a curled lip. "I guess she tried to show the originator a whole lotta lovin', eh?"

They all burst out laughing, but later, on their way back to the Slytherin dungeons, Lucius caught up with her and muttered under his breath, "I promise I will make the jerk pay for this, Cissa!"

She sniggered and patted his arm. "That's very sweet of you, Lucius, but your intervention won't be necessary."

"A few scratches, that's all he's got! He deserves to be made paying!"

"How chivalrous you can be, Lucius!"

He swallowed, then caught her elbow and pulled her into a small niche. "I know you think I'm a cad in every way concerning girls, Cissa, but I want you to know – to _really know_ that I'd _never_ –"

"Yes, I _know_," she interrupted him, smiling. "I know _you_ a little bit by now, don't you think?"

She held the same speech to Andromeda that night, who had heard of the incident and reacted similarly irate as Lucius. "At first I thought it had been Malfoy who –"

"He wouldn't, Andy. Ever. He's not like that."

"He's not like that? _Not like that?_" Andy grimed, forgetting her initial wrath. "He's the godfather of every prat mistreating girls in this school! Their big idol! The textbook example!"

"I know him better than you, Andy. He is my _friend_ –"

"Your friend! Merlin's beard, I felt more at ease when you still refused having any!"

"At any rate, he wouldn't slip me a love potion, or any other girl, come to that. Takes the triumph out of victory. Lucius Malfoy wants to _win_."

"But he isn't above cheating if he can't win the proper way!" Andromeda narrowed her eyes. "You… You're not starting to fall for the bollocks he's telling you, are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Andy," Narcissa retorted quickly and angrily.

"Be that as it may, I will report Yaxley to Professor Slughorn and –"

"No, please don't. I've got other plans for him."

Andy tilted her head. "Do I, in my capacity as the Head Girl who also happens to be your sister, want to know the details of these _plans_?"

Narcissa grinned. "No need to worry. Let's say it'll be a little surprise."

Oh, indeed. Yaxley thought he could drip potions into her coffee to take advantage of her? That principle worked in both ways, didn't it! Venus Yaxley might be three years her senior and in her first year at College, but Narcissa prided herself on her own gifts with potions. She'd accept Damocles as her superior, but not _Venus Yaxley_, that little sl- – and a potion she would use for her revenge.

She chose Veritaserum, for the simple reason that she, Cle, Severus and little Lily had lately experimented with a potion based on it, and they had a bit left still for experimental purposes. Otherwise, it would have taken too long to brew it anew – revenge should be a cold dish, but not one served when the perpetrator had already forgotten the crime, right? What was more – a truth serum seemed like a very good way to get back on that slimy, two-faced maggot. Also, it was a transparent fluid without any scent or taste of its own.

"Lucius, I believe I heard you say that you wanted to get back on your roommate Yaxley for the Amorandum stunt he pulled the day before yesterday…"

"One word from you, Cissa, and he's toast!"

"Toast may come into it somewhere, yes, but not in the way you're thinking of. I don't want you to _curse_ the wretched worm. I want you to intoxicate him."

She winked at Lucius, who shot her a curious look. "Go on, I'm all ears!"

"This –" She produced a vial and showed it to him. "– is the most powerful truth serum known to mankind. It is so powerful, it could make the Minister for Magic admit in public that he is nothing but a power-crazed dunce accepting every bit of bribery coming his way, and it'll make Yaxley spill the beans, too. As his dorm-mate, I think you can come closer to him than I ever could without raising suspicion, and I am certain that you also know the easiest way to give it to him."

"I love the underhandedness!"

"I thought you would appreciate the scheme."

"Subtle, sly and vicious!"

"I've learnt from the best!"

They grinned at each other like sharks. Of course, Narcissa had never done anything that had _not_ won Lucius' full and unreserved admiration, but it were moments like these that made him so perfectly certain that there'd never be another girl for him. Narcissa Black was outstandingly beautiful, oh yes, but that wasn't what captured his imagination. She was the most intelligent person he had ever met, no doubt, but this didn't engage his fancies either. It truly was her temper, that indescribable blend of amicability and deviousness, the air of total control, cunning vindictiveness, the utter _coolness_ she emanated. She was so cool, she was like a guy, a real _mate_. His soul mate… Oh Merlin, he loathed himself for thoughts like this, it was so bloody sentimental; _she'd_ despise him if she knew what was going through his head in a moment like this.

It all happened according to plan. Lucius slipped the potion into Yaxley's flask while the boy was in the shower and Graham sprinkled a handful of salt into the bowl of scrambled eggs – Yaxley's favourite breakfast dish – in the Great Hall before any of the other boys from their dorm arrived. They had carefully chosen the day of the execution – this morning the Seventh Years would practice for their oral NEWT exams with the Professors Sprout and McGonagall, and younger students were allowed to watch the mock exams to prepare for their own. Normally, only Sixth Years were permitted, but Narcissa had pleaded her case by claiming she'd like to be properly prepared for her OWLs. She'd have hated to miss the show.

Yaxley ate the over-salted eggs together with some rashers of bacon and was all serene complacency, foreseeing a great success that morning. He marched to the Herbology exam and passed in a panache without taking a swig from his bottle. Narcissa was secretly glad; she'd prefer him to crack in front of McGonagall. So much more fun. And then, in the Transfiguration classroom, he finally did get thirsty, he did take a few big sips. Narcissa and Lucius exchanged a fleeting look, suppressing a smile and instantly refocusing on the ongoing test. It was Graham's turn; he was sweating as if he had just played an entire Quidditch match, and stuttered whenever he opened his mouth to answer a question. His answers were no good, bordering on idiocy at times, but for once in her life, Narcissa didn't feel like mocking such intellectual inferiority. She truly felt for the boy. At least, McGonagall didn't feel like tormenting him and ended the humiliating spectacle soon, giving him a whole lot of tips how he could still improve. Narcissa, in the background, gave him her warmest smile, mouthing, "We'll manage!" and received a grateful nod in return.

Another student was tested and then it was Yaxley's turn. He walked confidently to the front, flashed his teeth and answered to the first three or four questions without blinking, and rather brilliantly, too. The Professor nodded appreciatively.

"Quite fine, Mr Yaxley. Being so advanced, I'm sure you can also tell me in which relation the Transfiguration of part-humans stands to La Motte's Fourth Law?"

Narcissa had seen this question coming – she'd learnt with Lucius and knew their curriculum – and Yaxley didn't let her down when retorting condescendingly, "La Motte's Law, sod's law! I knew you'd ask me that, you old hag!"

McGonagall's brows rose so high they disappeared under her hat. Narcissa bit her lips to keep herself from laughing, Lucius pressed his fist to his mouth to achieve the same, most other mouths in the room had simply dropped wide open. Yaxley looked thunderstruck, unable to believe what he had just said.

The teacher pursed her lips. "Care to repeat that, Mr Yaxley?"

"The old biddy's deaf," Yaxley replied, his bulging eyes showing his panic, but he seemed incapable to stop himself. "Which part didn't you hear, then? About blithering La Motte's Law – damn lover of Mudbloods he is – or didn't you catch the bit about being an old hag?"

"You have clearly taken leave of your senses," McGonagall stated almost scientifically, like a Healer examining a sad case.

Yaxley's eyes nearly popped out of his face; he swivelled around and pointed at Narcissa, who was sitting in the last row. "It's her! She did that!"

McGonagall followed his pointed forefinger. "Miss Black?"

Narcissa rose to her feet. "Professor?"

"Would you enlighten me what the young man is babbling about?"

Narcissa smiled. "I would think that Mr Yaxley suspects me of feeding him a truth serum, Ma'am."

"And why would he do that?"

"You'd better ask _him_, Professor."

McGonagall tilted her head, glaring at the girl, but turning back to Yaxley. "Is that true? You suspect Miss Black of giving you a truth serum?"

"Yes! Darned cow!"

"And why would Miss Black do such a thing?"

"Because she knows I spiked her coffee with Amorandum last weekend and wants to get back on me!"

He received the most withering glance yet for that confession. "You did what?"

"I gave her Amorandum, silly!"

"Are you aware that Amorandum is not only a banned substance in this school, but also considered as illegal in general?"

"Of course I am. So what's the big deal!"

Narcissa saw that the Transfiguration teacher could smile like a shark as well. "Didn't I hear you say you wanted to study Wizard Law after your graduation, Mr Yaxley? In that case, the 'big deal' shouldn't come as much of a surprise to you. You're going to see your Head of House after this lesson, he'll keep you informed about the rest. – Now to you, Miss Black. Is it right you fed Mr Yaxley that truth potion?"

"No, Ma'am, it is not right. But then again, _I_ didn't swallow any truth potion either, so you could hardly expect me to own up if I had done it."

A battle was raging on the teacher's face, but her sense of duty won in the end. "I think you should see Professor Slughorn as well, Miss Black."

"Certainly, Professor.

And so, not five minutes later, the inebriated Yaxley, Narcissa, and her sister in her capacity as Head Girl, marched down to see their Head of House. Yaxley kept on swearing under his breath, mostly indistinctively, but here and there, one could hear harsh insults and the occasional threat.

"Mark my words, Black, you'll pay!"

"Oh, get off it, Yaxley. I like to think we're even."

"Even! You think that, prissy Cissy, you just think that! But I will get you for this and you'll wish you'd never been born then, you –"

Andromeda swivelled around, snatching his wrist like a vice and forcing him, even though he was a good deal taller than her, to look straight into her face. "Listen to me, Yaxley, listen very well," she bellowed. "You dare touching her and it'll be the last thing you'll ever do, you mangy rat!"

"I won't be bossed around by some Mudblood lover!"

She gave a dry, derisive laugh. "I think you just are, and you'll endure it!"

"Andy –"

"No, Cissy, this pathetic excuse for a human being had it coming!"

"All I meant was that we shouldn't be dawdling around. I want to see him facing Slughorn before the effect wears off."

"Good point." Andromeda dropped his wrist like a bit of Hippogriff poop and seized his sleeve instead, pulling him along like a misbehaving dog. Narcissa followed them leisurely. No matter what punishment she'd have to face for this stunt, it was worth it. But it didn't come as bad, not nearly as bad as that. After informing Slughorn on the cornerstones of the accusation, he scarcely cared for the Veritaserum any longer. This _might_ be connected to the fact that he must be aware that only a very few students could lay their hands on such stuff, among them Narcissa herself and Damocles Belby, neither of whom he wished to see incriminated. Yaxley's furious rants on this head he simply ignored. Instead, he sent the poor boy into six weeks of detentions with the caretaker and condemned him to stock up the store cupboard in the Potions lab as far as sliced flobberworms, ground dung beetles and harpy claws went.

"And if I hear as much as a whisper that you tried something like this again, Mr Yaxley, I shall not only have to inform your parents, but also the Dean of Artemis College. I sincerely doubt you'll be accepted with a criminal record!"


	15. A Plain Silver Band

Andromeda shocks her little sister out of her wits.

* * *

**- I.14. -**

A Plain Silver Band

* * *

_N-nothing important. That is, I heard a good deal about a ring, and a dark lord, and something about the end of the world, but please, sir, don't hurt me. Don't turn me into anything... unnatural._

_J.R.R. TOLKIEN_

* * *

"That doesn't work, does it?" Narcissa pointed at a sentence in Severus' homework. He showed the spell in question to her, and once again, she marvelled at him. He was only a Second Year, for god's sake!

Only a few more weeks to go until the holidays – she had a calendar to cross out the days – more than two months of peace lay before her – what a blessing! If only she had known then what she was in for… On the other hand, she couldn't have prevented it either, so one might say that she was lucky not to know in advance and fret and ruin the little hope she had. The origin of all the disaster ahead was in fact a rather happy event, or it would have been happy, had the circumstances been different, for later that evening, Andy came over to her sister's armchair in the Common Room, asking her for a private word in an empty classroom nearby.

While striding over there, Andy was beaming madly, and as soon as they had shut the door behind themselves, she cried out, "There you are, Cissy! Oh, I couldn't wait to tell you – I wanted you to be the first one to hear it!"

"You haven't got a sneak view at the questions of your NEWTs yet, have you?"

"Oh, forget about that, dear me! Is that all you can think of? Studying and results, ts!" Saying thus, she raised her left hand and brandished it in Narcissa's face, who winced back.

"What did I do to be slapped now?"

"I'm not _slapping_ you, silly girl! _Look!_"

Look _where_? Andy kept waving her hand, and at last, Narcissa spotted a slim, plain ring of silver that she thought to be new. She raised her brows and groaned, "Yeah, so what? You've got nicer ones!"

"To be sure, I have not!"

"But it's boring! Did you find that in a Christmas cracker?"

Andy put on a sulk and pressed her lips tightly. "That's an engagement ring, you daft cow! They _look_ like that!"

The message took some seconds to sink in. Engagement ring – _engagement_ – engagement meant wanting to get married – marrying _whom_ – marrying Ted, obviously… She nodded slowly. "Aha –"

"Isn't it wonderful? Oh, Cissy! I could sing and dance all day long, it was so _romantic_!"

Narcissa had no sense for _romance_ and smirked. "Awww. Did he fall down to his knees or something?"

"As a matter of fact, he did," Andy said tersely. "And spare me your sarcasm, will you?"

"No, I'm very happy for you. He's a nice fellow, I'm sure. I'm just not into that whole falling-to-one's-knees business, you know…" It wasn't as if Narcissa hadn't seen this coming, still she felt not entirely prepared when gazing at her elder sister's hand now. Nothing impressive when one knew her other jewellery, but Andromeda beamed at it as if it was the Ring of the Nibelungs itself. "Dear," she tried tentatively, "Look, I'm not certain that our parents will approve of –"

"Do you have to throw water over every good thing, Cissy?"

"Not at all. All I meant to say is that your felicity may come a little early."

"And why should that be? I'm _engaged_! How could I not be happy?"

"By remembering that your fiancé is likely never to be invited to our house."

Andromeda's face darkened considerably, and she hissed, "Curse them if they don't approve!"

"Andy!"

"No! I'm _in_ _love_, Ted loves me too, we're going to marry – if my own parents can't be happy for me, they can bugger off!"

"Andy! You mustn't speak like that! So – uh – what _do_ Papa and Maman say?"

"I haven't told them yet – didn't you listen? _You_ are the very first one to hear!"

Narcissa frowned and bit her lip. "Well, in _that_ case you shouldn't print the invitations yet, should you? After Papa's died of a cardiac arrest, you can't get married within the mourning period!"

"Oh, he'll get over it. For Christ's sake, in which century are they living, anyhow?"

"You remember what happened with Aunt Cedrella, do you?"

"I'm their bloody _daughter_, what are they supposed to do?"

"Disown you – never talk to you again – curse you – try and kill Ted," Narcissa suggested off the cuff, finding the whole idea less and less favourable. Their father _was_ after all pretty old, his views were old-fashioned and his heart weak. Surely Andy didn't want to kill him, right?

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic, Cissy! Kill Ted, right! And spend the rest of his old age in Azkaban or what?"

"He might still prefer that from having a daughter marry a Muggleborn _Hufflepuff_ –"

"Oh, rubbish! He'll throw a tantrum – or ten – and will get used to the idea then. No probs," Andy growled, not sounding very convinced herself. "I thought I'll tell them when they come here for my graduation ceremony."

Narcissa gave a feeble laugh. "So while you're holding your laureate speech, our mother will cry her eyes out and everyone will assume she is moved by the occasion?"

"Something like that, yeah –"

"Good luck, Andy, I don't think it'll go all that smoothly. And don't count on Bella being your bridesmaid. It'd be such an embarrassment, when the bridesmaid scratches the bride's eyes out!"

Andromeda sniggered, but it didn't sound amused. "But you, you will stick up for me, right?"

"Sure. But what good will it possibly do?"

"You're their little favourite, Cissy! They do listen to _you_!"

"Oh, get real, Andy! Maman will listen to me when it's about choosing a wallpaper design, and Papa will listen to me when I play the piano and that's it! You don't seriously believe that anything _I_ could say about _you_ marrying a _Muggleborn_ will make any difference!"

Lost in thought, she returned to the dormitory that night, her insides churning with dark premonitions. Their parents _not_ having a fit was as unlikely as having Christmas and Pentecost the same weekend, the only question was how _bad_ that fit would be. Andromeda wasn't the first one in the family to marry 'beneath' her, there was quite a list of aunts and uncles that no one ever mentioned, because they had married Muggles or even supported the wrong political party.

Andy was right in one respect – she _was_ their daughter, and Mr and Mrs Black were very attached to their children. They wouldn't just cast her out, would they? Narcissa realised she had never given this matter much thought, after learning about her sister's relationship to a Muggleborn. She had sensed that their parents would not be _pleased_ and had consequently avoided betraying the secret, but that was all. Ted wasn't Andy's first boyfriend. Narcissa had simply assumed that, like his predecessors, he wouldn't last. Andy was right in another respect, too – Narcissa was their parents' favourite, perhaps because she was the youngest of the three, perhaps because she was the most compliant. She had never refused any of their demands and wishes, had eagerly practised the piano and the harp and voluntarily learnt just about anything that they considered suitable for a 'young lady'.

But, just as a matter of interest, what would happen if _she_ ever chose to marry a Muggleborn? Would all her accomplishments make up for such a choice? Not that she had anyone in mind – if one asked for _her_ opinion, matrimony was out of the question. She took no interest in boys, they were all such terrible idiots, and who was the greater idiot – the idiot, or the idiot getting married to one? Anyway…

"Who's put a fly in _your_ potion?" Martha asked nosily when she entered the dorm.

"Mind your own business," Narcissa retorted without the tiniest bit of humour, threw herself onto her bed and jinxed the curtains shut.

She felt like the burden of carrying this secret was more than she could bear. Suddenly, she faced something far more serious than her usual annoyance about Perpetua's snoring, Martha's nosiness, Yaxley's insolent come-ons, or the fact that she was hopelessly bored with her classes. She was fond of Andy, she didn't want to lose her. Neither did she want her parents to be upset, nor… Good Lord, in times like these! What was Andy _thinking_? If one could believe some of the rumours (which weren't _all_ completely made-up!), they were facing another war, and this time, it wouldn't just be some rebellious goblins disturbing the peace…

In one of her rare letters, Bella had called it a 'wake-up call for the wizarding community'. Narcissa had overheard Evan telling Lucius that Mr Rosier was a high-ranking member of this new, secret society that everyone whispered about, but she had assumed that Evan had simply been bragging like usually. Even Mr Black, normally not prone to believe just anything, had mentioned something like this when she had been home for Easter. What had he said? Narcissa racked her brains – she hadn't listened too closely then, she found politics boring. 'I'm not saying I agree with his agenda, but that wizard has some right ideas, and the people will fall for it.' Something like that…

'That wizard' was some warlock who had only recently returned to England, no one really knew who he was and a whole lot of legends were linked to his true origin. Some said he was the last descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself, probably because his stated objective was getting rid of the non-pure elements in the wizards' community. Others made him appear like some sort of perverted Jesus figure, the fatherless saviour coming to save them all. What was seemingly true however was that he had gathered enough followers to found some kind of 'Dark Order' – Dark because they all were devoted to the Dark Arts, which had got a bad name among wizards in the last hundred years.

Narcissa had never quite understood that distinction. The Dark Arts – what was that, anyway? It was a certain brand of magic, more dangerous than the normal stuff, but then again, also the common spells could cause great damage, if applied in the wrong way or with ill will. She found them mildly interesting, simply because she was bored out of her mind in this school, and the Dark Arts would at least have been some sort of challenge. But their Headmaster wouldn't have it, he didn't even allow most books in the library that dealt with them. Even now, facing a threat like that Dark Order, people still recoiled, instead of just learning Dark spells themselves. Which was stupid. Know your enemy, know his weapons. 'If you know both yourself and your enemy, you will come out of one hundred battles with one hundred victories. If you only know yourself, but not your opponent, you win one and lose the next.' How would they conceive a war with so much less effective means?

And that war was to come, perhaps it had truly started already. People were missing, others had been found dead for no obvious reason. These people had one thing in common – they were either of Muggle origin, or somehow connected to Muggles, or openly supported Muggles and Muggleborns. Narcissa wondered whether anyone had bothered to research how many plain Muggles had in fact perished so far.

She didn't care much; there had always been wars and there would always be. Not that she approved of this fact, but what use was to fret about things that one could not influence anyway? It had nothing to do with her, she had thought, _she_ was no Muggle after all, she was no Muggleborn, and she hardly knew anyone who could be considered to be in danger. Until now. Her older sister was about to become Mrs Muggleborn, which put her into peril, just like her soon-to-be husband and every possible offspring of that relation. Hadn't she thought of that? Couldn't she see the corner into which she was manoeuvring herself there? Did she want to be the next one found dead?

Lying on her bed, she got another notion – what about little Severus? _He_ had a Muggle father, too – did that put him in danger as well? No one right in their mind who had witnessed even just some of his spell work could believe him to be any less worthy than all the purebloods around, some of whom were so moronic that they rather resembled trolls than human beings. The same was true for Andy and her new _fiancé_, but did these Dark Order folks make such subtle distinctions?

* * *

* From: Sun Tze, 'The Art Of War'.

* * *

_If you know both yourself and..._ From: Sun Tze, 'The Art Of War'.


	16. An Invitation To Dance

Lucius would like to ask Narcissa out and aims for the big effect.

* * *

**- I.15. -**

An Invitation To Dance

* * *

_Coyness is nice, and coyness can stop you from saying all the things in life you'd like to... So, if there's something you'd like to try... If there's something you'd like to try – ASK ME – I won't say "no" – _how could_ I? – Ask me, ask me, ask me!_

_THE SMITHS_

* * *

Narcissa was sitting in the library, brooding over her preparations for her upcoming OWL exams, when she suddenly thought she had perceived a faint scrap of music, and automatically, she looked up and around, but there was nothing to be seen. Of course. She must have been distracted. She returned to read, but there it was again, a little more distinct this time. She gazed around, but couldn't locate the origin, so she assumed that some student down in the castle must have turned on their music box really loud. That would have been a sufficient explanation, but in that moment, she spotted a book on the shelf right in front of her, which was jiggling. She rubbed her eyes and looked again, but no – this was _no_ fata morgana – that book _was_ jiggling, quite in pace with the music that grew louder and louder, until the book fell off the shelf, just that it didn't _fall_ – it took off gracefully to float in mid-air, opening and – no way – starting to rustle to the beat, as if it was dancing. And it wasn't only this one book. More and more books did the same, jiggling, rustling, wiggling – hovering and dancing along to the waltz that rang loudly through the galleries by now.

She didn't _believe_ this, honestly, and her jaw finally dropped when she saw the statue of Barnabas the Barmy scuttle along, tap-dancing, right before her eyes. She peeked around, finding that thousands and tens of thousands of books were dancing everywhere now, and somewhere in the distance, Madam Pince was going berserk, trying to chase them, shouting, but incapable of drowning out the beautiful song. Barnabas had unravelled a few yards of his bronze bandages and did a fancy ballet impression using them as ribbons, finally turning to Narcissa with a deep bow and an outstretched hand, as if asking her to dance with him. She chuckled, shaking her head, and the statue continued to dance by himself. The ridiculousness of his performance mingled with the utter beauty and elegance of the book ballet; Narcissa pressed a hand to her mouth to keep herself from bursting out laughing, gazing around to see who had brought this about. She thought she knew the perpetrator just too well, but she saw nobody except the frenzied librarian.

She finally learnt the truth over supper when Bertram asked with a wide grin, "Did you hear about that library incident, Cissa?"

"I happened to be sitting right in the middle, thank you very much."

"In the _middle_, uh? Well, you needn't thank _me_, that's for sure!"

"Sure thing, Higgs. I wouldn't have suspected you of being so imaginative either."

Lucius put on his best grin, too. "Imaginative, you say?"

"The choreography was elegant and the tap-dancing statue added a refreshing sprinkle of humour. The one responsible must have considerable taste –"

He was beaming, literally. "You think so?"

"– and hardly an ounce of brains to spare," she finished dryly.

He licked his bottom lip and scrutinised her with a strange glance. "And why would that be?"

"Because Madam Pince got old McGonagall, and she's bound to sniff them out, and boy, they'll be in trouble!"

"But what would life be without a spot of trouble?"

"Oh well… Imagine you're a student who's – let's say for the sake of the example – who's about to graduate in less than five weeks, and all of a sudden, boom, you're no longer allowed to enter the library, because you've pulled an – undeniably admirable – stunt in there. Doing the math, it's not worth it."

"I'd say it depends."

"Would you?"

"Oh, I would, yes. Let's say your exemplary student never sets foot in the library anyway. However, that student does take great delight in seeing gorgeous girls making pretty faces with pleasure at a good stunt. For _this_ sort of student it'd be totally worth it."

"See? That's why McGonagall will have such a walk in the park tackling the culprit. There aren't that many graduating students who never go into the library."

"Could be a younger student, too."

"How many Sixth Years or younger attend this school who'd even be capable of performing such a piece of magic?"

"I'd know at least two."

"Oh yes?"

"You for one are a Fifth Year, and little Severus here is a Second Year, but I'm sure he could do it."

She shot the boy in question a smile and winked at him. "No offence, Severus, you know how fond I am of you. But there's no way you could levitate thirty thousand books and conduct them to _An der schönen blauen Donau_ just yet." She returned to smirk condescendingly at Lucius again. "What's more – both Severus and I have ample respect for books, and libraries, and would never do something like that only to – well, what did you say was the reward?"

He gave her a very intense look. "Seeing an incredibly gorgeous girl look even more stunning because she finds her favourite things in the world do a little dance for her alone."

His silvery eyes were piercing her, making her feel slightly dizzy, but she wouldn't let it show. At least that's what she strove for, so she cried decidedly saucy, "Aha! Favourite things in the world, you say… That narrows the circle of suspects exceedingly. Now we only need to find that girl who's got a thing for Barnabas the Barmy, and the lad who wants to get off with her. Should be easy enough."

"Yeah, Barnabas gave it a nice touch, didn't he? Gee, I'd say that's a hell of a way to be invited to the big graduation ball!"

"You think that's what it was? A subtle invitation to go to a dance?"

"Subtle? I don't know. I'm no expert at _subtlety_, as you keep on assuring me…"

"If I said so, I must have been right, I assume. I always am."

Gibbon started to giggle hysterically. "Do us all a favour and get a room, you two, pu-leeeaase!"

"Don't look at _me_, buddy, _she's_ the snag to this scheme," Lucius said smartly, smiling at Narcissa.

"Snag or snack, Luce?"

"Both unfortunately. Come on, Cissa, you see the audience's expectations! We mustn't let them down. Let's get through with it." He winked at her. "We can go to my place, all my dorm mates will be here for the next half an hour."

Narcissa raised her eyes to the ceiling, exasperated. "Half an hour isn't enough time, Malfoy."

Howls and cheers all around, and Lucius put on his smuggest mien. "At last! Finally you see reason, and it's about time!"

"I can see reason all right, and without glasses, _pal_. But can you?"

He disregarded the taunting tone and went on as impertinent as before, "Don't you worry, honey, they'll stay away all night and sleep in the Common Room if I tell them to!"

"I second that," Bertram rejoiced.

Narcissa sneered at him. "Why, that's so sweet of you guys, because I'd like to give your friend some sound curses, and it'd be such a shame if you got back early and relieved him."

"You think you could take me on, Narcissa?"

"I'm a hundred percent sure that this is far more likely than you taking me, Malfoy."

"Whoo-hoo, Black! Embarked on the train of dirty thoughts at last!" Bertram cackled.

Narcissa ignored him and kept on glowering at Lucius instead. "Get up, Malfoy, and let's give it a try. Whoever's quicker will receive a real treat tonight!"

He watched her closely, hesitating. "You haven't guarded your virginity for so long to gamble it away like this!"

She got up and sneered. "I'm not _gambling_, coward. I _know_ I'll take you down in a heartbeat." She marched off and out, wondering if he'd dare to come, and indeed, he had caught up with her by the time she walked out of the Great Hall.

"You're serious, Narcissa?"

"Of course I am serious. I'll hex you like you've never been hexed before."

"Can we just exchange a consonant there?"

She ignored the comment, but couldn't suppress a grin. "And the best is – I cannot lose."

"You cannot?"

"In addition to the fact that I'm quicker than you, you wouldn't do anything to me anyway, even if you did manage to stun me by shooting me in the back."

"Are you crazy? Dear girl, I've wanted to hook up with you for _ages_. You cannot expect reserve from _my_ side!"

"No, as a matter of fact I can and I do, because one of your most prominent flaws is your vanity. You are far too vain to take advantage of a girl who couldn't defend herself. You want them yearning for you."

"But you _are_ yearning for me, Cissa."

He winked at her and she battered with her lashes. "Oh, absolutely. Each and every night – in your dreams!"

"So you're basically telling me that there is absolutely nothing for me to win in this? And for that I've skipped my kidney pie?" He pretended to be scandalised, making her laugh despite herself.

"Some kidney pie won't be the only thing you're missing once we're through, Malfoy. I daresay you'll mourn the loss of your self-respect so much more sorely. Well, everyone's got to get what they deserve eventually."

"But that's what I'm saying all along, Cissa! So I'll eventually get you as well!"

"But you don't deserve me."

"True. There's not a chap in the world who'd be worthy enough for you." For a moment, he became alarmingly serious, before returning to his familiar playfulness. "But among all these undeserving suitors, I do think I deserve a first place for sheer perseverance."

She shook her head in mock exasperation. "Let's talk about that perseverance, Malfoy, shall we? As I recall it, we once upon a time came to an understanding."

"Did we?" He made wide eyes. "Isn't that some old-fashioned euphemism when a couple sort of got engaged in the old times? Well, I must say I'm delighted you start seeing things the way I do, after all!"

"We made a _deal_, Malfoy. _I_ spared your Quidditch career then, and _you_ in turn promised to stop pestering me."

"Come on, Cissa, I went back on that alleged promise a thousand times since then!"

"Precisely."

"Which means I acquired a customary right by adverse practice."

She chortled in genuine amusement. "Say what you will, your father is right. You _will_ make a splendid Law Wizard!"

He pretended to wince as if she had struck him. "Ouch. That was a low shot, Cissa!"

"That's not the only blow you'll receive and you're not the only one not playing fair."

"What can I say? Never trust a Slytherin."

"Oh, indeed. Don't you forget I am one myself. I do stick to my word though. How I wish I could be privy to your attempts explaining to your pals how you got beaten by a girl."

"I hate being the one to put an end to your delusions, dearest, but alas! Someone's got to do it, I suppose."

"Would you wager on that?"

"Is that a question? You bet I would! I wager I'll win fair and square, and if I do, you'll come to my graduation ball with me!"

"Fine. But if I'm the one winning, you'll have to ask out Perpetua Parkin."

"The mind boggles with the mere possibility."

"You admit there is a possibility, eh?" She shook her head mockingly. "That's a start. So do we have a deal or not?"

"Of course we have."

They had crossed the Slytherin Common Room and the corridor leading to his room. He took his time to shut the dorm door and put a spell on it, then very slowly turned around, his wand pointing at the floor.

"So what are you waiting for, Malfoy?"

"You don't seriously want to duel with me now."

"I most certainly do. Because once I've cursed you, you might kindly abandon your childish habit of filthy innuendoes in front of your buddies. Since we were speaking of 'worth it'!"

"But I don't want to curse you! You – you're a girl!"

"Allow me to quote good Horatio – _pu-leeeaase_!"

"Seriously, Narcissa, not only you're a girl, but _The_ girl and I –"

"Spare your breath for your spell work. Come on – _Incarcerous_!"

She caught him slightly off-guard, so he jumped sideways, ducked behind Graham's bed and repaid her in coin. "_Confundo_!"

She easily blocked the spell and deflected it towards its originator who ducked just in time, seeing it ricocheting before dissolving in thin air, destroying some of Graham's most prized possessions along the way. "Blimey," he coughed. "Where the hell did you learn _that_?"

"I believe you chanced to meet my eldest sister, no?" she retorted languidly, pointing her wand straight at his head. "You don't know what duelling is before you haven't been chased twice around the whole house by her."

"Why on earth would she do that?"

"For my cheek," Narcissa replied complacently, stepping closer and lifting her wand for the final shot. He seized the opportunity to cast a non-verbal stunner at her but once again, she lazily evaded the curse with a little flicker of her wand and retaliated cleverly by aiming at a bookshelf over the spot where Lucius was cowering. Naturally, Graham stored no books there, so a framed poster of the Hackney Harriers fell down and hit him over the head. He muttered some swear words, crawled around the corner, managed a successful leg-lock curse that sent her to the floor, but he triumphed too early and was squarely hit by her following Full Body-Bind Curse.

She removed the Leg-Lock and got to her feet. "That was too easy, really. Bella'd never have held back like this." She approached him, towering high above him. "I told you I'd get you, _honey_. Have a good time down there, contemplating your mischievous ways… Oh, I have something else for you to contemplate – you remember the exemplary student we were discussing? The one with the crush on the Barnabas aficionado? I think he could have succeeded with his invitation, if he stopped being a complete prat around the girl in question. Yes, I believe she would have agreed to accompany him to that ball… Nighty night, Lucius!"


	17. Meet The Parents

On the eve of Lucius' and Andromeda's graduation, both Narcissa and Ted Tonks come to meet their future in-laws.

* * *

**– I.16. –  
**

Meet The Parents

* * *

_Ames parentum, si aequus est, aliter feras._

_PUBLILIUS SYRUS – Sententiae_

* * *

June arrived and with it the OWL exams, the NEWTs for the Seventh Years. Narcissa felt fairly well-prepared. She would undoubtedly be the best student in her year, but she couldn't say if she could reach her self-declared aim and get more points than this legendary boy. Her big idol – a student in the nineteen forties, who had achieved 1245 points in his OWLs, 45 points more than technically, even theoretically possible. For her own encouragement, she had once more read in the old annual. The name of the boy had been Tom Riddle, indicating that his father was either a Muggle or a Muggleborn – 'Riddle' was no name of any ever so unimportant wizard family. So she had at least one advantage, having grown up with magic from the very first breath she had taken. A _riddle_ he was indeed, because after these supernova-esque performances in both his OWLs and NEWTs, he seemed to have simply disappeared. Maybe he had emigrated, maybe he was dead – but no Tom Riddle had excelled outside of Hogwarts, Narcissa had checked it half a dozen times.

The boy looked exceptionally handsome on the photo, dark wavy hair, piercing eyes, and his jacket flashed the Head Boy badge. She scanned the article – an orphan, Slytherin Prefect irrespective of his pedigree, Head Boy, 12 OWLs and NEWTs each, one medal for special services to the school, most brilliant student as far as the records went back. 'Chapeau', she thought to herself. Handsome, clever, single-minded – he reminded her of someone else…

Oh no. _No_.For once, she would _not_ think of Lucius Malfoy! This was becoming ridiculous! How fortunate that the school was about to end so soon, he'd graduate and then he'd be out of her sight, and this nonsense would end at last!

Lucius Malfoy, the object of her inadvertent daydreaming, thought he was fairly well prepared for his exams, too – he would pass them, without brilliance, but well enough not to be ashamed. He had lead his team to win the Quidditch Cup the fifth time in a row, with him being Captain the last four times, which would have been a sufficient reason for sheer felicity, hadn't it been for his greatest achievement. What was the sordid Cup, compared to the fact that he had gained _her _– the most gorgeous girl's – consent to attend his graduation ball with him!

He couldn't have answered for his life how he might have brought _that_ feat about. For some startled hours, he had thought – and dreaded – she'd hold him to their wager and make him ask her bloody roommate Parkin, a perspective all the more gruesome because Narcissa had hinted that she might have considered going there with him herself if he hadn't gone about so smugly about the whole business. His friends' hysterical laughs when finding him, cursed and incapable of moving more than his eyelids, had been nothing compared to his regrets. And the following day, upon witnessing him preparing himself to stand by his word and ask Perpetua Pigface Parkin, she had casually walked over in the last moment and said under her breath, "I admire your readiness to pull this thing through, Malfoy, but let us not play with poor Perpetua's delicate feelings for the sake of some lost bet."

"That was your idea, not mine. Far be it from me to play with her feelings – or any other part of her, coming to think of it!" he had replied in genuine relief. "So who would you have me ask instead?"

She had pursed her admirable lips before saying nonchalantly, "Ask whom you will, I bet she'll say yes."

"Will she?"

"You'll never know if you don't try."

He had scrutinised her indecipherable expression and wondered whether she really meant business or not, but – well, if there was but a chance in a thousand that she'd say yes, he had to try it out anyhow. This was after all, _The_ Girl. ""If that be the case I'll take my chances." He took a deep breath. "Will you accompany me to the ball, Cissa?"

Her answer had been, at first, nothing but an amused scowl, and he'd believed the joke had been at his expense, but she hadn't outright said 'no' either, and at last, she had shrugged lightly.

"If you give me your word that you won't get any funny ideas – yes, why not?"

Indeed, without quite knowing how it had come about, Narcissa had agreed. She calmed herself by thinking that she had only done so in order to tease Andromeda, who despised him, though she couldn't dispel her remaining doubts. Being her parents' daughter meant that she had been to more balls than she could put up with anyway – she had never enjoyed them, being forced to socialise with people she disliked. But she would have been forced to go to this one either way because of her sister, so why shouldn't she accompany a good-looking, charming boy?

Charming? 'Where did _that_ come from?' she asked herself sternly and not without a good deal of vexation with herself. Since when did she find that notorious philanderer _charming_? She'd be the laughter of the entire graduation class, merely for showing up on that dratted function with him! Oh well, it'd be the last she'd ever see of him, so why not spend an evening with someone whom she'd come to regard as a friend in the course of time? Oh yes, they'd go there as _friends_, because that's what they were, at least for the time being, and soon he'd be off and out of her sight, and everything would go back to being normal!

That amount of rationalising didn't mean she flaunted what her roommates would surely consider a marvellous conquest. As a matter of fact, she hadn't told anybody, not even Andy, and had asked him for the same discretion, secretly enjoying how a dozen girls made fools of themselves to incite him to ask _them_. As it seemed, he would go on his own – his mates couldn't _believe_ it, until he told them that this was because of his wager in the lost duel.

During the two weeks of the actual examinations, he saw far too little of his adored for his liking, but he consoled himself with the prospect of that very last night he'd ever spend in Hogwarts, determined to try and get a kiss from this sweetest of all witches. He knew that he was a good kisser – if he could make her kiss him, she would enjoy it, and if she enjoyed kissing him, she might not be so reluctant to see him again during the holidays, and if she –

And then came the big day. All exams were done, the solemn parchments were bestowed on the graduates, and their parents had arrived and brought along their daughters' festive evening robes. Ignorant of her sister's plans, Andromeda had helped Narcissa to do her hair and don her robes, cracking jokes how flattered she was that her little Cissy should make such an effort only to celebrate her graduation. Narcissa smirked in silence and appraised her own reflection in the mirror, slightly amazed. No, not just slightly – thoroughly astonished, more like. It was strange. She had been aware of the fact that she was pretty, and being her mother's daughter, she had worn stylish robes on every possible and impossible occasion, but she had never really cared; when she had spotted her own reflection on such evenings, she had merely thought, 'Oh dear, what a waste of time to spruce yourself up like a wedding cake'.

This time however, she tried to look through someone else's eyes, through _his_ eyes. Looking _now_, she was genuinely surprised. She did look good, didn't she? She was looking _really_ good! Her mother had brought her light blue robes and pearls, and for the first time really, she realised that she had a great figure in this. It underlined her small waist, her décolleté, it matched her eyes; and Lucius Malfoy must be blind and gay if he didn't like it!

"My little Cissy," Andromeda said, beaming proudly. "I know you're doing me a favour to come tonight. And I reckon I'll need you as my backup."

Narcissa wondered whether this was the opportune moment to inform her sister that they wouldn't be sitting at the same table, but before she had opened her mouth, Andromeda went on, "I'm going to tell them, you know?"

"Tell them what exactly?"

"Tell them that I'm engaged, of course!"

Narcissa stared at her in incredulity. "Are you out of your mind? Tell _our_ parents on the very eve of your graduation ball that you want to marry a _Muggleborn_ from _Hufflepuff_?"

Andromeda turned pale underneath her make-up charms, plucking her purple robes and smoothing some creases underneath her chest. Curiously, the robes were the slightest bit too tight, but it was too late to do something about it. "I've _got_ to tell them, sooner or later anyway, and they'll be much more complaisant in front of some four hundred witnesses!"

"Andy," Narcissa said in a moment of sincere concern, "Papa might not scream as loudly as he would otherwise if he's in the company of strangers, but he will resent you the stronger for bringing him into such a predicament!"

"My engagement is no predicament!"

"No, but if you confront Papa with it in the Great Hall during a public occasion, he will find it a humiliation, and that lowers your chances exceedingly!"

Andy's expression was pensive, then she shrugged. "Always one step ahead, Cissy… But leave it all to me, and stick up for me in the opportune moment."

Narcissa thought that they had decidedly different ideas about the _opportune_ moment, and since she wouldn't be there for a start, and also because she wanted to avoid a scene in the Common Room, she said, "I won't be sitting at your table, Andy."

"Of course you will! You're family!"

"But I have been asked out by someone else. Someone with a table of their own –"

Andy was briefly perplexed and groaned then, "No – no – god, Cissy, tell me you haven't – not with that total jerk!"

"Lucius Malfoy has asked me out and I have accepted, Andy, and that's the end of the discussion."

"Cissy! You can't! You _mustn't_! He –"

"Oh, come off it, Andy."

Her sister shook her head. "Listen to me, Cissy! Listen! I long stopped counting how many girls I had to console because he used them and let them down then! He's good at pretending to be all suave and charming, but in fact, he's nothing but a cad! He –"

"He isn't the big bad wolf, and I'm not Little Red Riding Hood. There's no call for worrying about _me_ tonight, Andy. I'll do what I can for you because _you'll_ be the one in dire need of rescue."

"Be sensible, Cissy! Where's your cleverness when you truly need it! That idiot has taken advantage of more girls than I would care to count, and you're too good for that! You're much too good for him, Cissy!" Andromeda's cheeks had flushed with anxiety.

"I know all that, Andy. Oh, now stop making such a face; what do you take me for? I'm not one of those silly bimbos!"

"You're – listen, you know I love you – I may have faltered in showing it to you, but you are very, very important to me. You're a wonderful person, Cissy, but _he_ doesn't care for such subtleties like character, or cleverness! He only wants you because you're pretty and because you're the one thing that no one can have! He wants you as a trophy, that's all; he wants to show off with you, make his stupid pals envious; he only uses you!"

"I know all that, Andy. But the trophy thing works both ways. _I'll_ be the one wildly envied tonight by all your fatuous classmates," Narcissa answered with apparent calm, even though her sister's words had actually hurt her. She was right, wasn't she? Lucius Malfoy did not care for _her_, as a person. He only wanted a stunning blonde to parade around his friends. She had half a mind to change her dress robes for her school uniform, but feeling Andromeda's concerned gaze fixed on her, she put on a smile and went on, "Now come on, Ted must be waiting for you, and so are our parents. You don't want Papa to get his first fit while Dumbledore is opening the banquet."

When she realised that her warnings and protests were useless, Andromeda left, but not without a whole lot of admonitions. Narcissa endured those as stoically as she had endured every insult ever hurled at her, and checking the time, realised it was too late to get changed again anyway. What the heck, so she would look pretty and cold-shoulder Lucius anyway; like this, her victory would count twice, right? She waited five more minutes to make sure her sister had truly gone and walked over to the Common Room, too. Lucius had sat in an armchair and waited, jumping to his feet when he saw her, with a look bordering on awe. He opened and shut his mouth a few times, finally gasping, "Can I say just one thing?"

"Sure," she replied, wondering where her voice had gone.

"Wow!" He watched her up and down. "_Wow!_ You – you – you'd be gorgeous in a rice sack, Narcissa, but _this_ is – oh Merlin!"

She remembered Andy's warning and murmured, "Your friends will hopefully approve of your choice of a partner likewise."

"They will definitely, but who cares? Sod them! In fact, I'm not entirely comfortable with having to share your sight with them!"

Reassured, she smiled and asked, a trifle coyly, "I suppose that means you are all right with the robes then?"

"All right? No! I'm _delighted_!"

She ignored the other students in the room and their stares. That was just what she had expected – she hadn't made a secret of her partner for nothing. Lucius stepped up, made a deep bow, took her hand and blew a kiss on the back of her hand which sent shivers down her spine. He produced a little nosegay of cream-coloured Angel's Tears and pinned it on her dress – she caught her breath when he accidentally grazed her bosom to fasten the clip. She felt a little dizzy and got unreasonably nervous, but he took her arm, tucked it under his own and they floated out and upstairs before she could think much further. She didn't register all the open mouths they met, all she could focus on was willing her heart to beat not quite so hard, but Lucius did notice them, bent towards her and whispered in her ear, "I'll curse any of them for looking at you in this fashion, if you want me to."

'_If you want me to…_'She had no clue what he was talking about, feeling his breath tickle her skin and making her flesh crawl. She closed her eyes for a moment. "I give you permission to do whatever you like," she breathed despite herself, shocked with herself but all the same hoping that this was the right answer to whatever he had said.

"You cannot imagine how much I have craved to hear you say those words, though I had hoped they'd come in some other context."

She gave a little start and blushed. "Why, what have you asked me then?"

"You didn't listen?"

He sounded disappointed and she hurried to say, "I was a bit distracted, but – you must not take that amiss, please! I'm just awfully nervous! All these people – I hate these public functions…"

"You look enchanting, you _are_ enchanting, and I'll take care of all the rest."

'He's good at pretending to be all suave and charming,' Andy had said – Narcissa supposed her sister was right, but she nevertheless didn't entirely manage to resist his charms either. "You are good with compliments, aren't you?"

"I swear to God, I've never meant anything half as sincerely as anything I've ever said to you."

"I bet you've always been successful with this line."

"My _success_ tonight is that _you_ are here with me. And perhaps you'll appreciate my honest compliments some more after you've met my father's utterly rude bluntness. He hasn't uttered a single nice thing in the past eighteen years since I've known him. I daresay he wasn't much friendlier before that either."

This change of topic allowed her to reassemble some of her wits and she laughed heartily. "I guess the proper thing to say now would be to claim that he cannot be that bad, but after all I've heard about him, I will spare my breath, eh?" She shot him a conspiratorial grin. "But if it calms you – I'm accustomed to ignore the harshest insults and smile still. I don't think your father could say anything to offend me."

Uncharacteristically sombre, he replied, "I'm afraid you'll sing a different tune soon!"

They had reached their destination and entered the Great Hall, which was ridiculously decorated by this year's decoration committee, but Narcissa noticed this only marginally. Lucius looked around, spotting their table and his father, and whispered in a tone bordering on resignation, "There we go. I want you to know that I'm already sorry for whatever it is he will say –"

They stopped at their table; Lucius made a small, stiff bow to his father and said coolly, "Father? May I present Miss Black to you? Miss Black – this is my father, Mr Abraxas Malfoy."

The old wizard greatly resembled his son, the same sharp features, the same aquiline nose. He looked her up and down, sneered and said carelessly, "I doubt any of us will have to memorise names. We won't meet again, will we?"

Lucius sharply drew his breath, but Narcissa smiled all the more sweetly. "Surely you must be right, sir. I'm pleased to meet you nonetheless."

"Black, Black – are you one of young Cygnus' daughters?"

"I am indeed, sir. But it really is of no importance, since we won't meet again, eh?"

He looked amused, and made no further remark until they had taken their seats. Just now, Narcissa noticed the incredulous looks of the other people at their table – that Yaxley idiot, his parents, his latest girlfriend and his pretty sisters Gladys and Venus, both of whom had graduated already – and both of whom had been going out with Lucius for a while, then. She coldly beckoned to them, acutely aware of what they must be thinking of her. Like Lucius' father, they must know how volatile this temporary companionship truly was.

Abraxas Malfoy still appraised her with his brows knitted critically, but far more intriguing for Narcissa was that she had spotted her family at a table nearby, or rather say, only Amandine Black was sitting there, their father was standing in front of Andromeda and her boyfriend – uhm – _fiancé_. They seemed to be arguing; Cygnus Black's face was deep red, Andromeda gesticulated wildly, and her mother's expression was somewhere between pain and shock.

'Oh, Andy,' she thought, absent-mindedly shaking her head and sighing to herself. What had her sister thought, eh? That their parents would embrace Ted with open arms? Had she truly believed that tonight would be the perfect occasion to introduce her Muggleborn Hufflepuff fiancé and say, 'Maman, Papa, I know your attitude, but I also know that you'll be nothing but happy for my sake because I'm engaged to marry'? Knowing Andy, this had probably been her exact words, unfortunately.

Lucius followed her gaze and spoke so quietly that only she could hear him, "Looks like trouble."

"It does."

"Are you worried?"

Was she? This wasn't her business, but Andy's. If she wanted it the tough way – there you go. "Not really. They're ruining their own evening, not mine," she replied far more lightly than she actually felt. Someone less clear-sighted than Narcissa Black would have smelled trouble in the air tonight, and her insides were churning with dark premonitions. On the other hand... How bad could it be, after all? They'd sit there sulking at each other the whole night through. In a room so full of people, neither of them would dare making big scenes, would they?

More and more students arrived; in ten minutes, the ball would officially begin. Lucius poured her some wine and they had a toast, but despite her professions of indifference, Narcissa couldn't drag her gaze away from her family. By now, Amandine had clapped her hands to her eyes, Cygnus was pulling on his middle daughter's arm as she struggled with him, and the awkward fiancé appeared to be trying to mediate, but only worsened his future father-in-law's wrath.

Mr Malfoy senior demanded her attention again, swiftly dispelling Narcissa's concerns by remarking, "I suppose the young lady over there is one of your sisters?"

Narcissa smirked. "Oh well – she was and she is, but regarding the situation and our family records, she might not be tomorrow."

The entire Yaxley family giggled spitefully, but Abraxas Malfoy merely smiled. "Quick at repartee, Miss Black. So tell me – you seem to be rather smart; so how come you are here with this loose fish that claims to be my son?"

"Thank you, Father," Lucius snapped pointedly.

Narcissa would privately admit that she had underestimated old Mr Malfoy's temper, and also she began to think that she shouldn't have come in the first place. Her presence was needed elsewhere so much more direly, and also… No matter what she would do or say, it would give a reason to someone for gleeful misinterpretation. She had no mind to ignore the old wizard's gibes and let herself be reduced to one of Lucius' silly cows, but if she protested, she would give a false impression, too. In front of the Yaxleys, she wanted to appear neither interested in the 'loose fish', nor helpless, and that her own family was getting worked up merely thirty feet away wasn't prone to make her less uneasy either.

She pulled herself together and addressed Abraxas, "Sir, I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I hope you will understand that I desire to discuss neither my intelligence nor my decision to be here tonight. I'm sure, everyone who knows me would inform you that I am taciturn and ill-humoured, so it might be best if I said nothing further at all."

He roared with laughter and crudely patted his son's arm in something that might be supposed to indicate approval. Lucius smiled stiffly and ground his teeth; it was obvious that he wished himself miles away, too, if for entirely different reasons. This was the first time she had ever come to see him like this, in a state of vulnerability, lacking all his self-confident poise and desperately clinging to some last scraps of dignity and self-possession. To her own astonishment, she found it most appealing – _she_, who usually set so much store by attitude and self-control, was endeared by her friend's loss of aplomb facing his autocratic father.

She gave him her best, sincerest, and possibly most encouraging a smile, trying to communicate her sympathy without words and thinking she succeeded. Yes, there they were, both compromised by their families' undignified behaviours – they understood each other indeed.

Catching Narcissa's warm gaze, Lucius relaxed a little and smiled back at her likewise. He was positively enthralled by the expression of her deep blue eyes, which could scowl so scornfully, but which betrayed her true warmth, the profound capacity of understanding that was so far beyond her actual age and her sharp, dissecting intelligence that could see the humour even in an absurd situation such as this. He was overwhelmed by the intensity of his feelings for her, so much so that the only thing keeping him from gliding from his chair to fall on his knees before her and declare himself, was his knowledge of her mortification if he brought her into such a predicament.

He contemplated whether he could dare to at least take her hand, which was so close to his own on the table that they nearly touched. He shoved it over to hers, inch by inch, straining to be as unobtrusive as possible, and when he was finally there, this light touch sent shivers down his spine. She turned her head to give him another smile, but in this moment, her other hand was roughly grabbed, and she found her mother standing behind her, looking awfully upset.

"Fiona, Maxwell –" Mrs Black waved at the Yaxleys, forcing herself to smile, and addressed the two Malfoys next. "Good evening, Mr Malfoy – Mr Malfoy –"

"Enchantée, Madame!" Lucius jumped up to make a bow.

"Yes, yes… Ma chère," she flatly murmured to her daughter, "I am so sorry to disturb you, but your father 'as decided zat we will leave now!"

"_Now?_"

"Yes, _now_. Please!"

Narcissa looked over, seeing how her father coerced Andromeda to follow him out of the Great Hall. "Maman," she muttered imploringly, "je comprends l'anicroche, mais –"

"On doit se dépêcher, Narcisse! Ton Papa – il demande ce que tu viens avec moi, tout de suite!"

Lucius cleared his throat. "Madame Black, please allow me to take your daughter home after the ball –"

"Most certainly not, young man," Amandine retorted, taken aback.

Old Mr Malfoy tried to stifle a giggling fit – and failed.

Lucius ignored him. "I assure you I'll take care of her safety and she'll be back by whatever time you fix!"

"C'est pas possible, Monsieur Malfoy, excusez-moi. Narcisse, vite!"

Unlike her sisters, Narcissa had never been in the habit of disobliging her parents, regardless of the inconveniences to herself, and surely, she'd never have started an argument in public. So, despite her unwillingness to leave, she of course obeyed, beckoning at the rest of the party. "Well, the greatest pleasures are short. Good evening to you. Look, Mr Malfoy, you were right to presume that there is no need to recall this short acquaintance. Good evening to you, too." She gave Lucius a last apologetic glance as well as her hand. "Good night, Lucius. Thank you very much for everything. It was brief, but delightful."

Their gazes locked for a split second, but neither felt capable to express the amount of feelings rushing through their heads – and veins – just now. Pulling himself together not to keep clinging to her hand was all that Lucius could manage, while Narcissa in fact had to overcome the urge to step up and brush a little kiss on his cheek. She gave herself the proverbial shake, smiled one last time, then rushed to follow her mother, who waited in the corridor and grabbed Narcissa's arm. "You _knew_ zis, Narcisse?"

"About the engagement? She told me only recently!"

"You knew she was seeing zat boy! I would not 'ave believed it possible!"

They hurried out of the school, along the sweep way towards the gates; Narcissa protested that all her luggage was still in her dorm, but Mrs Black merely said that they'd send for it in the morning. Once they had left the boundaries, she stopped and squeezed her daughter's arm even tighter.

"I can Disapparate myself, Maman!"

"You will stay right by my side where I can see you, ma petite!"

She resolutely yanked on Narcissa's arm and in the next second, they stood before the family mansion, but Mrs Black made no halt and pulled her on. Mr Black and Andromeda were standing in the hallway and shouting at each other. Narcissa had never seen her father so angry; usually, he was a serene elderly gentleman, and even when Bella had provoked him to become angry, he hadn't lost it as completely as now. His face was purple, the veins on his temples fit to burst, he spit while screaming.

* * *

_Ames parentum…_ Love your father if he is just, otherwise endure him.

_Je comprends…_ I understand the predicament, but –

_On doit..._ We must hurry, Narcissa! Your father demands that you come with me at once!

_C'est pas..._ That's not possible, Mr. Malfoy, excuse me. Narcissa, quick!


	18. Cygnus Cynical

Andromeda has a confession to make.

* * *

**– I.17. –**

Cygnus Cynical

* * *

_Accidents will occur in the best regulated families. _

_CHARLES DICKENS – David Copperfield_

* * *

"… dare to humiliate your mother and me!"

"You did that all by yourself, Papa. Nobody else cared!"

"Don't you be fresh with me, Andromeda! You are disrespectful!"

"I'm not disrespectful! You're behaving like some medieval monk, that's all!"

"Andy!" Narcissa groaned, shooting her sister an imploring glance and finally managing to free her arm from her mother's claws.

"Shut up, Cissy!"

"Engaging yourself to a _Muggleborn_! Have you no pride at all!" their father shouted on top of his voice.

"Oh, I'm extremely proud, actually!" Andromeda's yelled back in the same vein; her eyes gleamed dangerously. "I'm proud to be the fiancée of such a clever, talented, kind wizard!"

"Clever? I thought he's a Hufflepuff?" Cygnus snorted with disdain. She jerked up her hand, flashing her plain ring right in her father's face, who pushed it away and spit, "Disgrace! Outrageous disgrace! Desecration! One thousand three hundred years of –"

"Oh, cut it out, Papa! I don't give a damn about your sacrosanct _dynasty_ shit, you hear me?"

Narcissa groaned once more. "Andy! In Merlin's name, tone it down!"

"_You_ shut up, Cissy! _You_ keep your prissy mouth right shut! Going out with the greatest jerk to walk this earth, _you_ have no place to talk!"

Amandine Black merely whimpered, fiercely shaking her head. Narcissa laughed derisively. "_I_ accompanied someone to some ball! I don't see any engagement rings on _my_ hand, likely enough because I still have my five senses together!"

Cygnus whirled around and pointed at her. "And _that's_ another thing we will talk about in due time! How _could_ you, Narcissa! How could you agree to go out with _that_ boy of all persons! Have you no shame!"

Before Narcissa could reply, dumbfounded as she was in that second, Andy had given a raucous laughter. "But why! Isn't that what you're all about, Papa? I thought a Black girl couldn't do any better than get off with two thousand years of pureblood inbreeding! You ought to be so proud with her choice!"

"I'm _not_ getting off with him! I – we're just friends, that's all!"

"_Friends!_" Cygnus made it sound as if she'd used a profanity. "Is that how they call that these days?"

"No, Papa, you – I'm sorry, but you're mistaken! There is nothing between him and me I'd have to be ashamed of, I –"

"You ought to be ashamed to be seen with such a man in public, child!" he thundered. She had never seen him look at her like this.

"But –"

"Don't you know what people will say of you? What they must think?"

"There you go," Andromeda inserted, half smug, half furious.

Their father didn't even look at her, yelling, "You keep your mouth shut, Andromeda! Are all of my daughters completely out of their heads? Bellatrix getting off with this ridiculous buffoon Lestrange, my little flower – who could have made her pick among _every_ decent young man in the entire wizarding world – chooses to humiliate herself and me, her father, by associating herself with the most irresponsible, debauched Lothario she could find, and you –" He stabbed his finger at Andromeda. "_You_ top it all by throwing yourself into the arms of a _Hufflepuff_, and if that wasn't enough, a _Mudblood_ –"

Amandine winced back and cried, "Cygnus, tranquillise-toi!"

"No, I will _not_!" Cygnus barked and returned to glare at Andromeda. "_Your_ suitor is even more inappropriate than _her_ companion, and what does my wayward daughter do? Engage herself to marry him! Ha! How silly can you be, Andromeda! How blind! _Of course_ he wants to marry you! He is nothing, he's got nothing! Couldn't do any better than catch a Black, could he? But not with me, Missy, not with my money!"

Amandine put her hand on her husband's arm. "Chéri –"

"Neminem pecunia divitem fecit! Non bene pro toto libertas venditur auro!" Andromeda wore a triumphant expression.

Cygnus sneered and countered in the same coin. "Si qua voles apte nubere, nube pari!"

"Nescit amor priscis cedere imaginibus. Nec tibi nobilitas poterit succurrere amanti!"

Cygnus snorted, addressing his wife, "Can you believe the nerve of this girl? Such sheer stupidity? He's out to get her goddamned dowry, but she delights to call it '_love_'!"

"Cygnus!" Amandine minded strong language, even in a moment like this, which was funny, Narcissa found, because the French had the world's best assortment of swear words, as far as she could tell. In this situation though, she had no mind to mull over manners. She felt sorry for her parents, just as for Andromeda, although in the case of the latter, she also strongly disapproved of her behaviour towards their parents.

"Money, that's all you can think of," Andromeda hissed. "Is it so hard to believe that a guy should care for _me_, as a person? That someone could want to marry me without thinking of money, or family lines, or the rest of this crap?"

"Oh, you're pretty enough to be sure, silly as a chicken, but pretty! That's a nice bonus for such a fortune seeker, getting himself a pretty, stupid broad that's loaded with gold! But mark my words, daughter, he isn't going to see a single Knut of my money!"

"You can keep your _money_, old man!"

He giggled hysterically, waved his hand and whirled around once more, pointing at Narcissa now and glaring. "And _you_, young Miss! I'm particularly disappointed with _you_, Narcissa! Light of my eyes, and you deceive me! You've been in the secret! You've been in league with them! It would have been your filial duty to inform your parents about this utter disgrace!"

Before Narcissa could think of an answer, Andromeda cried out in contempt, "Has your little spy failed you? Your little darling, eh? Dear, dear Cissy, always so good, always so obedient!"

Narcissa couldn't believe her own ears. She had kept her silence to do her sister a favour, and this was her reward? "That's rich, Andy! I thought it was up to _you_ to tell them!"

"Associates in crime!" Cygnus shrieked. "My own daughters betray me!"

"Get off it! Nobody has _betrayed_ you!"

"Tainting my dearest girl, Andromeda! Are you proud of yourself?"

"Exceedingly! I hadn't believed your _dearest_ _girl_ could possess something like a backbone!"

"Hey!"

Spit flew from Cygnus' lips as he ranted on, "My little girl would never have gotten involved with such a – such a – _scoundrel_ if it hadn't been for your bad influence on her!"

"_I_ warned her against the jerk!"

"Lip services! It's rotten mores that taint the innocent!"

"Cygnus, Andromeda," Mrs Black tried once more, clasping her handkerchief before her breast. "We can sort zis out, entendez! I 'ave a suggestion to make. We will – 'ow do you say – put zis on ice, eh? Zis 'ole engagement. Andromeda will start 'er college in September like planned –"

"College? She's too naff for that, obviously!"

They kept on screaming and insulting each other; more and more, Narcissa believed that this must be a nightmare. It couldn't be real. It _mustn't_ be real. Both her father and Andromeda kept on attacking each other as well as Narcissa, who found it increasingly difficult to keep her composure. She understood that they were very upset, but she saw no justification for putting the blame on _her_, to let off steam at her expense, and she was scandalised with both of them.

Poor Amandine tried to soothe all parties, but except for Narcissa, no one seemed to hear her. Those two had taken each other's hands and squeezed them for comfort, and after more than two hours, Amandine seized her chance when both combatants made a quick break to get some air, and proposed a compromise. Andromeda was supposed to refrain from seeing her fiancé for one year, to find out whether their feelings for each other would last and stand up to that test. In return, her parents would promise to accept her decision after that period, whatever it would be.

Narcissa felt a rush of relief – this was the first sensible idea since they had entered the house; Cygnus stared at his wife in speechless incredulity. Andromeda faltered, her scarlet cheeks turning paper white, and she briefly looked to the floor. "No, Maman. That won't be possible."

"But _why_?" Narcissa and Amandine cried simultaneously.

Andromeda had one hand on her temple and one on her tummy, gave a groan and murmured, "I cannot _not_ see Ted for so long. And trust me, you don't want me to either."

"Now she's finally lost her last bit of sanity," Cygnus snapped. "Your mother offers you a unique chance for reconciliation, and you decline? You expect us to believe that this was more than just some petty puppy love and then you –"

"I will marry Ted as soon as possible. I must. You wouldn't want it any other way." She raised her gaze to rest on her mother, took a deep breath and went on, "A new son-in-law isn't the only thing you'll get, Maman. You'll also be a grandmother."

For a whole minute, there was deep silence. Cygnus opened and shut his mouth but no sound would come, his wife had clasped her throat and choked in shock, and Narcissa… Narcissa had closed her eyes, processing the news more speedily than their parents and seeing all the awful consequences in merciless clarity. Andromeda was pregnant – it couldn't have come any worse. In this moment, it wasn't even so important anymore that the child's father was no pureblood. She had violated the number one unspoken rule. Her father would _never_ accept _any_ man who had been caught meddling with one of his daughters before a ring – a _wedding_ ring! – was on her finger. Sure, Bellatrix had had her share of fun before getting married, too, but she had been clever enough to conceal that from their parents. Nisi caste, saltem caute! And Amandine was a devout Catholic, did that need any further explanation?

Andy had undermined the little chance she had had to prompt their parents to accept Ted Tonks. It was all over. Their father would never forgive either of them, she would be cast out of the family with all consequences, no money, no acknowledgement of either husband or child….

She looked over to her sister, who clearly expected _some_ sign of sympathy, but Narcissa could merely shake her head. Oh Andy…. She was unspeakably sad; she didn't want to lose Andy – her favourite sister – the only person in the world that came close to a real confidante. As if all this wasn't tragic enough, the pendulum of their bad luck swung back to strike with full force – Amandine collapsed with a last, meek whimper and fell to the floor.

Everything after that horrible second seemed to be in a haze; Narcissa could hardly recall mere fractions of this night after her mother's seizure. She had screamed and her father had screamed – some servant had been sent to fetch a Healer – half a dozen of them had fussed over Amandine trying to revive her. At some point, after Healer Smethwyk had announced that Amandine had sustained a cardiac arrest but would probably survive; Narcissa had seen Andy drag two bags along the hallway, she had stopped, embraced her little sister and said goodbye.

"Don't go, Andy! We can sort this out, we can –"

"It's over, Cissy. You know that as well as I. I've got to do what I've got to do. I'm sorry that I've ruined your chances for ever going out again, but seeing with _whom_ you'd be meddling, I daresay you ought to thank me in the long run. Tell Maman I love her. And send me an owl how she's doing. We'll keep in touch."

Narcissa cried mutely, not noticing the tears. The fear for her mother's life – the shock of Andy's pregnancy – the pain of seeing her walk out the door, knowing she would never set her foot again in this house – and not least her father's voiceless wrath. He was heartily attached to his wife and children, suffering as much as everyone else, and unluckily, Narcissa was the only one left to vent his anger and despair on.

Never before had he been furious with her, not even disappointed. She had always been his darling child, and she had no clue how to deal with this unprecedented outrage. If only he had shouted at her! But still, he wouldn't raise his voice when addressing his 'little flower', as he had always called her until this night. His reproaches were bitter and cynical, he hissed at her, full of contempt and deepest disappointment, putting the full amount of blame on her. She could have prevented all this. If she had told them as she ought to have, about Andromeda's unsuitable suitor, they would have taken the proper measures to stop that unholy affair, and Andromeda would not have gotten pregnant, and ultimately, their mother wouldn't lie on her sickbed now, paper-white and half-dead…

In her _head_, she knew that none of this was _her_ fault, but the frights of the night, her father's coldness and all the rest made her feel so nauseated that she couldn't grasp a rational thought. The sun had long risen before she was eventually sent to her room, with the clear announcement that she wasn't to leave it again until the end of the holidays, not for meals, not for the piano, and certainly not for sheer entertainment either. She didn't care. The only thing that mattered now was that her mother would be well again; she'd gladly stay in this room for the rest of her entire life, if she could only undo this previous night, if her mother would walk in now, rosy and lively and serene as ever, if Andy came back and told them it had all been nothing but a terrible joke…

By happenstance, she spotted her reflection in the mirror, sneering contemptuously. Fourteen hours earlier, she had enthused about some silly dress robes, had been happy with trifles like her hairdo, had taken pleasure in going out with a notorious scoundrel to flatter her own vanity. She was every bit as silly as those stupid girls she always scorned, just as superficial, just as mindless!

The first to go was the silly little nosegay; she ripped it off her dress and hurled it on the floor. Then she undressed, throwing the precious silk garments into the fireplace, and set them on fire with her wand. Then she lay down on her bed, stared at the ceiling and willed herself to sleep, which, of course, wasn't successful. Her mind was racing over the same issues, over and over again, and the next time she looked at the clock, it was already past nine o'clock. She got up again and rang for a servant, wanting to hear how her mother was.

"Miss Narcissa," the elf squeaked unhappily. "My good Miss Narcissa, Elsy is so, so sorry!"

"Skip that part and tell me about my mother, Elsy!"

"The Mistress isn't well, Miss Narcissa. Oh! _Oh!_ Not at all well!"

Amandine had been treated with sedatives and was still sleeping, bless her. Declining to be brought a breakfast tray, Narcissa locked herself in again, dully staring out of the window, but without seeing the garden, or anything in it. She didn't know how long she had been sitting there, when she was disturbed in her misery. Elsy had knocked, announcing a visitor.

* * *

_Tranquillise-toi…_ Calm yourself!

_Neminem pecunia__… _Money has never made anyone rich. All the world's gold does not offset liberty.

_Si qua voles__… _If you want to marry happily, choose a man equalling you!

_Nescit amor… _Love won't be governed by the portraits of the ancestors. If you're in love, your noble background won't help you!

_Nisi caste..._ Not chaste, but cautious.


	19. Lucius Gets The Kick

Lucius wants to be polite, but isn't met with politeness.

* * *

**– I.18. –  
**

Lucius Gets The Kick

* * *

_But heaven knows I'm miserable now. "You've been in the house too long," she said, and I, naturally, fled. In my life, why do I give valuable time to people who don't care if I live or die?_

_THE SMITHS_

* * *

He had meant no harm. As a matter of fact, he had thought it to be an act of courtesy and a sign of affection to call on her that morning. He was in no way prepared for the reception, and the habitual discretion of the serving house-elves was no help in that respect either. He had no idea about Andromeda's engagement, or pregnancy, or exile, or Mrs Black's cardiac arrest, when entering his adored Narcissa's room in awe and thrilled anticipation, with a big smile on his face.

"Good morning, Narc-"

"What do _you _want here! Out! Get out!"

This was the first time that he was perplexed, and many more were to come yet. "I beg your pardon for intruding, but I wished to inquire after you. You –"

Narcissa was tired, exhausted and desperate, and if her own father had abused her to get that weight from his chest, she didn't think it unfair to use that insolent person to ease her own worries now. He had a thick skin, he could take it much better than she had! For three hours, she had been compelled to listen to her father's outraged ranting about the 'debauched cad that she hadn't been ashamed of to associate herself with!', and seeing that 'cad' standing there now, smiling at her expectantly, she would have liked to curse the living daylights out of him.

"What do you want, Malfoy? How dare you come here! I couldn't prevent you from molesting me in school, but this is my _home_! You have no place here!"

He faintly registered that she was looking pale and rather unhealthy, but his mind was too much engaged with the sudden change of mood. Last night, she had been charming and easy-going, she had appeared to like him to a certain degree. He didn't understand what had happened since then – had he misinterpreted her behaviour so completely or –

"I apologise if you find my visit inappropriate, Narcis-"

"_Miss_ _Black_ for you! In my own house I want to be addressed by my proper title!"

"That's fine by me!"

In all truth, he had never been dressed down the way Narcissa did in the following ten minutes by any of his ex-girlfriends, who admittedly had had sufficient reason to be mad at him. What had he done now to Narcissa to make her so venomous and hostile? She hurled all sorts of reproaches and allegations at him, leaving him no chance to defend himself, and while still yelling that a 'smooth scoundrel' like him was the last man on earth whom she would allow to misuse her, she rang for a couple of servants to have him thrown out.

He left without protest, frog-marched by some ridiculous house-elves, but in the hallway, her father suddenly stepped in their way, looking even fiercer than his daughter. "You," he spat, gesturing him to follow, and slamming the door to his study. "_You!_ You will stay away from my child, young man, or I swear, I will make you regret the day you were been born!"

"Sir, I –"

"I _know_ you! I know what you are! I know how you treat innocent girls, what you do to them! But mark my words, you won't succeed with my Narcissa! How _dare_ you enter my house! I might have failed in the past to protect my daughters from villains like you, but that won't happen again, and certainly not under my own roof!"

"I merely came to inquire after her well-being, sir!"

"Silence! Don't you talk back to me! I know your kind, Mr Malfoy, and even though I'm an old man, you want to know that you better not mess with me! My daughter has no interest whatsoever in you, don't you get that? You're not in her league, _she_ knows that, so why don't you just leave her in peace!"

"Sir, please let me just say –"

No, Mr Black did _not_ let him say just anything. Like his daughter before, he heaped threats upon reproaches, hardly catching his breath, culminating in a fulminating, "And if I ever see you within a hundred feet of my daughter, I will make you pay and all your father's wealth won't help you then! Out! _OUT!_"

Lucius obeyed numbly. His head was spinning. Not even his own father had ever managed to yell at him for one and a half hours straight, and so totally without reason. He hadn't done _anything_ to Narcissa Black, and what was more, he hadn't the least _intention_ to take advantage of her in any way!

He felt something like remorse. His father had often warned that his bad behaviour would one day fall back on him, and even though he was perfectly indifferent towards all those girls he had been with, he was sorry now. The only one he had ever _really_ wanted – she wanted to have nothing to do with him because of those useless affairs.

He returned to Malfoy Manor, groaning when meeting Abraxas, who showed a malicious grin and snarled, "You've gotten up very early for your own standards, sonny."

"Not now, Father. Not now! I'm not in the mood to quarrel with you!"

"Quarrel? Oh my! There I go, for once wanting to congratulate you, and you presume I wanted to _quarrel_?"

Lucius sniggered mirthlessly. "Spare your scorn, Father. I know my results don't meet your expectations, but I've done well enough, I'll start College in autumn and you'll get your will, as always."

"Who's talking about your academic mediocrity?"

"It's one of your favourite topics, so it's a fair guess."

"So tense, sonny? I know you didn't get it last night, but I wouldn't have thought that you're _so_ needy!"

"Oh, _shut_ _up_, Father!"

He meant to walk past, but stopped in his tracks when Abraxas continued regardless, "I was quite impressed with that Black girl. What have you done with her? Did you jinx her?"

"What?"

"She appeared a very good girl, and witty to boot. Such a girl wouldn't deliberately go out with someone like you."

Lucius took a deep breath and looked his father in the eye. "Too right, Father. She won't go out with _someone_ _like_ _me_, and as you've already stated so tastefully last night – you won't meet her again, and neither will I."

"Oh, so that's where you're coming from at this time of day? She's ditched you?" Abraxas laughed merrily. "I'd say it's a pity, because that one was worth a hearty damn. But on the whole it serves you right. You were overdue to swallow a dose of your own medicine."

Lucius' hand was in his pocket, fumbling with his wand, but he fought down the urge to curse Abraxas. He didn't have the nerve for fighting; he just wanted to be alone with a bottle of Ogden's Firewhiskey.


	20. Heartbroken

To forget his heart-ache, Lucius tries finding something else to occupy his mind.

* * *

**– I.19. –  
**

Heartbroken

* * *

_He was in agony trying to think of a way of "declaring himself" to her. He was constantly torn between the fear of offending her and shame at his own cowardice; he shed tears of despair and frustrated desire._

_GUSTAVE FLAUBERT – Madame Bovary_

* * *

The summer of 1972 was memorable for many features, like the unusual heat, or the beginning of the comet-like career of the Hobgoblins. The Holyhead Harpies won the Federation Cup after a thrilling season, Harold Marjoribanks became Minister for Magic after the discovery of his predecessor's slush funds, England missed qualifying for the European Championship in the deciding match against Andorra, and Cygnus Black funded a foundation for the benefit of orphaned children to finance their magical education.

There was much applause for such a charitable act, though mockers claimed he had only done so to distract from the fact that his second daughter had run away and got married to a Muggleborn. In fact, Cygnus had used the money he would have given as her dowry in an act of vindictiveness. He had refused to attend Andromeda's wedding and had likewise forbidden his wife and other children to go – not that Bellatrix would have been tempted, but Narcissa would have liked to. The plan to go to France on holiday had been cancelled, Narcissa had been locked up for two weeks, but let out again as soon as her mother had recovered.

Another trip was cancelled – Lucius Malfoy did _not_ join his mates Cle and Bertie for their long-planned journey around the world, but stayed in England instead. He took an apartment in London, close to Artemis College, furnished it, and otherwise frittered away his time by playing Quidditch, watching Quidditch and trying hard to keep a constant level of drunkenness at all times. He resumed his old habit of getting off with every pretty witch that crossed his way, and attended every party he possibly could. Any superficial observer would have reckoned that this was just another rich boy having the time of his life, and Lucius did everything to maintain that misconception, although he had never felt more miserable.

He avoided thinking of his future; every time he did think about it, he was nauseated by his prospects. He would study the most boring subjects in the world – Wizard Law and Economics. After finishing College, he would start to work for his unbearable father, sooner or later he'd have to pick a wife to produce the inevitable heir, and the only thing he could hope for was that he'd die a quick, painless death. The sooner, the better.

People think that money matters, they easily assume that very rich people must automatically be very happy, but that, of course, is nonsense. Yes, Lucius Malfoy would never worry how to pay the rent, he could afford every luxury, but did that make him _happy_? Did he get any true satisfaction out of his family fortune? Certainly not! He could think of only one thing, one _person_ to make him happy, he _had_ been happier with her than ever before. He'd rather talk to Narcissa for five minutes than sleep with any other for a whole night. But he had got the message. He _would_ stay away from her, and if it broke his heart.

Briefly, he had employed himself in starting to write in a diary, which he found preposterous in itself and would _never_ acknowledge to anyone. He gave up that odd habit soon enough anyway, because what good was there in filling pages and pages with his pining and craving and yearning for the one girl that got only more perfect in his mind the more he thought of her? Even her rejection of him set her apart, higher and higher. All those poems he had memorised to please her came back to him; as cheesy as they were, they seemed to describe his depression far better than he could have described it himself.

He wandered through the streets teeming with Muggles, talking, laughing, their tiny tin vehicles puffing, but he hardly noticed them. He settled on the steps of some grand building, a church maybe, or a courthouse, and took out the half-filled diary, every page brimming over with grief over his lost love, and he added some more crap, scribbling in a frenzy.

_'Magna civitas, magna solitude! The City's voice itself, is soft like solitude's. Alas! I have nor hope nor health, nor peace within nor calm around, nor that content surpassing wealth… I met a lady in the meads, full beautiful – a fairy's child, her hair was long, her foot was light, and her eyes were wild… There is a smile of love and there is a smile of deceit and there is a Smile of Smiles in which these two smiles meet. And there is a frown of hate and there is a frown of disdain and there is a Frown of Frowns which you strive to forget in vain. Her lips were red, her looks were free, her locks were yellow as gold. The nightmare life-in-death was she, who thickens man's blood with cold. Alone, alone, all, all alone, alone on a wide, wide sea! And never a saint took pity on my soul in agony. He went like one that has been stunned and is of sense forlorn. A sadder and a wiser man, he rose the morrow morn. Thou fair-hair'd angel of the evening! Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, goddess excellently bright! Earth let not thy envious shade dare itself to interpose, goddess excellently bright. She walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, had half impaired the nameless grace which waves in every raven tress, or softly lightens o'er her face; where thoughts serenely sweet express how pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, so soft, so calm, yet eloquent, the smiles that win, the tints that glow, but tell of days in goodness spent, a mind at peace with all below, a heart whose love is innocent!_

_A grief without a pang, void, dark and drear, a stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, which finds no natural outlet, no relief, in word, or sigh, or tear – Oh Lady! Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given, save to the pure, and in their purest hour… Joy, Lady! Is the spirit and the power… Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud – joy is the sweet voice… There was a time when fancy made me dream of happiness; for hope grew round me, like the twining vine, and fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. But now afflictions bow me down to earth, nor care I that they rob me of my mirth. But oh! Each visitation suspends what nature gave me at my birth… Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, reality's dark dream! What a scream of agony by torture lengthened out… Or lonely house long held the witches' home… May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, silent as though they watched the sleeping earth! With light heart may she rise, Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice, to her may all things live, from pole to pole, their life the eddying of her living soul! Dear Lady! Friend devoutest of my choice, thus mayest though ever, evermore rejoice!'_

He reread what he had scribbled on the papyrus parchment, and sneered at himself in disdain. 'Get a grip, you bloody loser,' he thought, 'She'd detest you even more if she knew what utter rubbish you're fabricating for her sake!' He hurled the booklet onto the street and saw a dozen Muggle cars roll over the costly leather cover. Served the bloody thing right; sentimentality only made things worse! He got up with a groan and trotted down the alley like a somnambulist, miraculously finding his way to the Leaky Cauldron and ordering a bottle of schnapps.

He met loads of new people on his drunken rambles, and one night, he crossed the path of a couple of people that would change everything. He had been out with his old buddies Golly and Crabs; they had been sailing first, seen a troll fight next, and ended up in someone's apartment with a dozen other guys who had seen the fight, and a whole barrel of Firewhiskey.

One of these chaps was Rabastan Lestrange. He, too, had studied Wizard Law, finished his WASP degree cum laude, and just started to work as a junior Law Wizard in the practise of Yaxley senior. At first, they talked about work and studies, but the more they got drunk, the more interesting it got. Rabastan was interested in the Dark Arts, so were Lucius and the others, and when they had emptied half of the whiskey, they began to perform their favourite curses. Despite some minor injuries – one bloke sustained a deep cut that had to be mended, another couldn't undo a backfiring spell that had sewed his mouth and eyes shut – they were having lots of fun.

"You're _really_ good, Malfoy," Lestrange said appreciatively. "Who taught you?"

"I'm mainly an autodidact. My old man hadn't got the patience to show me much."

"That is all the more impressive! You could go far if you received the proper training!" And then he lowered his voice and offered to introduce him to his older brother and some other wizards who practised the Dark Arts together on a whole new level, as he claimed, not only the usual 'school yard rubbish'. Lucius was delighted. He admired the Dark Arts and had always thought that it was a shame that they had been banned from his own school. Plus it finally gave him something to do, something useful and special, something worthy of his notice.

A few days later, Lestrange fulfilled his promise and introduced Lucius. They met in a deserted building in the outskirts of London. Lestrange was there, his brother and sister-in-law – upon recognising her, Lucius thought to himself that the evening had already paid off, even if it led to nothing else. It was Bellatrix Lestrange, née Black, Narcissa's oldest sister. Then there were four older wizards who turned out to be Reginald Lestrange, Rabastan's and Rodolphus' father, their uncle Robinius, Evan's father, Mr Rosier, and finally, a tall wizard in a hooded cloak, whose face was hidden.

Rabastan had told him how to behave towards this wizard who was clearly 'Lord Voldemort', the leader of the gang. Lucius disapproved of kneeling down for anyone, but he had been too curious to protest, and facing the man now, he thought he understood the instruction. This 'Lord Voldemort' – and how had he cackled about that stupid pseudonym! – had an air of eerie menace, the air around him seemed charged with frizzing electricity. So he kneeled down and bowed his head, until an unnaturally high voice ordered him to stand up again.

The wizard stripped off his hood; Lucius had to muster all his self-control not to give a start. And he had thought _he_ was pale! The man's features were bony, his complexion waxen and odd, and as for his _eyes_ – they had a scarlet tinge and sparkled with a sort of energy that bespoke adamant will and ruthlessness. And once he had performed a few spells, Lucius was lost completely. He wanted to learn this! He'd be glad if he was only half as good as this guy!

At the same time, Narcissa was sitting on her window sill, gazing at the crescent moon. Lately, she had difficulties falling asleep, or sleeping through the night, and she had developed the habit of turning on the music box and listening while watching the night sky. When she couldn't sleep as a child, her mother had told her to count sheep – it had never worked. Counting stars was much better, making at least her eyes tired from squinting so hard to catch even the faintest glow.

Her mother was getting better each day, though when she had read the Daily Prophet and found a short note on Andy's wedding, she had sustained a slight setback. Since then, Cygnus Black would get up twenty minutes earlier each morning to search through the papers before he thought them fit to be presented to his wife. Narcissa played for her mother each morning, afternoon and night, whatever she wished, however corny (because the truth was that Amandine's taste wasn't very refined, in her daughter's opinion). Everyone tiptoed around her, trying to read her wishes from her eyes, but incapable of granting her only real wish.

She missed Andromeda, but didn't dare to acknowledge it. Her little girl was becoming a mother! She had dreamt of being a grandmother, knowing that Bellatrix was a hopeless case and therefore putting all her hopes in Andromeda instead. She had thought how they would toast on the good news – Andromeda would drink orange juice instead of champagne, of course – how she would accompany her to the midwife, holding her hand and soothing her, dispelling her worries.

And the wedding! Bellatrix had robbed her of her motherly rights of a proper wedding already by refusing to have a great ceremony, and only the bridegroom's nearest relations and the other four Blacks had been present in the unattractive registry office that stank of ammonia cleaner. Amandine had believed she could throw a huge party for her next daughter, buy some outrageously expensive wedding robes and exquisite underwear, and then, they would have whispered confidentially, and Amandine would have given her some tips for her wedding night, like her own, good mother had done, then…

How could the girl have been so stupid! And lewd! Surely that boy must be to blame, for _her_ little daughter had been a _good_ _girl_ until she had met him, she wouldn't have got involved in such a way with any boy by her own doing! _Pregnant_! Pregnant before she had received her graduation roll even! Amandine was no fool; she knew that those things happened all the time, but she had been perfectly sure that none of _her_ daughters could fall like that.

Every day, she made Narcissa promise to have a big wedding one day, and in the evening, she would demand that Narcissa swear never to leave her. The girl merely smiled, not commenting on the inconsistency and uttering whatever her mother wished to hear. She did not wish to excite her mother even in a small way, and therefore avoided any kind of cheek. If she had known about her mother's true feelings, she could have talked to her and owned that she was feeling the same. She missed Andy. Bella was long gone, they had never been very close to begin with, as their temperaments were too different. Narcissa felt incredibly lonely. Her parents couldn't replace her sisters, couldn't replace peers that Narcissa could talk to openly, even if they had always disagreed in the first place.

Also, she had failed to reach her declared aim – the letter with her OWL results had come. Twelve O's, predictably, but just as predictably… 1218 points. Third-best result ever, since the beginning of the records. But that also meant twenty-seven points less than Muggleborn Tom Riddle. Oh well. She knew it was nonsensical to get aggravated because of this, but it hurt her severely that the only thing she had ever truly set her heart on, her only ambition ever, she had failed to achieve.

And there was yet another thing that bugged her. Bugged her badly… After that awful morning, she had heard nothing else of Lucius Malfoy. She had been pretty harsh with him, all right. But he ought to understand how awfully upset she had been then! His affection couldn't have been that deep if he was so easily frightened away, right? And this made her pretty mad at herself, for ever believing in his hollow professions in the first place.

She cast a furtive glance at the small flower on her desk, long faded but still there. It was the Angel's Tear that Lucius had given her for the ball night; Elsy had found it the next day, crumpled on the floor, and unwittingly, had put the flower into a small vase, much to her mistress' displeasure. But in spite of all her ranting, Narcissa hadn't disposed of the little bud – in fact, this was the only flower of the many that Lucius had given her in the course of the years that she had actually kept. If someone had asked her why on earth she didn't throw it away – at least now when it was all dry and dowdy – she would have been unable to give an answer, any answer at all. She hardly allowed herself _looking_ at it, but couldn't bring herself to get rid of it either.

She hated herself for these thoughts, but she couldn't help it. All the time, she had images in her head how he was flirting with other girls. These whims disgusted her much more than all his real girlfriends in school had. In her head, he was charming and sweet to some daft cow, as charming and attentive as he had always been with her. His piercing gaze now lingered on another, his beautiful hands touched another, he'd smile at another, make another girl tremble with excitement… The bloody bastard! After all they had – well… After all _he_ had – and all _she_ had – mmh – _put into this_… But she thought she had got what she deserved, for ever buying into his – his – this utter _bullshit_. Andy had been right when she said Narcissa was too good for him. But if she was too good, why was _she_ suffering now, and not he?

'

* * *

_Magna civitas_… Big city, big solitude.

'_The City's voice_…' – From: Percy Bysshe Shelley, 'Stanzas'.

'_I met a lady_…' – From: John Keats, 'La Belle Dame Sans Merci'.

'_There is a smile_…' – From: William Blake, 'The Smile'.

'_Her lips were red_…' – From: Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 'The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner'.

'_Thou fair-haired_…' – From: Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 'To The Evening Star'.

'_Queen and huntress_…' – From: Ben Jonson, 'Hymn To Diana'.

'_She walks_…' – From: Lord Byron, 'She walks in Beauty'.

'_A grief without_…' From: Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 'Dejection: An Ode'.


	21. Autumn Blues

Narcissa returns to school, Lucius starts in college, and both are frustrated because Severus is too discrete.

* * *

**– I.20. –  
**

Autumn Blues

* * *

_Soon spreads the dismal shade of mystery over his head._

_WILLIAM BLAKE_

* * *

Ironically, Narcissa was almost looking forward to going back to school this year. The atmosphere in her parents' house had become tense and depressing, everyone avoided mentioning Andy's name – all of a sudden, there were countless touchy subjects, like weddings in general, new-borns, liaisons of any kind, and regardless what the newspapers were writing about – corrupt employees in the Ministry, homicide or adultery – Cygnus Black would grunt, 'Bet that's been just another of those jumped-up Muggleborns!'

No, Ted Tonks had done the subject of integration no favour, not in _this_ family anyway. Before all this, Cygnus' attitude had been indifferent on the subject. He had believed that purebloods were better than half-bloods and Muggleborns, obviously, but he hadn't minded them either. 'We've all been there once,' he had used to say, 'All the great old families were inevitably founded by _one_ Muggleborn – Adam fodiente, quis nobilior, Eva nente'. Well, that mildness was lost for good.

In Hogwarts, Narcissa would be free to do as she pleased, a liberty that she no longer had since Andromeda's downfall. She had to account for every minute of her day, every owl she received; she sometimes even had to show the books she was reading, so Cygnus could ascertain that the contents were appropriate for a decent young girl. She had not argued with him about his new strictness – she would never have talked back to him, and it was no use in this case to begin with.

Even her poor mother would be better off after September 1st. She had grown accustomed to not having her daughters around during school time, and with her youngest gone, she could pretend that Andromeda had simply left for school, too. For the first time in six years, Narcissa gladly packed her trunk; for the first time, her heart felt lighter when leaving for King's Cross. There was yet another thing that filled her with something like anticipation, and on the platform, she unobtrusively gazed around to see if she could see Gibbon or Rosier somewhere. They had written to her, but she hadn't been allowed to read their letters – Cygnus had intercepted all her post and burnt it before her eyes if the sender was male, or went by the name of 'Tonks'. Not that she was suddenly all fond of the guys, but they had mutual friends, hadn't they, and she was quite curious about _them_. Not that _they_ had written either.

"Be good," Amandine admonished her for the twentieth time. "And write very often!"

"Naturellement, Maman," she replied with her sweetest smile, kissing her mother on the cheeks.

She embraced her father, too, who grumbled, "Don't amuse yourself too much!"

"I won't, Papa. I'll be the same diligent student that I've always been."

She had spotted Rosier and followed him into his compartment, finding Gibbon there, too. She swiftly explained her postal situation over the summer, and Gibbon murmured, "We've half expected that, after all the gossip. Are you all right now?"

"_I_ am fine, sure."

"Look, what we mainly meant to ask was –"

Evan butted in, "We've got four vacancies to fill, and though the others and I have a list of candidates, we felt we couldn't make a decision without you. Nor the initiation."

The _others_ – a bit more concise, boy! "Well, who've you got then?"

"Luce had a few suggestions in mind –" Narcissa pretended to take excessive interest in her luggage, but deplorably, Evan didn't elaborate on the point. "Mitchell Wilkes, from your own year."

"Rupert Avery from the fifth year," Horatio continued casually. "And Devlin Mulciber, even though he's just a Third Year. He's a great talent for curses."

"We – we thought you might want to make a suggestion of your own. We thought you might want some girl to back you up."

"Back me up? Oh _please_. But as a matter of fact, I do have a suggestion to make, yes… I can choose whoever I want?"

"Sure!"

"Okay. In that case, I suggest Severus Snape, and before you say something –" She shot Evan a strict glance when he meant to speak up. "He is the most talented student I've ever met, especially for someone his age. And he's got the right sort of spirit for the enterprise."

"But he's – a half-blood, you know?"

"Of course I know, Evan. But does it truly matter?"

"Well – I thought that _you_ would mind in particular, after…"

"After…?"

"Well, after that business with Andromeda and her Mudblood lover –"

"Be so kind and refrain from abusing my brother-in-law. However, I could by no means blame poor Severus for my sister's lapse, and he _is_ an exceptional wizard, as you will certainly agree."

Well, they didn't agree at once, but after half an hour of persistence on Narcissa's part, they gave in far enough to order the kid to their compartment for a little interview before the final decision. He showed up, looking intimidated and trying to hold Narcissa's gaze for confirmation. She patted at the seat next to her. "How were your holidays, Severus?"

"Better than expected – my father was hardly there," he muttered insecurely.

"I'm glad to hear it. Listen, there are a couple of things that we would like to know about you. For a start – have you got any inclination to become Prefect? Or Head Boy?"

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, I know, you're only in your Third Year, so it might appear a little premature, but still – have you got serious career plans? Concerning Hogwarts, I mean?"

"I haven't really thought about it –"

"Look, this is no trick question. What we basically want to know is – would you be inconsolable not to be made a Prefect in your Fifth Year?"

"No one would make me a Prefect anyway!"

"True. How do you feel about – well – not playing strictly by the rules?"

"Which rules?"

"Excellent reply," Evan whispered and nodded towards Gibbon, before specifying, "_School_ rules, man."

"Well… I'd say the question is simply what you can get away with, isn't it…?"

"Perfect. He's perfect."

Gibbon raised a hand. "Not so quickly, Rosie. Look, kid, we know that you're good with curses, and also that you've got the right attitude towards those smug Gryffindors, but since you're not in Hufflepuff, we need to know how you think about loyalty."

"Loyalty to your friends," Narcissa clarified with a smile.

The boy blushed. "You mean yourself? Or Lucius Malfoy?"

Narcissa thought she couldn't smile any more encouragingly. "For example, yes."

"Spit it out, kiddo," Horatio drawled and drummed his fingers on the window pane.

"I'll always be loyal to my friends," he muttered earnestly. "Miss Black – and Mr Malfoy's been very kind to me, too…"

"Very good. Broken the kid in well, Cissa. Being loyal to _Miss_ Black, and _Mr_ Malfoy is an excellent start. I figure you could be very loyal to their friends, too?"

Narcissa inwardly prayed that she didn't let it show how the sheer mention of his name affected her. Could they _please_ delve further into that matter?

But Severus simply answered the question. "I guess so, yes?"

"And do you think you can keep secrets?"

"I think I can answer this with a definite yes."

Narcissa patted his arm and gave him her warmest smile. "To cut a long story short – welcome to the club, Severus."

"Yep, welcome, pal. First thing you want to learn are the names. _Miss Black_ is simply Cissa, among the seven of us –"

He helplessly looked around. "Seven…?"

"Yes, well, momentarily we're just four, including you. We _were_ seven, before Lucius, Damocles, Bertie and Graham graduated. But you can congratulate yourself for being the first of our newcomers."

So much for that. The other three were called for, and just as delighted as young Severus. Narcissa was satisfied to have introduced her protégé to the guys, they'd do him good as far as his social diffidence was concerned, but she became increasingly disappointed. Why was she hanging out with those – pardon the term – dunderheads, if they did not deign to talk about their formidable friend? Oh, how they had _admired_ him all those years, and now that he had left, they had forgotten all about him or what?

'Calm down', she told herself, 'what's wrong with you?' She could easily imagine what had happened. Oh yes. Lucius Malfoy had fancied her for quite some time, she didn't really doubt that. She knew she was good-looking, and all those years, she had been right before his nose, and never given him a chance. That had kindled his interest strongly enough, and he had had his victory when she had agreed to go to the ball with him. Perhaps his infatuation – for it had been nothing more than that, surely – might have lasted a little bit longer, if he hadn't got wind of Andromeda's pregnancy. His pride certainly forbade him to date the sister-in-law of a Muggleborn, and since they no longer saw each other, there was little temptation for a fallback. Quantum oculis, animo tam procul ibit amor! Ph! Who was she to like _such_ a guy? She was worth more than that!

Her resolution was firm, or that's what she believed, for when she noticed one morning that Severus had received a letter in a familiar hand, she could hardly bridle herself. She pretended to drink her coffee, glimpsing over to her neighbour, but Severus was leaning so unfavourably on his elbow, she couldn't read anything, so she asked casually, "Post from your mum?"

"No… Mr – uhm – Lucius has written to me."

"Has he?" She buttered her toast with exaggerated attention, not looking over.

"Yes…"

Obstinate child! "Anything interesting?"

"No… I mean yes – he…" The boy blushed badly. "_I_ find it very interesting, of course!"

"He's not here, Severus. You can be candid." – Be _candid_, kid!

"No, it _is_ interesting – to me. But you wouldn't care, you see…"

She gave up; Evan had just settled opposite of her and he needn't hear her inquiries. She also ignored the following two letters that arrived in the next six weeks, but on a particularly rainy morning in November – she hardly remembered how sunshine must look, so long the weather had been abysmal – her patience finally cracked. Nobody was sitting near them, and a tad more committed than she approved of, she asked, "How come Lucius is writing to you so regularly?"

He lifted his shoulders and shook his head. "I haven't got the faintest idea."

"Well, what's he writing?"

"About college… He always inquires about the Quidditch team… And he seemed very pleased when I told him that I had been accepted to the –" He glanced around and dropped his voice to a mere whisper, "The _Club_…"

"So you're answering him?"

"Of course! It's so kind of him to correspond with me!"

"Stop being so bloody submissive! Why should he _not_ write to you?"

"Because I wasn't a close friend of him or anything. Isn't he writing to you?"

She gave a sarcastic laugh. "To me? I wasn't a close friend of his either!"

He looked puzzled, but it remained unclear if this was due to the statement as such, or the uncommon vigour in her voice. "I – just thought – erm… Well, _he_ surely wanted to be your friend –"

She sneered angrily. "But only as long as none of my sisters got married to a Muggleborn, right?"

"You reckon he minds?" His anyhow sallow face turned a tad whiter yet. "You think he despises me for my father as well?"

"He might well despise your _father_, Severus. Frankly, what you've related of him _is_ despicable. But there's nothing wrong with _you_. You are one admirable wizard, never forget that, and not even grand Lucius Malfoy could miss it!"

"It's not my place to disagree with you, but… If you were right – I don't get why he would be bothered with your sister's husband then. You're a marvellous witch, too, your parents are as pure as they could be, and what your sister does or not has little to do with you –"

She made a dismissive gesture and finished the conversation. If only the writer of the letters had known which effect they had, he would have been vastly happy. No, he hadn't wasted as much as a thought to Andromeda's inadequate marriage; he had thought she was a daft cow anyhow. Neither did it affect his unrivalled esteem for the youngest Miss Black. Yes, young Severus was thoroughly right in saying that Lucius had very much wanted to be her friend, but his respect for her also urged him to accept her refusal to deal with him in any small way. As a matter of fact, his main reason for corresponding with Severus was that he knew that he was Narcissa's pet. Admirable wizard or not, what other reason could he have to write letters to a thirteen-year-old boy, eh? He simply found that this was the only way in which he could be close to Narcissa, as indirect or absurd as it was.

Incidentally, he was as discontent with Severus' discretion as she was. She begrudged the boy's unwillingness to tell her what Lucius had written. Lucius was frustrated because the kid would hardly _mention_ Narcissa in his responses. All right, he had explained how she had introduced him to the Sepulture Septuplet – Lucius hadn't expected anything else. Severus had also mentioned that Narcissa, he and the Gryffindor girl had won a medal for their potions work. But this was hardly the sort of information that Lucius craved!

This week, he was dating the older sister of one of his fellow students, Tamara. She was blonde and pretty, with a good figure and a sort of natural grace. She wasn't even stupid, and if it hadn't been for Narcissa, he would have assessed her the most interesting girl he had gone out with so far. Tamara was real girlfriend material, being friendly and funny as well, the sort of girl that one ought to feel very comfortable with. Just that he didn't.

She was _blonde_,for a start. _Blonde_ didn't do; it reminded him too much of _her_. _Her_ hair was incomparable, everyone else's must necessarily look inferior, so he'd rather go for dark or red straightaway. Secondly, he had found out that he preferred 'silly' to 'smart', because no witch could rival Narcissa's wit anyway, and he'd rather have no conversation at all than one that made her shine even brighter. At last, Tamara's kindness made him feel guilty. He wasn't in love with her, he would never be, and _because_ she was so nice, she deserved better than that.

After a truly pleasant night with Tamara, he was woken up by the pecking of an owl the next morning, delivering a letter from Severus, or 'Savvy' as his new buddies had dubbed him. Among other communications, he described the last stunt that the Septuplet had pulled – under Narcissa's reign. They had secured the entire student body a day off by conjuring some thousands of birds to afflict the castle – thousands of ravens, crows, hawks, sparrows, thrushes, and for some floor confusion, the same numbers of penguins, chicken, turkeys and peacocks. He just loved the idea, and that it had been Narcissa's delighted him even more. He read the letter two more times, searching for _something_ between the lines and not noticing that he was smiling nostalgically.

"What's so funny?" Tamara asked amiably from between the sheets.

"A friend from Hogwarts's written to me…"

"A female friend, judging your grin."

"What? No. No, that's Severus… He's just told me a funny story."

"That's nice. Since we're awake so early, can I lure you back to bed for a little re-enactment of tonight?"

He hesitated and smiled at her. The thought that had been forming in his head for some time now finally prevailed. He couldn't do this. It just wasn't fair. "No, I don't think so… Listen – I think we need to talk."

"So it _was_ a message from some girl, hm?" She chuckled softly. "Your ex or something?"

"No, not an ex. Someone who never was – and never will be – but… This doesn't make any sense, right?"

"Oh, I guess it does. I've noticed all the time that you've been – well, _distracted_."

"So obvious, eh? Blast it, I need to go out with stupid girls again. You're just too perceptive."

She fumbled for her blouse on the floor. "I am, am I not? I would even go so far and make a stab at _who_ it is that employs your mind so constantly. That photo on your desk, of your little club in school – the only girl there, right? The Black girl? Bellatrix Black's little sister?"

"_Too_ perceptive by _far_."

"You miss her?"

"Can you miss someone you've never had?"

"Absolutely. _I_ will miss you, and I've never truly had you either. Oh, come on, Lucius. This isn't tragic. We've had a good time, hadn't we? And I do believe that you should give it a try with that girl, or you'll never know."

"I've given it a thousand tries. She simply doesn't want me. She's been _extremely_ clear on that head."

She buttoned up her blouse and got up. "Now _that_ sounds tragic."

* * *

_Adam fodiente..._ When Adam was digging and Eva was spinning – where was the nobility then?

_Quantum oculis..._ Like out of the eyes, love will vanish from the heart.


	22. Marked For Life

Lucius finalises a fatal decision.

* * *

**– I.21. –  
**

Marked for Life

* * *

_Qui non est mecum, contra me est.  
_

_EVANGELIUM MATTHAEUM 12,30  
_

* * *

Lucius was used to being treated with reverence – except his own father and Narcissa Black, he had hardly ever met anyone _not_ awed by his fortunes and social rank. Curiously enough, even Lord Voldemort seemed to be quite impressed with his latest acquisition for his Order. The young man showed extraordinary talent for the Dark Arts, yes. But a lot of his disciples were pretty skilful in that quarter.

Truth was that Lucius Malfoy was the epitome of what Lord Voldemort had wanted to be when he was still called Tom Riddle. The boy's dynasty might not go back to great Salazar Slytherin himself, but it was as pure and noble and untainted as it could possibly be. For two thousand years, the respective heirs had only ever married witches from families of equal standing; Lucius Malfoy was related to every wizard family of consequence all through Europe, a policy that had also spared him the deplorable fate of other English purebloods, who were degenerated by marrying their own cousins over and over again. Tom Riddle had seen his own uncle Morfin, who was only a tad better than the wretched man that had been Tom's father. A wizard? Sure. But otherwise… Tom Riddle had styled himself a name that should command respect. Lucius Malfoy had been _born_ to such a name.

Since changing his name into 'Lord Voldemort', a plan had been forming in his mind. Vague at first, more and more clear in time, and rich in detail. He would take the place that was rightfully his. He would achieve a power more absolute than the world had seen before. He would defy and eventually defeat death itself. And a wizard like Lucius Malfoy would help him with all three tasks at hand.

He personally educated him to advance in the Dark Arts, and only three months into their dealings, Lucius Malfoy officially joined the Dark Order. Lord Voldemort had given this ceremony a good deal of thought. To get where he wanted to get, he needed unconditional loyalty and service. His 'Death Eaters', as he would call them, ought to feel more obliged to the Order than to their own families. He must be able to rely on them under all circumstances, but at the same the time, they mustn't figure him out.

"Aut cavere aut carere, aut omnia aut nihil. Qui non est mecum, contra me est. Nemo potest duobus dominis servire," he called solemnly, and for the less gifted, he also cried the translation straightaway, "It's faith or abstention, all or nothing. Who is not for me is against me. No one can serve two lords."

His disciples cried in unison, "Volo – I want!"

"Tempus fugit – tempus nos avidum devorat et chaos. Dii essemus, ni moreremur. Vade mecum. Serva me, servabo te. Aeterna in desiderio. – Times flies, time and chaos consume us. We would be gods if we weren't to die. Go with me. Help me and I will help you. Desire the eternal."

"Volo – I want!"

"Parva necat morsu spatiosum vipera taurum, estote ergo prudentes sicut serpentes. Si quid est, quo teneris, aut expedi aut incide. Venit dies magnus irae, aut fortiter mori aut liberos vivere. Ad arma! – The smallest viper's bite can kill a bull. Hence be sly as the snakes. If there is something withholding you, liberate yourself or destroy it. The great day of wrath has come; either die valiantly or live free. To arms!"

"Aut vincere aut mori – cedo nulli! – Either victory, or death – I will not yield."

He had taken out a golden dagger and slashed it through his palm, letting the blood drip into a golden goblet. Then he handed the goblet to each of the kneeling youngsters, they swallowed his blood and then he announced, "Immota fides! Unwavering fidelity!"

"Immota fides in perpetuum! Unwavering fidelity forever!"

"Meus es tu – you are mine," he said, tipping his wand on their outstretched left arms. A kind of branding appeared on the skin, a skull with a protruding snake, slithering out of its mouth. This part was deliberately painful; Lord Voldemort did believe in the saying that a hard lesson was learnt for good.

"Semper et ubique! Always and anywhere!"

They got up in the same order in which they had drunk. The first one was Bellatrix Lestrange. She equalled Malfoy in talent and purity, the problem with her was rather her uncontrollable temper. She was followed by the boy and her husband's younger brother. Then came Amycus Carrow and his sister Alecto, Jebediah Jugson and the last one was Elias Yaxley. They looked elated – comparably young all of them, they were easily impressed by promises of adventure and combat, by drinking blood and some Latin phrases. He had others followers, decidedly older, who hadn't gone through any similar ceremony, and who'd possibly not have been blinded by the whole ballyhoo.

Lucius stared at his wrist, trying not to let it show how much it hurt. The snake flicked its tongue as if mocking him, but he thought it was the coolest thing he had ever seen. He would fight. He would excel himself, prove to the master his worthiness. And to his own father, he'd show it as well. No, not the mark, of course. It was forbidden to speak about the order or its proceedings. But he would prove to his father that he wasn't the idle child that Abraxas liked to see in him. There was more to life than administering a fortune. Abraxas only sat at home or in his office, complaining about the state of the world. Lucius was going to _do_ something about it.

But for tonight, they'd just celebrate and have some fun. After drinking a vat of elf-made wine, they set out on the streets to show off, basically. Jugson proved his mastery of the Imperius Curse by making scores of Muggles jump onto the street, right in front of the next car. He let them jump down bridge or attack accidental bystanders. Then it was Bellatrix' turn. She had a knack for the Cruciatus Curse, and Lucius thought to himself that this streak was running in the family. Those sisters just _loved_ to torture other people, didn't they? Only Narcissa didn't need an Unforgivable for reaching the same end.

Their little party suddenly came to an end when Rabastan, quite out of the blue, pointed his wand at the driver of a car that had stopped before a jammed crossing. "_Avada Kedavra_," he yelled, and the Muggle collapsed at once, with his car shooting forth into the traffic, causing a mass collision. They were tittering with that sight still, when half a dozen Aurors emerged out of thin air, pointing their wands at Rabastan. Naturally, all of their merry little bunch Disapparated at once, still the arrival of the Aurors had sobered them up a bit, and they delighted in simply continuing to get wasted in Rabastan's apartment.

"Pity the Aurors are out on the streets tonight," Bellatrix Lestrange said with a dreamy expression and a large serving of whiskey in her hand. "I wish we'd paid a visit to my brother-in-law earlier!"

Alecto Carrow was perplexed. "I thought this is his place?"

Bellatrix cackled. "I don't mean Rabastan, you daft cow! I'm talking of that Mudblood Tonks! Oh, how I should like to meet _him_ one night in some dark alley!" Her black eyes shone with malice. "As a widow, my stupid sister could return home honourably –"

"As if," Rabastan interjected calmly.

"Yeah, well. I _said_ she's stupid. She'd rather starve in the streets with her bastard child, I suppose."

"Would your parents even allow her coming back to them?" Lucius asked.

"_Allow_ her? Oh, kid, you don't know my parents, do you?"

"Well, we weren't formally introduced, but I did meet your mother once. Swiftly."

Elias Yaxley got a giggling fit. "_Very_ swiftly!"

Bellatrix shot them both some amazed glances, forcing Lucius to explain a little more. "We met on the eve of my graduation from Hogwarts, you see –"

"Oh!" She made a wry face. "The night of evil, as I like to call it. Well, you must excuse her if she made a bad impression on you. She really wasn't herself that night."

Despite himself – because he hated the idea to expose himself in Yaxley's company – Lucius couldn't but ask, "What d'you mean?"

"You don't know? I'd believed it was the talk of the town that week. My idiotic sister seized the opportunity to first inform our parents of her engagement to that goddamned boy, and after they'd dragged her home to talk some sense into her stubborn head, she told them she was pregnant. Nearly killed my mother, poor papist soul she is." Seeing Lucius' inquisitive expression, she added, "She got a heart attack, you see. Why're you looking at me like that? I thought you must know! Didn't you go to that petty party with my other sister?"

Forcing himself to be calm, he replied, "I did, but she didn't stay long enough for me to understand the family dynamics that evening."

Yaxley was smirking gleefully; Bellatrix laughed, but very drily. "You can take some credit for those _family dynamics_, you know, at least regarding my father. He was almost as offended by you as he was by that Tonks guy."

"I know. I had the pleasure to encounter _him_, too, next morning," Lucius murmured, mortified.

"Did he try cursing you?" Bellatrix asked in genuine curiosity.

"I believe he found it sufficient to threaten me with castration, death, or both if I pleased to ever talk to your sister – Narcissa, I mean – again."

She sniggered cheerfully. "That's our old Papa, oh dear. Capital offense. Cissy's our father's darling, you must know, his _little flower_. He can't abide the idea that some guy should pluck her, least a notorious philanderer such as yourself."

A stony smile was edged into Lucius' features, it was the best he could muster. Too humiliating was the recollection of the rampaging father, too painful the memory of the daughter's fierce remonstrance, and the thought of her altogether much too bittersweet to be born with in equanimity.

Bellatrix didn't notice his uneasiness, or she didn't care; at any rate, she continued merrily, "Gosh, she must really hate you! Letting you speak to our Papa on _that_ day! I wonder she ever went out with you to begin with... Oh, I see. She surely believed she could take some flak and misdirect some of our parents' wrath from Andy. She's very fond of her, despite everything."

Yaxley was cringing with laughter and Lucius could take it no more. "Yes, indeed, she loathes me, as she was nice enough to inform me that morning," he snarled tersely. "Which is a true relief, lest I should have felt obliged to see her again!"

Bellatrix shot him an odd sideways glance. "How wise of you... Seriously, Lucius. You're a good man. I'm glad to hear you've not set your mind on our little Cissy, for she'd never have you, and your energy's better directed at some _useful_ purpose."

* * *

_Qui non est..._ _Who is not for me is against me._


	23. To Those Who Walked Away

Cygnus' seventieth birthday turns into a very melancholy event.

* * *

**– I.22. –  
**

To Those Who Walked Away

* * *

_Empty spaces – what are we living for?_

_Abandoned places – I guess we know the score._

… _Does anybody know what we were looking for?_

_The show must go on, the show must go on!_

_Inside my heart is breaking_

_My make-up may be flaking _

_But my smile still stays on._

_QUEEN_

* * *

"Why did you even come if you're so determined to leave again as soon as possible?" Cygnus asked irritably and forcefully put down his glass – so forcefully indeed that half of its content spilled and stained the costly damask tablecloth.

Bella had just announced that she and her husband would have to leave straight after dessert; now she glowered at her father, her lips pursed. "Well, if you must know – we've come because Maman insisted on it, this being your seventieth birthday and all."

Narcissa mimicked at her expressively, their mother cast her eyes to the ceiling, why, even Rodolphus shot his wife a mildly dismayed glance. Only Mr Black seemed to have decided that he would ignore the implicated deprecation, or perhaps not, because he changed the topic wilfully. "Tell me, child – what can you possibly have to do that is so urgent? Because my old friend, the Dean, tells me he hardly sees anything of you in College."

Bella grinned sardonically. "You know what's the most fabulous thing about being married, Papa? Being accountable to one's spouse, not to one's father."

Narcissa bit her lip not to laugh. The last man on this planet who would check Bella, or to whom she would answer was her own husband. Rodolphus had neither the means, nor the necessary will to do so. Their father seemed to think the same; his eyes rested on his son-in-law with that habitual blend of incredulity, pity and contempt, which he always had in store for Rodolphus. He had given his consent then, of course he had. Regardless of what people might say, Cygnus Black was a modern man in many ways, and that he could hardly control whom his daughters wished to marry had not taken Andromeda's sad example for him to understand. In fact, he disapproved only a fraction more of young Ted Tonks than he disapproved of Rodolphus Lestrange, if for thoroughly opposite reasons. Pureblooded the man might be – but that was really the best that could be said for him, if one had asked his father-in-law. But what should he have done about it? It wasn't as if _any_ of his attempts on parental guidance or authority had ever made an impact on his eldest.

"Bellatrice," their mother said now, a little crinkle between her brows, "Be'ave, please. Zere is no need to be fresh with your father."

"I'm not fresh, just frank."

"I think Bellatrix has got a point there," Cygnus said fairly unexpectedly. "I believe I can consider myself lucky that at least my little flower is never going to marry and thus abandon me."

His eldest cast him a look that betrayed how she thought her father had turned a little loopy with old age. "What? When am I supposed to have said _that_?"

"Why should our little Narcisse not get married? Zere is no prettier girl in all England!" Amandine cried, feeling her last remaining chance of ever arranging a proper wedding for any of her children suddenly threatened. Narcissa simply goggled at him.

"Pretty she is, oh yes, you are, my darling –" He gave Narcissa a very fond, but also defeatist look. "But no decent man is going to attach himself to you after your sister has tainted the family name in such a fashion."

"What did I do this time, then?" Bella groaned, and then, "Oh! I see. You don't mean me by that. – Must be a first time in its own way –"

Amandine looked shocked, as if this possibility had never occurred to her before, but made perfect sense now that she gave it a thought. Narcissa opened and shut her mouth, remembering that she had had a similar notion too, back then in summer, after Lucius Malfoy had stopped courting her. Not even he, who surely didn't even count as 'decent' in Cygnus' books, would attach himself to a girl whose own sister had 'fallen' like that.

Everybody, even Rodolphus looked awkward, but Bellatrix started giggling. "Oh _please_! Seriously, Papa, I know you hardly pay attention to these things, but we're no longer living in the eighteenth century! Our Cissy will be an unmarried old maid because she cannot be bothered to deal with other people, not because any man gave a _shit_ about Andy's deplorable lack of sense and taste!"

"Hey!" Narcissa protested, slightly offended by the comment. 'Old maid' – she wasn't even seventeen yet!

"If that should truly be a problem, I'm sure my brother would be happy to oblige," Rodolphus offered helplessly.

Before Narcissa could think of any polite turn of phrase to tell him that his brother really was the second last man on earth she'd allow herself being married to, Bella scoffed, "Oh, shut up, Roddy!"

"I'm sorry, my dear –"

"You're all starking bonkers, you know that?" Bella ranted on, taking to her element of discordance like a duck to water. "I'm not saying that Andy wasn't a disgrace of epic proportions, throwing herself into the arms of a goddamned Mudblood –"

"Bella!" Narcissa and Amandine cried in unison.

Bella wasn't to be impressed. "But this _is_ the twentieth century, even if none of you guys has noticed it! The world has changed – _will_ change a whole lot further yet. I can't believe we're even talking about this rubbish! We're at the eve of war between the new world order and the old conservative forces, and all you lunatics can think about is how to marry off your daughters most profitably!"

"Listen, Bella – only because you married the world's greatest bl-" It was obvious that Cygnus had been about to say 'blighter', but he checked himself and went on more graciously and with a forced smile, "bloke, it doesn't follow you were an expert on marriage or, indeed, politics. Don't strain your pretty head too much, daughter, and leave it all to your husband."

Bella sneered disdainfully and turned her 'pretty head' sideways to mentioned husband, and Mr Black seemed to have the same idea – namely that his last statement had been a travesty in and of itself. He had spent a fortune to have his daughters educated in the best possible way; they were all smart by nature and erudite by education, smarter than most people and most certainly more erudite than a vast majority of men. Additionally, Bella had got married to a particularly uninformed specimen, making the discrepancy between her superior – and female! – mind and her husband's all the more eye-catching.

"You're being deliberately funny, are you?" she snarled and eyed her father in downright mockery. Her husband nodded his approval with whatever his beloved was about to say.

"There is nothing humorous about this situation, nothing at all!"

"You truly think only because I'm a woman, I didn't know about politics? Mark my words, Papa, I do know. More than you even – which is, admittedly, not all that hard!"

"Bellatrice!" their mother shrieked. "Zat's enough!"

"You want to be glad, because you'll only have to endure another ten minutes of my bad behaviour."

Narcissa was pained to see her parents' hurt expression. One daughter run-away, another merely coming to visit if she had no other choice, and the third one compelled to leave again right after dinner. She had merely gained permission to leave the school because her father was who he was and today was his seventieth birthday, and what should have been a joyous celebration had turned into yet another little brawl. She privately cursed Bella's self-will, put on her sweetest smile and her arms around his shoulders.

"Come," she said lightly and deliberately cheerfully. "I'll play for you, Papa. What would you like to hear, hm?"

She gently pulled him up, returned her mother's grateful smile and shot Bella an angry glance over her shoulder, but her sister just shrugged. They all walked over to the parlour, even Bella and Rodolphus, and under his breath, Mr Black muttered, half to himself, "Andromeda should be here, too."

Narcissa suppressed a sigh and it took her all her self-control to keep on smiling so serenely. "I'm sure she'd love to be here, Papa. You should have sent her an invite."

"She's chosen that – that scoundrel – over her parents. She no longer appreciates our company."

"But that is not true, Papa. She –"

"You were here, my darling. You've seen her go. She would not even stay even though her own mother was in deadly peril; her mother, who's always been there for her, who's done everything and given everything for her, and still…" His voice trailed away and his shoulders slouched a little.

Behind them, Narcissa could hear Bella give a quiet, but all the more annoyed little sound. "We'll stay for another half an hour," she said through gritted teeth and added even more quietly, "I swear, one day I'll wring the little wench's neck!"

"But Bella, my dear," Rodolphus cried. "We need to –"

"I _know_. That just means we'll have to hurry and keep on these robes instead of going home and changing," she replied, a clear menace in her tone. Rodolphus fell silent at once, and another look over her shoulder showed Narcissa his submissive smile at his wife. She frowned despite herself. She had not been raised to believe in female subjugation, but Bellatrix was taking emancipation to decidedly misguided heights in her sister's humble opinion. Not that she knew much about any of these things, certainly not. She had just thought, in one of her weaker moments perhaps, that if _she_ should ever – well… Oh well, _if_ she should ever venture to form a relationship of this kind with a man, she'd want it to be a relationship among equals in every possible meaning of that phrase. A sentiment that Bella clearly did not share.

A blind man could see that Rodolphus adored his wife. The best that could be said for her in turn was that she didn't seem to mind him. Narcissa had never quite understood why they had got married – or how Rodolphus had managed to gather enough courage to dare asking. At least Andromeda had married for love – if everything else had gone astray, it was comforting to think that, and Narcissa knew that even her parents drew secret solace from the idea. But Bella? What did she _see_ in this man? He was friendly enough, all right, and the elder son from a very good family – but Bella had never cared much for either money, nor rank, nor common civility. It must remain a mystery to her younger sister – and her parents – why she had said yes to Rodolphus Lestrange.

_She_ would never do that, Narcissa thought and without noticing it, raised her chin a little higher. _If_ she should ever get married – and she found that very, _very_ unlikely, in rare accordance to the entire rest of her family, apparently – it would be for love and nothing else, true love for a man who was her equal, in sense, situation and what else. She would never endure being belittled, like so many men felt compelled to do with their wives, and neither would she want to be the one doing the belittling. She could not imagine living with someone who did not respect her, or whom she could not respect.

'Respect' – this was the pivotal pillar of her conviction that conjugal life was not for her. Because the only person that she had ever – uh – well, _contemplated_… That person could not be trusted. Her respect for him had always stood on wobbly legs at its best, and frequently been shaken, if not downright shattered. He _was_ clever, yes – and there was nothing she valued higher. But he was also reckless and – and – _careless_ of other people's feelings – _her_ feelings, more precisely – and that just wouldn't do.

Yes, if she was very honest with herself, which happened now and then indeed, she had to admit that the only boy that she had ever thought of in _that_ way was _he_. It should have tipped her off that they had had such a bad start upon their first encounter – but then Narcissa had never been one to trust her instincts or listen to her gut feeling. No, in the months following that encounter, she had got second thoughts about that boy and reversed her opinion based on her first impression of him. She had learnt, for example, that his occasional lack of the proper manners was due to him having no mother to teach him those. Well, he had one in theory, but she delighted in being ever-so-absent. After meeting old Mr Malfoy this summer, Narcissa was no longer so sure how much she could really blame his wife, though.

And Lucius had been nice to her, very nice indeed. When Andy, who was in his year, had teased her little sister, for example, Lucius Malfoy had been the only one not to join the sniggers – and had laughed out loudly when Narcissa had given a quick repartee in turn. He had shown her how to forge old Slughorn's signature in order to get books out of the forbidden section, and had stolen the caretaker's keys so she could have access to the antechamber where the grand piano was, and practise a little.

In time, little Narcissa in her first year had formed the opinion that Lucius Malfoy was the only boy in the entire school who was _not_ exclusively moronic (most of his peers, and practically every boy in her own year, would rather have pulled her hair and the like). Jeanie and Lassie would possibly have called it a little crush – if somebody had asked Narcissa though, she would have admitted to _like_ him, which had said a lot, because she had heartily disliked virtually _everybody_ else.

But that was just the crux with him, wasn't it? It was his specialty to appear nice and occasionally charming, when in fact, he was simply sly and knew how to get what he wanted. He might be able to fool the other girls, or Professor Slughorn, but Narcissa had learnt to see right through his smooth act, had learnt it the hard way, one could say.

No, no, no, Lucius Malfoy must not be trusted; that was an empiric truth. Whenever she let down her guard and tended to rethink that assessment, she was most cruelly disappointed in turn. Narcissa had actually been naïve enough – and that didn't happen too often, did it? – naïve enough to believe that his affection for her was genuine, so genuine at any rate that he would try to stay in contact with her. He did write to Severus, after all! And Evan! And occasionally, even Gibbon received the odd postcard now and then. During the summer holidays, she had still consoled herself supposing that he must have grasped her precarious postal situation after Andy's lapse, and had therefore thoughtfully refrained from writing. Of course he had not been that thoughtful – what had she been thinking, really! It angered her beyond words that she had been so gullible, but it could not be helped – he still kept on creeping back into the back of her head in every free moment, and frequently in the most inconvenient moments, too.

As much as Narcissa might frown upon her dorm-mates in general and their idle talking in particular, she still could not but overhear quite a bit. Except Perpetua, they all had or had had boyfriends, past or present – Martha, that brazen cow, had even gone out with Lucius once or twice, so had Jeanie – and they talked of hardly anything else but boys. Whether she liked it or not, Narcissa got to hear that Yaxley's kisses were 'too wet', that Evan would 'bite', that Solomon Goldstein was 'good in bed' and Sheldon Derrick so totally was not. And hearing all this gave her ideas that she thoroughly disapproved of but could not extinguish either; they assaulted her at night in her dreams, and it was always, always darned Lucius Malfoy taking the male lead.

She had come to positively fear her favourite class, because in Potions, they practised Amortentia these days. It took Narcissa all her self-control to be standing there, swathes of fumes enclosing her, that all smelled somewhat of old parchments and leather covers, but mostly of Lucius' cologne, and even the book smells reminded her of the very distinct scent she had once experienced in the wondrous library of Malfoy Manor. It was insufferable – and yet it had to be suffered twice a week.

She tried to congratulate herself on the fact that at least he was no longer a student of this school, but to quote Evan – 'denial's not a river in Egypt' – not even she bought into her own pretensions there. She was too acutely aware how badly she longed to see him again. So much indeed, she had nicked one of Jeanie's magazines. More precisely: she had nicked an issue of _Witch's Weekly_ that featured a ridiculous top ten list of 'Britain's most eligible bachelors under thirty', for it had come with a photo of Lucius, who had, not entirely unexpectedly, merited the number one spot on that list. He was rich beyond measure, he was extremely handsome – what else could a sensible young witch want? It infuriated Narcissa to read such nonsense. Trees had to _die_ for this utter rubbish! Young women should _not_ be told that life's one and only aim was an advantageous marriage. And on the other hand – yes, he _was_ good-looking and undoubtedly rich, but there was so much more to him, and generally speaking – nobody should be reduced like that, as if he was a prized horse. He was clever, he was resourceful, he was easy-going and funny, he could be a magnificent wizard if he bothered – and on the downside: he was irresponsible, egotistic, and used girls for nothing but his own advantage. Clearly, that feature writer did not care for either set of qualities.

Narcissa was annoyed with herself for being so sentimental, but could not have helped it – where was her praised composure when she truly needed it? Oh, yes, it excited her to even think of him, remember his smiles, the intensity of his looks at her (and it had always given her considerable satisfaction that these kinds of looks had been for her exclusively, no matter whom he had been going out with that week), but it also tormented her to think that _now_, he was bound to look at another girl like this, and if only for the simple reason that he could no longer pursue Narcissa. Which was clearly the last thing on his mind, given the number of his letters to her, which amounted to the sensational number of – zero. No, what weighed much more was her knowledge of herself and of him; she _knew_ what he was and what he did, and her self-respect simply forbid her to line up with his other conquests. She wouldn't have borne it.

"See you at Christmas, Cis!" Bella cried, but Narcissa barely looked over, quite lost in her reverie. Perhaps it was for the better that she had no clue where her sister was heading or whom she was meeting, or she might not have managed to continue playing that sonata so flawlessly. She was aggravated enough as it was.

Oh, if only he had stayed locked up in that darned monastery back then! Then at least one of her chief torments could rest. It just _killed_ her to think what he might be doing now – this very minute, mind you! That she had a vivid imagination didn't help either. When he had been in school still, he had had three dozen girlfriends, give or take, but while Narcissa hadn't exactly _enjoyed_ his trophy-hunting, it hadn't hassled her too badly either, for the simple reason that she had easily seen that he wasn't serious about any of them. She hadn't thought much about her own calm then, but these days, it appeared fairly obvious. Now that he was out of her sight, her imagination was running wild; she had actually had a nightmare in which scores of girls had hunted him, wildly waving with the issue of _Witch's Weekly_, and he had been enthralled by any of them, had hardly known where to look first; with those beautiful eyes, he had looked at other girls with that sort of expression that should rightfully belong to her and nobody else! Darn it, if nothing else, _why_ hadn't his father kept him locked up in Romania!

Even this wasn't entirely true, but one could not seriously expect Narcissa to acknowledge it. Because claiming that she'd be content enough if he didn't give his heart to another – and at least to herself, she was honest enough to admit to that wish – said nothing of her real desire, which demanded that his heart should belong to her, and her alone. She had no clue what she'd do with it – listening to Jeanie's and Lassie's crude descriptions, she was fairly sure that she, personally, wouldn't want to do any of these things – yuck. As far as Narcissa was concerned, French kissing sounded like the surest way to catch an infection and nothing else, not to mention the other unsavoury indelicacies, that, apparently, were such a vital part of the whole 'boy/girl crap', as Perpetua would sneeringly call it. Although one couldn't help but suspect that Perpetua's disgust was mainly rooted in the absolute unavailability of the whole business for her. Not only that she wasn't the least bit pretty – she also wasn't the slightest trifle nice, and that combination didn't get a girl anywhere, even someone as socially inapt as Narcissa could see that.

Without really noticing it, she had played for almost an hour straight, lost in her thoughts, and was roughly disturbed by her own dear Papa, who stepped over to the piano with a woeful smile. "It breaks my heart, my dearest, but I'm afraid I'll have to take you back to Hogwarts now. We're too late already," he said and shrugged.

She nodded, got up and let him embrace her. "I'm so happy you were here today, my little flower," he breathed, pressing her close, and she knew he was. She had been the only of his children who had come voluntarily to his great day; children that had all been raised with all the care and affection in the world; it filled her with sadness to think how lonely he must be feeling, and anger that Bella and Andy did not care more. What _was_ so urgent for Bella to rush away like that, after all? And Andy – certainly, she'd be read the riot act up and down until her head was spinning, but didn't she know how badly her parents were missing her all the same?

They were corresponding via letter while Narcissa was in school, thus she was aware that Andy's child was due soon, in only two months in fact. Of course, their parents were _just_ as aware of this, but meticulously avoided mentioning it. After putting away Andy's photo, that had been standing on his desk in his study, and locking it in a drawer for some weeks, Cygnus had taken it out again, as Narcissa had noticed during her visit this time. He had shot her an embarrassed glance when seeing Narcissa's gaze pass the small portrait, silently begging her to keep quiet and she had complied, of course. She was glad enough to see that he had put the photo back where it belonged, between his other two daughters. He loved them, all of them, no matter how stubborn or unsuitably pregnant they were.

As she left her parents' house that night – it was dark already, and the Muggle street lamps feebly tried penetrating the foggy, damp late November air – it was even more stomach-wrenching than usually. She kissed her mother goodbye, watched her father doing the same, before tightly – and decidedly proudly – taking his darling daughter's arm to Disapparate with her. They emerged in front of the Hogwarts gates, where Mr Filch, the caretaker, was already waiting in the cold, his crooked nose frozen blue and visibly torn between outrage to be kept waiting for so long, and the usual deference that Mr Black evoked in the more 'common' people.

"I'm very happy you could come," Cygnus said, for the approximately tenth time, completely ignoring the caretaker who had torn open the gates and was frozen in a deep bow - possibly very literally so.

And for the tenth time, too, Narcissa replied with fake cheer, "I would not be anywhere else, Papa. You know how much I miss you."

"I wish your sisters were a little more like you, my darling."

She merely kept on smiling. Of course, it didn't work this way. It was rather the other way round. The worse her sisters hurt them, the more Narcissa tried to please their parents, just to make them happy. It was hard for her to see them like this.

"Don't amuse yourself too much," he said as usually when he had to let her go at last.

She shook her head, bravely smiled and kissed his cheeks. No, she wasn't going to _amuse herself_. Truth was she had never been more miserable.


	24. An Epiphany Of Sorts

Bellatrix comes home for Christmas and intimates some little secrets to her sister.

* * *

**– I.23. –**

An Epiphany Of Sorts

* * *

_Family love is messy, clinging, and of an annoying and repetitive pattern, like bad wallpaper._

_FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE_

* * *

Christmas is the season of year with the highest rate of suicides, and also the highest rate of – occasionally violent – family brawls. Little wonder. Those people who have no family or friends feel their loneliness the more keenly. Those who have a family and are expected to have the time of their life, understand that genetic closeness is often enough the only connection they have to their relatives.

Lucius didn't have any close relatives but his father, at least none that he felt obliged to talk to. But being compelled to spend three entire days with old Abraxas was torture in his eyes. He merely forced Lucius to stay to annoy his son anyhow, because in all truth, he had no taste to be with the boy either. Two foul tempers trapped in a room – no whiskey, no amount of caviar could compensate for that sort of hardship.

Narcissa dutifully liked her closest relations, but thought little of the rest – and the Black family was deplorably wide-spread. Unfortunately, around Christmas, she had to meet with the whole lot of them, her Uncle Orion's family, Aunt Walburgas's spinster sisters and her father's ever so impudent younger brother Uncle Alphard, who was usually drunk and delighted to pay his younger nieces and cousins disgustingly salacious 'compliments', and then, there were also Amandine's brothers and their dependents, Bella's husband and Rodolphus' unmarried brother and their senile great-aunt and great-uncle, Aramintha and Gulliver, adding up to no less than twenty-three people. She owed her parents her best behaviour, meaning: smiling like an idiot at all times, making small-talk, pretending interest when all she felt was indifference, at best.

Christmas Eve was celebrated either in Cygnus' or in Orion's house, alternating year by year, and it always followed the same rite. After a 'free and easy' glass of champagne, either Narcissa or Regulus (depending on whose house they were in) had to play the piano, then there was an eight-course-dinner, always with the same seating plan, and more music in the respective Grand Parlour next. The 'children' had to take turns on the harp and piano, much to Narcissa's grief, because she was spared conversation as long as she was performing. As far as she was concerned, she would have played the whole night through, but she wasn't allowed to, even though Regulus and Sirius were measly pianists. She suspected at least the latter to be so bad on purpose. That'd be just like him.

This year, there was a slight change in the tradition, simply because Andromeda wasn't there. The traditional seating plan had to be adjusted, and clearly, everyone had been told not to mention her. No one would have stirred the awkward topic, but Sirius, who amused himself by dropping Andy's name whenever he could, was tickled pink at every blush he incited. Bellatrix, as she was the eldest daughter, was sitting next to him, the eldest son, and informed him in an undertone that she knew a couple of appropriate curses to cure him of his blabbing – she could sew his mouth shut, make him swallow his own tongue, or if she felt particularly nice, she'd simply jinx him mute.

He giggled merrily. "Are you threatening me, cousin?"

"You bet I am, cousin. You think you can mess with me?"

Sirius was no coward; in fact, he was too courageous for his own good, but there was a subtle menace in Bellatrix' voice, a steely glint in her gaze that made him shut up for some time. He was just fourteen, she was almost ten years his senior – it was true, he didn't want to mess with her. If only half of the things he had heard about his second least favourite cousin (the unrivalled number one was that pampered, arrogant bitch Cissily) were true, she… But not even Bellatrix could be that evil, so he chose not to believe the stories that were going about.

While Regulus was butchering a serenade, Narcissa sauntered over to her sister and asked what she had said to silence their cousin so successfully. Bellatrix told her with a confidential smirk, making Narcissa snigger spitefully.

"Serves him right," she murmured. "One day you've got to show me how to do one of those. He annoys me to no end in school."

"Oh, I can show you a whole lot! But you shouldn't use any of them in Hogwarts. The old crackpot doesn't appreciate that sort of magic."

Narcissa laughed even harder. "And since when do _you_ of all persons care?"

"Believe it or not, but I have learnt the value of discretion, Cissy. It's no good to have a loose tongue."

"You needn't tell _me_, Bella!"

"Yeah, I know my little Cissy's the queen of secrecy. Oh! Come to think of it, I do hope you make an exception for me and let down your guard for once to tell me about that thing you've had with Lucius Malfoy!"

Narcissa couldn't help it, her cheeks turned pink and she faltered to answer for a minute. "Thing? There's no _thing_," she muttered at last, avoiding Bella's gaze. "He asked me to go to his graduation ball together, but you already knew that, didn't you?"

"Oh, certainly. Maman told me how dashing you two looked, and Papa told me that you've been taken in by a notorious lady-killer." Bella grinned pointedly.

"And that's all there is to say, except for the fact that I haven't been _taken in_, in heaven's name. The only crime I have committed was going to a ball with someone, for approximately fifteen minutes, incidentally!"

"What a shame!"

"Oh, yes! I can't tell you how embarrassed I was when Maman dragged me away, after Papa and Andy had made such a big scene for everyone to see."

"I can imagine, but that wasn't what I meant."

"So what did you mean?"

"He's a handsome fellow, and pretty cool to boot –"

"And a complete _jerk_," Narcissa snapped, blushing some more. "Pardon my language –"

"Come on, you needn't apologise to _me_ for that! It'd do you good to loosen up a bit, and Lucius Malfoy would have been just the right guy to teach you that!"

"You clearly have no idea what you're talking about, Bella! He is – oh, where to start! Papa was very polite when he claimed that Malfoy was a 'notorious lady-killer'!"

"Don't worry, he used a very different vernacular when throwing him out of the house!"

Before she could think of the better, Narcissa already exclaimed, "When did he do that?"

"You don't know?" Bella looked amazed. "The poor guy, that morning after Andy's disgrace – well – the morning after Maman's collapse – he'd come to visit you, having no idea what had happened in the previous night, and first _you_ kicked him out, and then he got in the way of Papa! You truly didn't know?"

"No! I did _not_ know!" Narcissa replied far more forcefully than she intended.

"Now _that's_ a real shame, isn't it? He seems to like you very much, you know? As a matter of fact, he seems to be genuinely heartbroken!"

"Is he?" Narcissa swallowed, cursing herself for having such a quavering voice, and continuing in strained calmness, "But it doesn't matter anyway. His '_genuine_' affection didn't go very far."

"Papa threatened to geld him, Cissy, if he ever comes near you again! You will excuse his cowardliness, since he received no encouragement whatsoever from you either!"

"But – what about Andy's elopement, he'd never –"

"He doesn't care three straws for that. Jeez, what century are you guys living in, honestly!"

Narcissa was baffled by what she heard. Could it be that Lucius hadn't simply forgotten her just like that, out of indifference? Could it have happened differently? Had she been too proud, too hard on him, too little – committed? Was it all her fault? Thinking about it – it had been a nice thing, that he had come to see her that morning, he hadn't come to mock her for Andy's downfall, he had merely wanted to see how she was –

"My little Cissy," Bellatrix interrupted her silent musing, "I guess you're not always as icy as you want to appear, eh? That suits you well!"

Narcissa bit her lip. "Did you… Well, did you talk to him lately…?"

Bella sniggered. "Yes, indeed, I did. I see him quite often these days."

"Did you go back to College after all?"

Narcissa smiled hopefully; Bella had dropped out of College some weeks ago without taking her final exams, and being herself, her youngest sister couldn't but wish that she'd complete her education. In this special case though, she also hoped that Bella had come across that one person that would haunt Narcissa day and night, that she dreamt of, whose name she heard mentioned so often without hearing anything _significant_, whose very scent had beclouded her all autumn when they had practised Amortentia in Potions…

"Go back to College, ph! Of course not. I know better to do with my time!" Bella snarled, then her voice dropped until it was but a whisper. "I mustn't talk about this, Cissy, least of all _here_."

She gravely beckoned at their relatives sipping their drinks and Narcissa thought she suddenly saw the light. "You don't mean... You haven't –"

"I know you can keep a secret to yourself, but I really mustn't –"

Equally quietly, Narcissa replied, "Oh Bella… It's _dangerous_!"

"You think I didn't know that? But it's also the best thing I ever did, it's – it's just what I always wanted to do."

"And – _he_ – you met _him_ there?"

Bellatrix gave a little chuckle. "I cannot answer that. Only so much – he asks about you every time I see him."

She felt her cheeks flushing and looked away. "Well, I'm sure he just wants to be polite, doesn't he…"

"Polite? _Lucius Malfoy?_ We're talking about the same guy?"

Now it was Narcissa shushing her sister. "Not so _loud_! Papa mustn't –"

"That boy hasn't got a _polite_ bone in his body, Cissy, and his interest in you is surely not rooted in mere courtesy!"

"Stop it, Bella!"

"I will, I just have one more thing to say. There'll be a big party next week, for New Year's Eve – I know you hate parties, but perhaps you'll be in the mood to attend _this_ one. I can take you there, you know?"

"And why should I want that?" Narcissa asked despite herself.

Bella arched her brows suggestively. "Because good Lucius Malfoy will be there, too."


	25. New Year's Eve

Narcissa accompanies Bella to a New Year's Eve party with unexpected consequences.

* * *

**– I.24. –  
**

New Year's Eve

* * *

_Voluptas e difficili data dulcissima est._

_PUBLILIUS SYRUS – Sententiae_

* * *

Narcissa would have liked to pretend that she had given this a whole lot of consideration, that she had resolved _reluctantly_ to attend that party that of which Bella had spoken. But it wouldn't have been true. In fact, she hadn't thought more than ten seconds about it, or rather say, her resolution to go had been there right from the start, she had rather tried to find some sound reason why she would _not_ go, and had failed to come up with sufficiently substantial arguments.

Bellatrix was positively delighted with her own doing. If nothing else, she had made her prissy little Cissy go to a party – _voluntarily_ – and that was already a huge success. She also took on the negotiations with their parents – since Andromeda's lapse, they were even more protective and suspicious, but she swore that she would look after the girl, and their mother's relief outweighed their father's anxiety by far. Amandine wasn't blind; she found that Narcissa had to learn how to get along with other people, because she and her husband wouldn't always be there. Cygnus on the other hand believed that Bella was a good chaperone, after that disaster with Andromeda, and fortunately, he had no idea that the 'sly scoundrel' could be acquainted with his oldest daughter in the first place.

The two witches carefully prepared for the evening; for the first time in their lives really, they were having fun together. They chose their robes together – dark red velvet for Bellatrix, dark blue silk for Narcissa, their jewellery – opals for the elder, aquamarines for the younger, and to calm down their father, a stole to disguise Narcissa's décolleté, which they got rid of as soon as they were out of Cygnus' sight. Having been quite adventurous in her time, Bellatrix was apt to counsel her little sister on the perfect perfume, make-up charms, hairdo, and also advised her how to behave around men. Principally, her attitude was fine – cool, poised, dismissive – but sooner or later, she'd have to show Lucius Malfoy that his advances wouldn't be totally in vain.

Narcissa wasn't quite sure that he'd even _try_ to advance on her, all she wanted was to see him once more, and apologise to him, maybe. Bellatrix on the other hand hadn't the slightest doubt that her Death Eater pal would do nothing else but try to get off with her beautiful little sister – any man with eyes would try to give her the come-on. There was only one thing she hadn't considered in her plot – she hadn't informed the man himself. She hadn't thought of it, she hadn't met him between Christmas and New Year anyway, because his father claimed his son's presence at home. Now Lucius, ignorant of the unexpected appearance of his crush, and determined to try and have _some_ fun that night, had picked up some Italian exchange student that he had met shortly before the holidays, and asked her to accompany him. Isabella was dark and beautiful, with endless legs and a voluptuous bosom, black curls and olive-green eyes – in short: a model with dextrous fingers, as he had found out in a broom cupboard in College, half an hour into their acquaintance. Pretty as she was, in his eyes she still bore no comparison with Narcissa Black, but he had given up all hope in this respect at any rate.

Host of the party was Rabastan Lestrange in his Kensington apartment. Everyone that mattered between eighteen and sixty-eight was there, even Stubby Boardman, singer of the newcomers of the year, the Hobgoblins, had assented to come and give a private gig. Knowing the rules of effective appearance, Bellatrix had decided that she and Narcissa wouldn't show up before a quarter past eleven, and since they'd have never got Cygnus' consent to go so late, they left his house at eight o'clock and Apparated to her and Rodolphus' mansion, to have a couple of drinks.

She was careful; Narcissa must not be drunk, but three glasses of champagne did the job and made her loosen up. "So? Are you excited?"

"A little bit… Only a little!" Narcissa suppressed a giggle. "It's just that I haven't seen him for so long…"

"And what will you do now that you will see him?"

"I? Do? I'll do nothing!"

"That's my girl. Let _him_ do it."

Narcissa swallowed. Her mouth was suddenly awfully dry. "And what do you reckon will he do?"

"Look at you like a child looking at the Christmas tree! And then, he'll scrape all his bravado and come over and say hello and ask you to dance and as soon as he spots a chance, he'll try and kiss you." Bellatrix winked at her. "You've never kissed a boy before, have you?"

"And I'm not about to," Narcissa protested with pink cheeks.

Bellatrix laughed heartily. "We'll see about that, little sister!"

Narcissa's heart was beating madly when they climbed up the stairs, less due to the exertion, but because of the prospect to see _him_ again. She felt in a daze, nodding to whatever Bellatrix said – the blood rushing in her ears made her almost deaf. The door to the apartment opened – they went in – Bellatrix was welcomed by her husband and brother-in-law, and a couple of others. Narcissa hardly noticed all of this; she had seen who she had been looking for so dearly.

There he was, handsome as ever, dressed in black, his bright blonde hair shimmering in the flickering lights of a thousand candles that were floating in mid-air. She was so nervous, she didn't even register her sister and her husband whispering – Rodolphus reported under his breath that good old Lucius had come in the company of a mind-blowing Italian; Bella hissed some curses and ordered him to 'take care' of that problem. Consequently, Rodolphus and Rabastan left and waited for Isabella, who had just gone to the bathroom, and 'accidentally' poured an entire bottle of claret over her satin robes. Naturally, that had to be treated with great care – such gorgeous, expensive robes! – and Rodolphus proved considerable talent as an actor in the following hour, during which he dropped a burning cigarette on the fabric, tore the hem line and ruined her satin shoes as well.

In the meantime, Lucius, too, had spotted the one person he hadn't reckoned with, almost spilling his drink with surprise. Without really knowing what he was doing, he headed towards the entrance to say hello to the sweetest of all creatures. He knew she hated the sight of him, but that didn't count in this second, he just wanted to hear her voice once more, even if it was merely for a rebuke –

"Narcissa!" His voice was shaky and he cleared his throat. "How wonderful to see you!"

"Good evening, Lucius," she replied just as hoarsely.

He shot Bellatrix a swift glance, on the verge of hugging her for her complicity. He had totally underestimated her potential kindness! "What – what a pleasant surprise! Good evening to you, too, Bellatrix –"

"Good evening, Lucius," Bella said, gesturing expressively behind her sister's back. "I suppose you've already met Rodolphus? If you haven't – he's dealing with a little _problem_, but I'm sure he'll return sooner or later!"

He didn't get what she was talking about, too absorbed he was by her startling companion. He couldn't even take his eyes off her. "Yes, I've met Rodolphus, thank you, yes, yes – but excuse my manners, Miss Black – I – I was just so surprised to meet you! How are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you! And you?" She was beaming at him, thoroughly unable to wipe off that ravished expression.

"Enchanted as always when I see you!"

"And how do you like College? Is it as bad as you've feared?"

"It's even worse, I'm afraid. But don't let us talk about such unpleasant trifles!"

"What _would_ you like to talk about then?"

"I'd like to hear more from _you_, Miss Black!"

"I thought we had agreed on first names a long time ago, Mr Malfoy?"

He smiled insecurely and gazed at his own feet. "I'd be glad to return to that, I merely didn't wish to trespass your own prohibition –"

She blushed. "Oh! Oh, I see… Please, forgive my bad behaviour that morning, I – I was very much distraught and… My overreaction was unpardonable, I suppose…"

"Not at all, I assure you! _I_ was insensitive and inattentive –"

"Oh no, no!"

Utterly unnoticed by the two lovebirds, Bellatrix raised her eyes to the ceiling, sighed and left unobtrusively. She had carried out her task. Nobody expected her to hold the candle for these two, right?

Meanwhile, Lucius shuffled his feet, apologised for his thoughtlessness in calling on Narcissa on that of all mornings – she vigorously shook her head and assured him that she _now_ thought he was _very_ thoughtful – he modestly declined a couple of times – she vividly insisted just as often – and then he finally managed to gather whatever wits he had left and asked her to dance.

At last! He had thought it would never happen! He had hoped to dance with her on his graduation ball – they hadn't come so far – and in the very next moment, she had sworn that she never wanted to see him again. He needn't hear her excuses – a creature so perfect need never excuse – to hear that she had changed her mind was enough to make him exquisitely happy.

She danced lightly, elegantly – of course, he hadn't expected anything else; everything about her was elegant and light. He had one hand in the small of her back, itching madly with excitement, he felt her body so close to him, closer than ever before, and he spoke a silent prayer that he wouldn't blunder with excitement, because honestly, he had never felt even half as aroused. Narcissa had no clue of his concerns, feeling far too thrilled herself. _Her_ hand was in the small of his neck, his silky hair tickling her fingers, and her main worry was that she'd say something embarrassing, or pass out straightaway. She had never been remotely as conscious of her own body as she was now.

"You're a marvellous dancer," he said lowly, incapable of turning his gaze away from her for a second.

"I should forward that compliment to my father – he's shown me how to dance – but from what I've heard, he wouldn't do you justice."

"Oh well… I would lie if I claimed that he hadn't intimidated me a little… But if _you_ allow me, I'll face up to him squarely."

"Is that – was my father the reason why you've – uhm – why I haven't heard anything from you ever since…?"

He looked straight into her eyes when replying, "No… I swear, a thousand times I meant to call on you. I thought of hardly anything else since then. Your father just clarified the point, you know? You said you hated the sight of me, and I just believed you. I know I've never done anything to deserve your regard, and I didn't want to – to molest you…"

She blushed again. "I was that awful, was I?"

"You could never be awful, Narcissa. You're perfect, just the way you are."

"Oh yes, I perfectly frightened you away!"

"I was a coward when I let you of all persons frighten me, wasn't I?"

She remembered Bella's advice and put on her most mysterious smile. "I believe that bravery is widely overrated."

He laughed. "You think so?"

"Yes!" She laughed as well. "Though that does _not_ mean that I wouldn't have been pleased if you had mustered a _little_ bit of courage and I had heard from you."

He stared at her. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"You cannot imagine just how much better the past few months would have been for me, if I'd had the slightest notion that you could feel that way!"

"I bet you never had to wait that long, right?"

"You have no idea how long I've waited for you in fact."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"You needn't believe. All I want is that you give me a chance to prove it. All I ever wanted was to get _one_ chance to prove you how much you really mean to me."

He looked so earnest, Narcissa thought she would swoon if it weren't for his arms holding her straight. She had forgotten all her objections, all her doubts. At some point during those past months – possibly during Potions while trying hard to shake off her complete bedazzlement smelling the scent of his cologne – she had realised that she wanted nothing but him, _despite_ all those doubts; that her self-imposed constraint hadn't made her happy, but the time they had spent together had, strangely enough. They had had some real fun together, she had missed him, she had missed everything about him, even the come-ons that she had always claimed to resent so much. In the same moment when she had believed to have lost him for good, due to Andy's elopement, she had understood how much he really meant to her.

They danced the next four dances until they both were out of breath, and Lucius lead her out onto the balcony. He had completely forgotten about his original companion, who was getting more and more impatient in the kitchen, uttering Italian curses under her breath with each of Rodolphus' clumsy faux-pas. Poor Rodolphus would do anything for his wife, and to say the truth, he increasingly enjoyed his mission. Annoying that bitchy witch was _fun_, and he discovered so far unknown creativity. The robes couldn't be saved, so much was sure already, he had singled out her hair to be ruined next, and despite the obvious wreckage, he nevertheless kept on assuring Isabella that everything was _fine_, absolutely no _problem_, his _wife_ removed stains far _worse_ than this on a daily basis…

"Whadis _wrong_ wiss you, Signore Lestrange? I ged see impression sat you are doing sis on purpose!"

"Signorina, _please_! My only wish is to be helpful! Potassium is a sure remedy for custard stains!"

"I know a _spell_, Signore Lestrange, _sat_ is a sure sing!"

"Oh no. No, no, Signorina Fallucci. My wife _swears_ that _nothing_ works better than potassium. A spell might do more harm than good!"

"Don't talk such nonsense, Signore Lestrange!"

She produced her wand, he tried to unwind it from her hand, they struggled and – a well-aimed push with his elbow hurled a bowl of punch all over her. She screeched, she gasped, hurling a real curse at him, missing him by inches, and then his saviour came through the door – his beloved wife, showing her most sardonic smile.

"Rodolphus!" she cried, pretending to be scandalised. "What _are_ you doing there?"

"Bella my love, it's _so _good you're here! Signorina Fallucci wouldn't believe that potassium is the only way to remove custard!"

"Honey, potassium is good for yolk only. Let _me_ give it a try!"

Isabella protested, but nobody could stand up to Bellatrix Lestrange when she was on her way. Two minutes later, half of Isabella's skirt was on fire, she was shouting madly, Bella sprayed water at her out of her wand, ruining the young woman's hairdo, too. That was the straw that broke this camel's back.

Out there on the balcony, Lucius and Narcissa had toasted, watched the first premature fireworks and to say which of them was more thrilled would have been a hard call. He had asked her whom she was going to kiss at midnight, trying his best to sound as if he was joking, and she had forced herself to laugh, even though her heart was beating so hard she could barely stand upright. "I'm not sure yet! Perhaps you, if you're nice!"

Until very recently, she had meant that she would never want to kiss anyone, the idea that someone stuck his tongue into her mouth – _ewww_ – but right now, she had forgotten all about her disgust. In fact, both of them had nothing else in mind but to kiss each other as soon as possible, but typically, they both also staunchly and superstitiously believed that their secret hopes would tumble and crash down if they just acknowledged this. He had taken off his overcoat and put it over Narcissa's bare shoulders, she had meant to decline, but when feeling that the fabric was still warm, and that she could smell his unmistakable scent, she said nothing. The closer midnight came, the less they were talking – Narcissa was getting more and more worried because she had never kissed anyone. What if he didn't like it? If he thought that she was a boring cow or something? If she disappointed him?

Of course, Lucius wasn't worried about his abilities as a kisser, but nonetheless nervous like hell. How long had he waited to get a chance with her – how dearly had he craved it? What if he messed it up? If she felt rushed by him? If he had mistaken her completely?

Inside of Rabastan's apartment, people began the countdown for midnight, and determined to prove that he was no coward, Lucius took Narcissa's glass and threw it over the balustrade together with his own. Narcissa swallowed, putting on a saucy smile that belied the bees in her belly. Oh dear, she felt all weak and dizzy, overwhelmingly excited, and he came closer and closer.

Five – he stood directly in front of her, only inches separating her breasts from his chest –

Four – he put an arm around her waist –

Three – his other hand cupped the back of her head –

Two – he looked into her eyes, deeply, longing – or was this only her wishful thinking?

One – he seized her near, looking strangely solemn, and closed in for a kiss.

She could not have described the sensation – the havoc inside her, she was melting away in his arms, the sensation of his lips on hers was like glowing embers, burning her, taking her breath away, making her arch against him as close as she could… He was very gentle, much more than she had expected, he tasted as marvellously as he smelled, and without quite knowing what she did, she kissed him back with a passion that she hadn't known she could possess. She let her hand glide through his silky hair, and then, she felt him open his mouth the tiniest bit, she felt his tongue tipping against her bottom lip and retreat again. Sod all her childish notions, this was incredible, she opened her lips, too, and very slowly, so very tenderly, he began to play with her, explore her mouth with his tongue.

It wasn't the least bit disgusting, but the very opposite, she clung to him for dear life, convinced that she'd sink on the spot if he let go of her now. His arms were strong – for the first time in her life, she could see _one_ merit in Quidditch – his chest was heaving, his kisses grew harder, more demanding, and she was happy to give in without any more opposition.

She was so totally bewitched, it took her quite a while to register that something had hit her hard over the head – perhaps she wouldn't have noticed it at all, if Lucius hadn't stopped kissing her. Only then, she realised that someone was shouting – in Italian – shouting curses and very rude insults – a female voice – and rather bewildered, she turned around, seeing a witch in thoroughly ragged, dripping wet robes who threw glasses at them while continuing to scream on top of her lungs. Behind her, Bella, Rodolphus and his brother came running, trying to stop her from getting her wand.

Narcissa shot Lucius a swift glance, finding him looking like someone who had just been caught in the act, and at once she knew everything. This witch was – what – his present girlfriend – or mistress – whatever, it was all the same. How could she have been so _stupid_? Had she truly believed he had _waited_ for her? Had she been that naïve? Oh, Mary Mother of Jesus!

She took a deep breath, pursed her lips and swirled around, slapping him twice with the back of her hand. She didn't wait for an answer, but turned back to the outraged witch, tried to smile, and said, "Scusa, non sapevo che lui è già impegnato per la sera. Lei può fare che favore con lui. Ove Lei vorrebbe bastonarlo, potrebbe spingerlo una volta per opera mea, per favore?"

And with those words, she threw his cloak away and marched out, her head up high. She was followed by Bella and Lucius, too, but a quick Stunner kept him from pursuing her any further. Bella didn't stop in her way save for carefully stamping on his sprawled hand, hissing, "Aren't you the greatest idiot _ever_?" and continued running after her sister, who was halfway down the stairs already.

"Cissy! Cissy, stop!"

"Did you know this, Bella?"

She did her best to keep pace, gasping, "Not until we arrived –"

"And still you let me make a complete idiot of myself? Thank you, sister, thank you very, _very_ much!"

"Get off it, Cissy! That bitch means _nothing_ to him –"

"Of course not! He cares for nothing and nobody!"

"He cares for _you_!"

"Yes, from twelve a.m. to noon!"

"Cissy, be sensible!"

"I _am_ sensible, at last! Now I don't want to hear another word on the topic, or I swear, you will regret it!"

* * *

_Voluptas..._ The sweetest pleasures are hard to reach.

_Scusa..._ I am sorry, I didn't know that he is already engaged for the evening. You can do what you please with him. In case that you would like to beat him up, could you kick him once for me, please?


	26. Remorse

Lucius is in despair, but kills a man out of boredom.

* * *

**– I.25.** –

Remorse

* * *

_Praeterita mutare non possumus._

_CICERO – In Pisonem_

* * *

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_

When Rabastan had undone the spell binding him to the floor, Narcissa had long gone, and after a little struggle, he had understood Rodolphus' advise to leave her alone for now, to give her some time to calm down again. He had won the fight with the still screeching Isabella – he would have Cruciated her, but again, Rabastan and Rodolphus had once more stopped him. Performing an Unforgivable in front of a hundred party guests wouldn't have made anything better, all right –

He had rushed out of the apartment, equipped with a bottle of vodka, the first full bottle he had seen, and had run away. He had run until his sides were stitching, but he couldn't run away from the pain, the sheer horror. How could that have happened? That Isabella person meant nothing, _nothing!_ And Narcissa meant everything, was the only one who had ever mattered, the only one who would ever matter! How could this have gone so terribly wrong? How he had craved to get a single chance with her; he would have given his right arm for this one chance, he had got it, and _then?_ Where had he gone wrong to cock this up so completely?

She would never look at him again… He _knew_ her!

He swallowed a good deal of vodka, but it did no good. The self-hate didn't lessen one bit. All around him, cheerful, drunken Muggles were celebrating the New Year, cheering and toasting and starting fireworks; he had no idea where he was by now. How dared those maggots being happy? He had to get away from them, he couldn't bear to see their joy.

He walked away, down the road, turning into a deserted alley. When he had emptied half of the bottle, he began to have difficulties walking straight, but instead of feeling better, he felt worse and worse. He remembered how it had felt to kiss her, and it gave him physical pain. That had been, thoroughly unrivalled, the best minutes of his entire life. He had never been in love with any other girl, had never known how it could actually feel to kiss that one person that he truly loved… He had observed her for five whole years, he knew her, her disposition – she wasn't going to forgive him, ever.

It would have been better if they had never kissed at all! It would have been better if he had never experienced how it would feel! Knowing that he could never get close her again – oh Merlin! He took a swig at the bottle. Oh Narcissa! Sweetest, dearest, incomparable Narcissa! What could he do? Wasn't there _anything_ he could _do_? He couldn't just let her slip away from him! She must listen to him, she must understand – 'understand what?', a merciless voice in his head whispered, strangely sounding like Abraxas. 'Understanding that you are what you are? That you can't get through a single week without shagging the next best girl?'

But this wasn't true! He would never have got involved with any other witch, if he hadn't believed that he had lost Narcissa for good already! If only he could be with her, he wouldn't do as much as _look_ at another! For Salazar's sake, he hadn't believed he could ever feel so deeply for anyone! He raised the bottle once again, noticing that he'd have to get a new one soon, when someone bumped into him.

"Sssorry, mate," some stinking, drunken Muggle blabbered. "Din't sssee ya there!" He lost his balance and grabbed Lucius' arm, making him lose hold of the bottle. It smashed on the pavement, and the Muggle hiccupped, "Oi! Bad luck, buddy! Happy New Year!"

That was it. Enough. He'd had it! With one energetic move, he hurled the Muggle to the ground and grabbed his wand. "I'm not your _buddy_, you piece of filth! _Crucio!_"

The Muggle screamed in agony, wiggling, curling up in pain. Lucius had never used that curse on a human being and watched his victim curiously. He tried some other curses, only stopping for a moment when he heard the rattle of a window, and someone yelling, "Bugger off, ye drunk bastards, or I'll call the police!"

Amusing as that prospect surely was, Lucius nonetheless decided to silence his prey before continuing the torture. He didn't want to be disturbed again. At first, it felt good, relieving, to get some of his anger off his chest, but in time he got bored. Inflicting pain on someone else didn't release the pain in _his_ chest one bit. He let go, shrugged, and with an indifferent growl, he muttered, "_Avada Kedavra_!"

The Muggle stopped twitching at once, and Lucius looked down on the corpse for another minute. He had drunk quite a lot, but was still sober enough to fully grasp what he had done – not that he cared, but it seemed rather significant all the same. He had just killed a human being, for the first time in his life killed another human being. Why did people make such a big fuss about it? It was easy. It was nothing really. If he compared his two 'firsts' that night – his first killing and the first time he had kissed the only girl he had ever loved – the latter seemed an event of epic, incomprehensible proportions, while the other was really, really nothing.

He sneered, thinking of that ridiculous superstition, how killing was supposed to split the soul. He _had_ killed a man just now, and he felt absolutely nothing about it.

He contemplated the agonised, now frozen features of his victim. "I know _just_ how you feel, _buddy_," he mumbled bitterly. "Split soul, my ass! They want to know how a split soul feels? Walk in my shoes tonight, people! And it's got nothing, _nothing_ to do with murder!"

As a matter of fact, he did feel hollow, but he sincerely doubted it had anything to do with the corpse before him. It had felt just as bad ten minutes ago. The vodka couldn't fill the void, nothing would fill it but Narcissa – _Narcissa_… He screamed her name until he was hoarse, not caring how idiotic this was, and not stopping before he hadn't found the next bar to finish himself off.

He couldn't say how he had got home to his apartment, but at least, he had managed, for he woke up in his own bed, around three o'clock in the next afternoon, still dressed and shoes on, and feeling as if he had picked up and lost a fight with a troll. His head was stuck in a vice, and he sank back with a groan after his first timid attempt to sit up. He fumbled for his wand and summoned a glass of water. Merlin, how much had he drunk? When trying to recall the previous night, he got a warm, fuzzy feeling in his belly – for approximately two seconds. Oh no. No, no, no – it must not be – it must not have happened!

The first thing coming back to his mind was _she_ – Narcissa – _his_ Narcissa – they had _kissed_ – and it had been the most precious moment in all his life. And then he had ruined it all. No – that Isabella character had ruined it. He had forgotten that she was even _there_, as soon as spotting his big love at the party. _His_ fault was that he had come with that person! That he had ever gotten involved with her!

He sneered, thinking what his father would say – not that he had the least intention to inform him. Abraxas would say that it suited him right, that he had always warned his son that his sins would come back to him one day. Never had he felt so bitter about his father, _because_ that one had been right. The old bastard had never been attached to anyone! Who was he to talk!

He wailed in misery, his state of mind matching his physical condition perfectly. It was already dark again when he could force himself to get up and take a shower. Half a gallon of coffee and a thousand gallons of hot water returned some of his spirits, gave him one or two helpful notions and a resolution. Checking his reflection in the damp bathroom mirror suggested that he had already looked better – fitter – more decent altogether, but it had to do.

* * *

_Praeterita..._ What's happened cannot be undone.


	27. Condition

Lucius goes to see Narcissa to beg her forgiveness.

* * *

**– I.26. –  
**

Condition

* * *

_If you are not too long, I will wait for you all my life._

_OSCAR WILDE – The Importance of Being Earnest_

* * *

He knocked on the front door bolder than he felt. A tiny house-elf opened, glimpsed upwards, hesitated, and muttered, "Yes…?"

"Good evening. My name is Lucius Malfoy, and I've come to call on Miss Black."

"Yes, sir, I know who you are," the elf whispered timidly. "But I'm afraid I cannot call my dear Miss."

"On your master's orders or on hers?"

"On both, Mr Malfoy, sir –"

"You're a good servant, so I wouldn't want to cause you problems," he drawled ironically, gave the elf a sardonic smile and stunned her. "You can put all the blame on me, as soon as you get up again."

He stepped in and over the limp servant, self-confident on the outside, but avoiding to be too loud – he must to talk to Narcissa before facing her father. Her room was in the second floor, and he sincerely hoped she'd be in there… He went through his speech once more while mounting the stairs, stunned another elf, stopped in front of her door, inhaled deeply, and knocked.

"What is it, Elsy? I told you I don't –"

He turned the handle and walked in, finding her sitting on a window sill, more beautiful than ever – her dark green robes and the darkness outside made a perfect contrast to the whiteness of her complexion and the gold of her hair. She had curled up her legs, her arms around her knees, her cheek on top, but the peace of this image only lasted for a second. As soon as spotting him, she jumped up and down to the floor, sparkling dangerously.

"What are you doing here? How did you get in, anyhow?"

He closed the door, lifted his hands for a soothing gesture, and replied softly, "Allow me to answer _both_ questions before you have me thrown out, please. I got in because I've taken down some of your house-elves –"

"What?"

"– and I will take the full responsibility for this in a few minutes. As for your first question – what am I doing here – I am here because I have to talk to you once more."

Her cheeks had turned pink. "You do have a nerve to show up here!"

"I suppose so, yes… But I don't want to reproach myself again for being a coward."

She sneered in utter disdain. "Ah yes, I see. You've got enough to beat yourself up for, haven't you?"

"Indeed I have. Listen to me, Narcissa, I beg you. Look, until yesterday, I believed that I would never see you again, and I admit, I didn't leave out any occasion to console myself with whatever crossed my path. I reckon you assume that I was double-timing last night –"

"But _of_ _course_, nothing could have been further away from the truth."

"Perhaps I wouldn't believe this either, if I didn't know it for sure. Narcissa, in the second I saw you, there was nothing else on my mind, I swear. It must throw a bad light on me to confess this, but I totally forgot that this girl was even _there_. You wouldn't believe how fervently I have longed to get just one chance with you, and when I thought it had finally come, I was oblivious to just anything else. I told you, you wouldn't believe how long I have waited for you, and Merlin's beard, I _have_ – from the very first moment when I saw you, back then on your first day in Hogwarts, you were in my heart. Nobody else has ever had a place in my heart, Narcissa, there's only you. And when I got to know you better after all, I knew for a fact that I could never be happy without you. Narcissa, I love y-"

"Don't say that!" She almost shouted. "Don't you _dare_ saying that!"

"But it's true. I don't expect you're returning that feeling, but I am sure that you're not perfectly indifferent to me either. You are the epitome of countenance, Narcissa. I must matter to you, a little bit at least, when you lose your composure for my sake."

She stared at him, until murmuring at last, "I will not deny that there was a time when I did like you a little bit. But that is over. Now go, before my father finds out you're here."

"I said it before – last night – I will gladly face him."

"You _said_ you would gladly face him if I _allowed_ you. And I don't."

"You've disliked kissing me then?"

She gave an unwilling laugh. "You know what I dislike? I dislike being interchangeable. I prefer to think of myself as unique and special."

"You know that you are anyway. So once more for the record – you didn't dislike to kiss me," he said in fake smugness, making her smirk, but not as repelled as before.

"That's what you want to hear? All right, there you go. I did _not_ dislike how you've kissed me, but what's that saying? It'd be a shame if all those years of practising had done nothing for you."

"I will not kiss anyone else ever again. Knowing how it feels to kiss you – how _I_ felt, kissing the only one I've ever cared for – I can never go back to my old ways."

She started to laugh cuttingly. "You should hear yourself talking! For heaven's sake, as if _you_ of all persons could live in celibacy for as long as a _week_!"

"You don't believe me?"

"I sincerely hope you don't believe this drivel yourself!"

"So let me make an Unbreakable Vow, right here and now. Let me prove you that I'm serious."

"An Unbreakable Vow? Get real! Despite everything, I have no intention to get you killed, Lucius!"

Self-respect? Pride? Dignity? Sod them! He fell to his knees. "I know I've made more mistakes than you could possibly ever forgive me, still the little time I've spent with you has been the best in my life and I will not give you up. I will not stop. Your father can kick me out, he can curse me – _you_ can curse me – but I won't give up."

"For Christ's sake, get up! Get up!"

"I reckon you ought to call your father, for I will stay right here."

She looked down at him in utter disbelief, but he could see that he had softened up her resistance. "If I called my father, he would kill you, and if he killed you, he'd spend the rest of his life in Azkaban, and what sort of daughter would I be to condemn my own father?"

"I will stay here."

"I've heard that." She put her tongue in her cheek. "What are you going to do when I leave this room?"

"I will stay here."

"In the same position?"

"Exactly in the same position."

"All right then." And thus, she marched out, for once to test his resolution, and furthermore to look after the house-elves before her father found them. She undid the spells and made them promise to keep their silence about the unwelcome visitor. She didn't hurry; in fact, she was quite at her leisure, strolling down to the kitchen with sprightly moves to eat a little snack – she hadn't eaten anything since the day before, and had suddenly discovered her ravenous hunger. Her brains were in some worrisome inebriate condition; she felt like someone who'd received a serious blow on the head – which she had after all last night, so perhaps these were only the after-effects of a severe concussion, just without the hurting. At any rate, she was experiencing some strange blend between qualmishness, exultation, incredulity and entrancement. She didn't even notice what she was stuffing in her mouth there, stopping short at a piece of roast-beef halfway to her mouth. What on earth was she doing here?

Next, she went to see her parents in the parlour, played a couple of merry pieces for them, mixed herself a drink and slowly went back to her own room. Either he had remained in that highly uncomfortable position, or he had regained it down to a tee when hearing her come back. Whatever it was, she couldn't deny she was impressed.

She sipped her drink and tilted her head. "I'll go back to Hogwarts in two days, Lucius."

"I know."

"No matter how determined you were, you couldn't see me again before Easter."

"I could see you on your Hogsmeade weekend."

"Which won't happen before the middle of February."

"I will wait, impatiently but nonetheless steady."

"And how many girls will you hook up with in the interim?"

"I will be faithful. There can be no one next to you."

She sniggered. "Oh, there can! Last night, one of them hit me on the head with a bottle."

His white cheeks flushed and he swiftly cast down his eyes. "That will never happen again, I swear."

She appraised him, her eyes narrowed and chewing on her bottom lip. "You will let me down, sooner or later. Now don't tell me that you won't, because all evidence points to the contrary. Given those facts, I have a suggestion to make, which is not negotiable. Right now, you will leave this house without further ado, via the window. We can meet in Hogsmeade, if you still want that then, and I will interrogate you with Veritaserum. We'll see what happens then. Those are my terms, accept them or leave it."


	28. Valentine's Day

Lucius finally manages to prove his love to Narcissa.

* * *

**– I.27. –  
**

Valentine's Day

* * *

_Multum in amore fides, multum constantia prodest._

_PROPERTIUS – Elegiae_

* * *

Of course he had accepted! As if there had been any other possible answer! He was the happiest man in all England, with the mere prospect of _seeing_ her again! He would show her how much he cared, he would make her fall in love with him, and he would _not_ let her down!

For a start, he wrote to her. Every night, he wrote her a letter and attached the most beautiful flowers from his father's greenhouse, taking great care that the owl would arrive at breakfast. He didn't expect an answer and he received none for the first three weeks, but that didn't matter. At least she didn't return them unopened! The greater was his delight when on an otherwise bleak and dreary morning at the end of January, a majestic eagle owl landed on the window sill of his bedroom, delivering her first ever answer.

'_Dear Lucius,_' she wrote, '_thank you very much for your letters. They've been exceedingly entertaining, and are the object of many rumours among other students, so thank you as well for your discretion not writing your name on the outside. Dona clandestina sunt semper suspiciosa! The lilies last Thursday were particularly beautiful, even Professor Sprout, who witnessed their delivery, has remarked on them._

_There isn't much to tell you, everything is just like usual. The team hasn't got over the loss of the best players yet and has lost out to Ravenclaw on Saturday – Severus claims it was the most humiliating spectacle he's ever seen. Perhaps it will interest you that you're even more spoken of than when you were here still, but I don't mean to tickle your vanity too much. Suffice to say that you're the most popular student in Slytherin without being a Slytherin student anymore._

_There has been an announcement that the next outing to Hogsmeade will take place on February 14th – I can only imagine your grin while reading this. Given the twenty-two letters you've written so far, I presume that you are still determined to make an appearance. You might want to remember that I am well prepared for your possible visit, so if you don't think you could pass the test, it would be best if you didn't come at all. I don't approve of disappointments._

_However that may be, I hope you are fine and that your apparent self-constraint causes no lasting damages. See you soon, or not, N._ '

He read her note four times in a row, catching himself grinning like a demented house-elf. He wasn't afraid of that 'test', all the Veritaserum could prove was that he hadn't spoken to any female except for Narcissa's own sister, he hadn't even looked at one. She would see how serious he was, and that she could trust him. He skipped his first lecture that morning and Apparated to Malfoy Manor instead to purchase more of those lilies she had liked so much. Although he had tried to avoid it, he met his father, who reproached him for not being in College first, and cackled about the lilies in his arms next.

"Flowers, sonny? Isn't that the oldest trick in the book?"

"Someone whom I appreciate very much has said she liked them."

"Is she dead? Did your sense of humour kill her?"

Lucius rolled his eyes and sneered. "_Your_ sense of humour is killing _me_, Father."

"White lilies are for funerals; you did know that, didn't you?"

Oh _Merlin_ – no, he had _not_ known that! He hadn't been to a single funeral in all his life, how was he supposed to know what sort of flowers were used there? He had sent Narcissa funeral flowers? What must she be thinking? Abraxas was in stitches, tears of merriment running down his cheeks. Lucius took a deep breath and gnarled, "I better not throw them away, we may still need them. You look as if you're having a stroke. Where did you hide your testament, incidentally?"

"Who is that person that you appreciate so much that you already prepare her burial?"

"Oh, _shut up_!"

In his next letter, he apologised a sound dozen times, sending five owls on total with a hundred red roses instead. Her reply claimed that she hadn't minded the slightest bit, and that white lilies were her favourite flowers anyhow. '_Perhaps one day you will know me well enough to see that I don't bother for that kind of convention,_' she wrote. '_The latest rumours about the mysterious sender by now presume that my suitor was either an Egyptian Sheikh, or a florist. The betting quotas are three to one._'

He wrote back that she should wager some money on the sheikh option, and two days later, he sent her an Egyptian artefact. It was a little statue of Isis made of lapis lazuli and gold, it had cost a fortune, but who cared? He hadn't gone to College at all, but employed his time much more usefully by seeing fourteen different antiques sellers, in London, Thessalonica, Berlin, Paris and Cairo, until finding the one perfect item – he had chosen the statue with utmost care – Isis was considered to be the Egyptian goddess of love and magic, and when seeing a representation with sapphire eyes, reminding him so much of Narcissa's own, he had known at once that this was it. She was well-read, she'd understand the symbolism. She greatly appreciated art, she'd like the statuette for itself. And she'd get the humour he had intended.

He wasn't mistaken. When Narcissa received the precious gift on the following morning and unwrapped it, she didn't bother to suppress a genuine smile. This was _marvellous_! She did acknowledge the brilliance of the idea as such, in all its aspects. Her doubts about his seriousness weren't entirely dispelled, but the thoughtfulness shown by presents like this one, the steadiness proven by his daily letters and the amount of feeling he expressed in those, were bound to kindle the affection she anyway felt for him. She was anxious that she would be refuted by the Veritaserum, and for a few times, when lying in her bed at night, she mused whether she shouldn't replace the potion by water, whether she truly wanted to know.

But this was nonsense. If he didn't change his ways, there'd be no chance for them in the first place, and she wouldn't want to humiliate herself by trusting him if he wasn't trustworthy. Did she have clear ideas about some possible future? No. In her head, this was all very vague; she longed to kiss him again, for she had never felt anything like this before. She wanted to spend time with him, because he made her feel good and easy. She wanted to know for certain that she was the only one for him, but to what consequence she could not say.

When coming home from that wretched party, she had been plain miserable. He had let her down – had forgotten her – had kissed her only to achieve his final victory over her… She had griped how silly she had been to believe that he could truly care for her! That boy cared for nothing and no one but himself! And she had given him the satisfaction to defeat her! Had allowed him to touch her, kiss her, bewitch her – because _bewitched_ she had been. How sweet his kisses had been! How thrilling, how elating! Oh, if she had never kissed him! If only she had no idea how it would feel! That scoundrel, that vain, heartless villain!

But how vain had _she_ been, eh? Pretty she might be, but had she truly flattered herself to believe that he'd wait for her, in celibate pining? 'Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove,' she had stubbornly thought. In fairness though… In all fairness, she'd had to acknowledge in his favour that she hadn't given him a single reason _not_ to go out with whomever he wanted. Why should he have been faithful to someone telling him how much she loathed him? And that had been her last words when parting that morning in summer, she recollected them in perfect clarity.

In short – when he had turned up in her father's house that following evening, her anger had already softened, and seeing him profess how much he wanted her, seeing his determination to reconcile with her, to make her believe in him… Well, that had done the job, hadn't it? She'd give them _both_ a chance. Just one. And if he blew it – likely enough! – well, in that case they'd _both_ know where they were standing.

Valentine's Day came; both Lucius and Narcissa had hardly slept at all in the previous night. While Dumbledore did consider the disposition of the teenagers he guarded and therefore cancelled the afternoon classes, the Dean of Artemis College made no such allowances, and Lucius once again had to skive off school. Narcissa had announced that she would have a cup of coffee in the Three Broomsticks and wanted to take a walk afterwards – if he wouldn't show up, she'd know what to make of it – so he ensured to be on the safe side and walked into the pub one and a half hours early.

"Long time not seen you around, Mr Malfoy," Madam Rosmerta, the landlady, said cheerfully, and curiously glimpsed at the bouquet of white lilies in his arm. "Who has died?"

"Nobody, Madam. Those are the favourite flowers of someone I hope to meet here."

"Really? Now that's – extraordinary…"

"And so is the young lady. Could you bring me an espresso and a small whiskey?"

"For the nerves?" He nodded, making her chuckle. "I've seen you here very often with ample of pretty companions when you were a Hogwarts student still, but I cannot recall that you've ever looked _nervous_!"

"Because I never was. Now please, Madam, the order. I seriously need a drink."

He checked his watch every two minutes, drumming his fingers on the table, having three more espressos and another whiskey, but forbidding himself to drink anything else. The whiskey affected him more than it would have under different circumstances, the caffeine made him shaky, and twenty minutes prior to their date, he went to the bathrooms to conjure a toothbrush and perform a soothing charm on himself.

Finally there she was, more brilliantly shining than ever, clad in a black hooded cloak and pushing back the hood. Their gazes had made contact in the second she had stepped in; she smiled for a second, but visibly forced herself to merely smirk when coming towards him. He jumped up to help her out of her cloak and push her chair, babbling all sorts of heartfelt commonplaces, how pleased he was to see her, how much he had been looking forward to this… Neither of them noticed the curious looks of the other guests, or the landlady in this instance, their gazes locked, they sat down, absent-mindedly made their orders and secretly willed themselves not to appear over-anxious.

When Madam Rosmerta brought a coffee for Narcissa and another glass of water for Lucius, he hardly waited for her to disappear before muttering, "Here and now?"

She pursed her admirable lips. "I don't know what you mean, Lucius. Here and now...?"

"Your test. I want to get through with it as soon as I can, and pass on to a hopefully more tender way to spend the day."

"Tender?" She chuckled quietly. "Thank you for announcing your plans! It's always good to know the stakes. Yet I guess I should tell you that I have no intention to interview you _here_ of all places. Despite the recent fiasco, you ought to know my aversion to make a scene in public, and also my fondness for coffee, so I must ask you for some more patience."

He mustered _all_ his patience, even when Narcissa playfully suggested that she would like another cup, he smiled and turned around to wave to Madam Rosmerta, but she put her hand on his arm. "Just kidding. Let's go."

The weather had been unsteady all day, and when they left the Three Broomstick, it had started to drizzle again. Lucius conjured an umbrella, and without reluctance, Narcissa linked arms with him. They strolled down the main alley, out of the village and up a small hill, which would have born a beautiful view on a nicer day than this. They stopped under some conifers that made a natural shelter, and even though he put away the umbrella, she did not let go of his arm, crammed in her pocket and produced a tiny vial. "Ready?"

"Absolutely."

"You're taking quite a risk there, for I've brewed it myself. No help from Cle this time."

"You're a genius, I'm not taking any risk but the ideal chance to prove you my sincerity."

"Sincerity! That's a word. And I was beginning to relish your playfulness more and more."

"All in due time, my dearest."

She uncorked the vial, gave him a meaningful look, he bent down and opened his mouth, she trickled out the potion that dripped on his tongue. She gently stroke over his cheek when the vial was empty. His eyes became blurry, all tension vanished from his body, and now it was she who steadied him. When she addressed him, her tone was calmer than she was feeling – the next few minutes would decide _everything_, and her pulse was racing.

"What is your name?"

"Lucius Apollonius Maximus Siegmund Iago Azrael Alexander Malfoy."

"What was the most embarrassing moment in your life?"

"Witnessing my mother getting off with some Muggle."

She assessed the truthfulness of that answer, found it sadly convincing, looked dismayed and went on quietly, "Have you ever been in love?"

"Yes. With You."

She beamed with that concession. "Anybody else?" she asked, fearing the answer and holding her breath.

"Nobody else. Ever."

Suffused with instant relief, she exhaled; her pulse was getting faster and faster. "Have you been involved with a girl since coming to my father's house last month?"

"No."

"Have you kissed a girl?"

"No."

"Have you thought about kissing or getting involved with some other girl?"

"No."

She felt dizzy with excitement, but also a little adventurous. "Have you seen a girl that would interest you?"

"Yes."

"Yes?" Her voice had lost all its strained calmness, she almost screeched. "Who? Where? What happened?"

"You – in the Three Broomsticks – I was so excited to see you again, I was instantly arou-"

"Oh! Merlin – uhm…" Her cheeks turned scarlet and she looked away. "Well, I suppose I don't deserve better for asking… So – er – apart from possible – er – _physical _excitement – how would you describe your feelings for me?"

"You're the utmost wonderful person I've ever met. I can hardly think of anything else but you. I've never felt just remotely the same for anyone. I love you, I love you more than anything or anyone else in the world."

She stared at him, unable to speak for a minute – as a matter of fact, she felt on the verge of fainting. That word – _love_ – oh, how careful she had always been to steer clear of it! Hearing him say that he loved her scared her as much as it made her feel elated. Love was a dangerous thing. For years, she had mocked it as sheer sentimentality, and in the last year, she had also formed the idea that _love_ had the power to rip otherwise tightly-knit families apart, _love_ had driven Andy away from home and had made her abandon her ill mother, _love_ for her daughter had made Amandine Black's heart stop beating… And what else but _love_ had made _her_ come here today, had made her touchy and oversensitive in the last months, years possibly?

She swallowed hard and went on quietly, "And that witch on Rabastan Lestrange's party – did you lie to me about her?"

"I don't think I have ever deliberately lied to you about anything or anybody. I'd never lie to you. I love you, you're my everything."

As blank as his expression was due to the potion, as earnest was his voice, and Narcissa thought she'd be getting a heart attack of her own. A legion of bees was swarming in her stomach, she wanted to throw her arms around him at once. He _was_ serious! He _did_ love her! He hadn't looked at _anyone_ else! Her voice was hoarse when continuing, "And what do you want from me? What do you expect from me?"

"I want to be with you. If I can be with you – if I can make you like me – I want nothing else."

"Nothing?" She couldn't avoid a tinge of disappointment in her tone. "Really nothing?"

"I want to be with you – talk to you – listen to you… I want to be with you in every moment… I want to embrace you and hold you tight and not let you go again, I want to kiss you… I want to run my fingers through your hair… I want to let my hands glide over your skin – your body – I –"

She feared that he'd refer to more undue excitements and hurried to say, "I reckon that's enough for now."

She smiled broadly until remembering that he wasn't able to perceive anything in this state, so she crammed for a second vial – with a concoction she had obtained from little Severus, who _swore_ it'd counteract Veritaserum – and she could only hope her little protégé had been right. She urged Lucius to drink it, and thirty seconds later, he had recovered – 'bless you, Savvy', she thought – and was almost his old self again. He looked a little insecure and was still swaying.

"And…?"

"Do you even have to ask...?" she breathed.

"I know what's the only thing I could possibly have said," he whispered, mesmerised by her solemn expression. "But I don't know what it means to you."

Instead of an answer, she lifted one hand to his face, stroked a strand of hair away and reached out for his hand with the other. She lifted it to her face and caressed it, his long white fingers, his knuckles, then gently pulled him down for a kiss.

Not that he had doubted it, but her reaction clearly showed that he had passed her test in a panache. The kiss was tender at first, he felt that she was trembling, so he briefly loosened his embrace to wrap his cloak around the both of them.

He couldn't grasp a single notion but this – Narcissa was kissing him, kissing him so tenderly, so ardently, so – so – so _stupendously_! So she wanted to be with him too, right? Could it be true? Could she finally, _finally _behis? He was thoroughly overwhelmed by the mere idea, and that she grew more and more passionate increased the thrill yet.

He let his lips glide over her temple, nibbled on her earlobe, and when she felt his tongue glide down her neck, she heard herself groaning with delight. She inclined her head to give him more space and he claimed it; she could no longer suppress her violent trembling that had nothing to do with the cold wind, cupping the back of his head with one hand and gently pushing him where she liked him best.

He caressed her and sighed, "Oh Narcissa… I love you. _I love you_ –"

"I think I love you too," she whispered, surprised with herself, but finding that she had never meant anything more seriously, and putting him on a much harder test than the one with the Veritaserum. If she had asked him after his desires _now_, she would have gotten an answer that would have shocked her utterly. But on this point, Lucius had firmly made up his mind in the past weeks. As much as he craved her, he would _not_ sleep with her, unless…

* * *

_Multum..._ Much is gained in love by fidelity, much by patience.

_Dona clandestina..._ Clandestine gifts are always suspicious!

'_Love is not love which alters...' _From: William Shakespeare, 'Sonnet CXVI'.


	29. Dissuasion

Narcissa is overjoyed to see Lucius again, but quickly realises he's keeping a secret from her.

* * *

**– I.28. –  
**

Dissuasion

* * *

_Be still my beating heart, it would be better to be cool_

_It's not time to be open just yet_

_A lesson once learned is so hard to forget_

_Be still my beating heart, or I'll be taken for a fool_

_It's not healthy to run at this pace_

_The blood runs so red to my face_

_I've been to every single book I know_

_To soothe the thoughts that plague me so_

_I sink like a stone that's been thrown in the ocean_

_My logic has drowned in a sea of emotion_

_Restore my broken dreams shattered like a falling glass_

_I'm not ready to be broken just yet_

_A lesson once learned is so hard to forget_

_Never to be wrong, never to make promises that break_

_It's like singing in the wind or writing on the surface of a lake_

_And I wriggle like a fish caught on dry land_

_And I struggle to avoid any help at hand_

_Stop before you start_

_Be still my beating heart_

_STING_

* * *

There had been only one more Hogsmeade weekend before the Easter holidays, and despite the daily letters, Narcissa missed – _him_ – madly. She felt awkward to say 'my boyfriend', although that's what he was, wasn't he, he _was_ her boyfriend. She found that term so ordinary, it did neither of them justice. Lucius had had so many girlfriends, she didn't think of herself to be just another one of those. She didn't consider herself to be one of those silly chicks having a 'boyfriend' either. She _loved_ him! Surely, that was worth so much more than her peers could understand, if even her own sister didn't get the true meaning of their relationship. Because right after getting together with him, she had been up all night writing two lengthy letters to her sisters, reporting what had happened _at last_, and how well she could now understand her sister, that love indeed weighed more than anything else. Bellatrix' reply had been fast and to the point, containing nothing but a simple '_Gotcha!_' Andromeda hadn't been long to be coming back with an answer either, but this answer hadn't been anything like what Narcissa had reckoned with. Instead, it had been full of accusations, gibes, derisive remarks about Lucius and scornful comments that she had believed Narcissa to be smarter than _that_, and that the end of this was going to be as sticky and sore as it was predictable… –

Narcissa had been bitterly disappointed with such a venomous reaction, and written back exactly one more, and last, time – to tell her sister that this one had been one of the few people whose opinion had actually mattered to her, but no more, no more! She had always stuck up for Andromeda and her new family, and was absolutely mortified that Andy didn't return the same sense of loyalty, even if she wasn't too fond of Lucius. It would have been her sisterly _duty_ to be glad that Narcissa was so exquisitely happy, in that one's point of view, and she didn't have it in her to forgive Andromeda for her unfeelingness.

She wondered how they would spend the holidays. For a start, she'd have to break the news as gently as possible to her father. This caused her considerable stomach-aches. How would he react? He had always been very protective of her, but since the thing with Andromeda, he had become almost paranoid. What was more – the sheer name of 'Lucius Malfoy' was a red rag to him. Would he be able to comprehend that she truly loved Lucius, of all people? That they belonged? That her happiness depended on him? And if he didn't…? Those holidays, short as they were, were their only chance to spend some time together until the summer, that seemed endless far away. She _had_ to make her father understand! And she had to be pretty quick about it, too, before Sirius or Regulus had told her aunt and uncle, and those two talked to her parents then…

Lucius himself remained very vague on the subject, assuring her that everything would be all right, but not explaining any further. Perhaps he thought that Cygnus Black was anything like Abraxas Malfoy – indifferent and derisive, even though she had told him many times over that her father was quite the opposite, taking great interest in his daughter's well-being, and suspicious of anyone who might disturb their peace. 'It'll sort itself out,' was his only reply, making her sigh and resolve that she must deal with her Papa on her own.

On the journey to London, she was so nervous that she could hardly concentrate on anything else. She didn't give the book in her lap more than an occasional glance, chiefly busy to imagine how she could do it. The sooner, the better, so much was obvious. The best thing would be to talk to her father right away, tonight if possible, because he was bound to need some time to accustom, and she wanted to seize the holidays as good and long as she could. What could she say? She'd have to win her mother over to her side for a start…

"Will you come and visit us, or will you spend the entire holidays hanging out with your Lucius?" Regulus, her First Year cousin who was sitting in the same compartment, asked a tad sourly.

"Of course I will come to visit, Reggie. Your parents have invited us all for Easter Sunday, have you forgotten?"

"No, I meant apart from that," he muttered, not looking at her. "You can bring him if you want to, you know…"

"I don't know yet, I haven't made any real plans –"

He suddenly beamed. "So let's make some plans now! You've always said you'd like to go to Bristol, we could go there for a day trip with Dad – or some days in Devon – or –"

She felt sorry for him, not quite sure how to tell him that she hadn't made plans yet _because_ she rather wanted to be with Lucius as much as possible. Going to Devon with her uncle and cousin was merely an option when Lucius had no time at all for her. Which _could_ be the case. He'd have to take his first exams soon, and his father wouldn't take it kindly if he didn't pass them. He had written to her, many wonderful letters, full of compliments and devotion, he had come to see her in Hogsmeade once more, but she was still sceptical sometimes. Wasn't it just a matter of time until he'd have grown tired of writing pretty _letters_ to a schoolgirl, when he could be having so much more fun with any other witch?

"I'll tell you later, Reggie. I couldn't say right now what I'm going to do."

"Yeah… So we're just going to be the stopgap, if your dearest Lucius is busy!"

"Oh, come on, Reggie. What's this going to be, eh? I'm really not in the mood to continue this debate if you're like that. And drop that snappish tone when you're talking about him, please."

They were alone in the compartment – Horatio, Evan and the others were getting wasted on self-made schnapps next door, Severus didn't go home if he could avoid it, and Narcissa wouldn't have sat together voluntarily with anyone else. She tried to enjoy Regulus' company, who had left his own friends to be with her instead, but she didn't. She liked being on her own, and he wasn't the sort of interesting company that she'd gladly exchange her solitude for. And when he was in a pouty mood like this, he was simply unbearable.

They were silent for the next half hour; Narcissa looked out of the window, pleased with the mild weather; the further south they got, the nicer it became. In London, there would be springtime, her parents' garden would be in full bloom… In this moment, the compartment door was pushed open, and she needn't look over to know that only one person could be standing there. Of course it was him, sniggering in an unpleasant way.

"Look who's there! My little brother and the school's favourite Ice Queen. Having fun, you two?"

"Piss off, Sirius," Regulus snarled, making Narcissa roll her eyes at the both of them and touch her wand in her pocket, just in case. Sirius was too proud to attack _her_, but she wouldn't sit and watch if he took it out on his little brother instead.

"Mind your language, Reggie. You know that our little princess here won't have vulgar words in her presence, and you wouldn't want to vex Her Grace, would you?"

"Oh, just bugger off, Sirius!"

"Ah, yes, I see, I see. You want to seize the chance, don't you, Reggie, and finally tell Her Highness what a massive crush you have on her, hm?"

Regulus' cheeks adapted a deeply scarlet glow and he opened his mouth for a reply, but was silenced by Narcissa's little smile at him of the 'Never mind' sort. She turned around at last and gave the intruder her best sneer. "Sirius," she sighed. "How come you favour us with your unwanted company?"

"I was worried for you, Cissy! Here I was, minding my own business, strolling along the corridor and happening to notice you two in here. Poor kids, I thought, no one wants to be in the same compartment with them. And here you are, all lonely and apparently discontent even with each other. Ts, ts. Dear cousin Sirius's come to cheer you all up a bit!"

"You'd truly _cheer_ _me_ _up_ if you vanished right now, cousin. Or maybe you might want to jump off the train? Or get your big head stuck in a window?"

"That would appeal to you, wouldn't it?"

"Nothing would cheer me up more."

Naturally, he did _not_ leave at once; instead he made himself comfortable, leaning against the door frame and showing his most complacent grin. "Why are you always so mean-spirited, Cissy? I had thought you could be a little friendlier these days, since you've found yourself a _boyfriend_ and all that. Tell me, how does Uncle Cygnus put up with it? Last thing _I _heard was how much he hated the guy."

His grin became a little more unpleasant yet – if that was possible – and Narcissa shuffled in her seat uneasily. That sly little worm, he knew which buttons he must push, she thought and was more repulsed by her cousin than ever. She hadn't made a secret of her initial correspondence with and subsequent relationship to Lucius Malfoy for nothing – she was sorely aware how her father would react if any such news came to his attention. But in a place like Hogwarts, gossip travelled fast, and for a start, there had been ample of students in the Three Broomsticks that day, who had counted two and two together – the steady supply of letters and flowers that Narcissa had received since the end of the Christmas holidays, and the tête-à-tête between her and notorious philanderer Lucius Malfoy, who, they all remembered just too well, had always been pursuing the girl in the first place. Some of them also had elder siblings or friends, who had been present at Rabastan Lestrange's New Year's Eve party, and had heard the story. And finally, a whole lot of people had seen Lucius walking Narcissa back to school that Valentine's Day, one arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders, the other hand clasping hers, and both of them looking as enraptured as they were oblivious to their surroundings. Such a lack of caution was uncharacteristic in Narcissa's case, but it could not be helped. All that was left for her to do was breaking the news to her father before Sirius had informed her aunt – she knew he hated his mother and therefore, she might have a short respite before her cousin could bring himself to do his mother a favour and supply her with cannon fodder to furthermore criticise her sister-in-law.

Sirius gave her a measuring glance, clearly enjoying the threat he could dangle above her head, and Narcissa, knowing how to push a few buttons herself, replied with malicious relish, "Why, how happy for you, cousin. For once finally – well, you must have given up all hope, really – you're free to do something to delight your poor mother. I can well understand the joy this must bring you. And her, of course."

The grin transformed into the sort of look one might expect from someone biting into a lemon. "You know, Cissy – I might actually do exactly that, if only to spite you. Displeasing you by pleasing my mother or pleasing you by cheating her out of her pleasure – it's a hard one to call, don't you think?"

"And you're calling _me_ 'mean-spirited', cousin?"

"I'm sure he means no such thing," Regulus tried to interject, with one of his doggish looks, but all he received for his kindly-meant attempt was a double amount of dagger glances.

"Keep out of this, bro," Sirius snarled. "She's a grand girl, she can fight her own battles."

"I most certainly can."

Regulus made a little gesture as if to say, 'I tried', and ducked away from the fight he was sure would ensue.

"Still – the question remains, Cissily," Sirius went on afresh. "You don't look all that jolly. Why's that, one wonders. Scared of my uncle? But that's impossible, isn't it, you've always been his darling pet. Or – speaking of scared… Has it finally occurred to you what sort of guy you've gotten involved with?"

Oh, he _was_ good, wasn't he! He really knew which blow'd hurt most! The little pig had truly guessed her one fear – that Lucius Malfoy's affections for her were as fickle as all his other dealings with the opposite sex. Perhaps her composure wasn't as impenetrable as she had always prided herself on – at any rate, her cousin continued, for once exchanging the glee for something softer, "If he's the one giving you grief, Cissily… If you want me to handle him –"

She dismissed the untypically friendly tone and snorted with laughter instead. "_Handle him?_ Oh my, Sirius, your exaggerated opinion of yourself is always good for a laugh."

"Only because he's meddling around with the Dark Arts doesn't mean he's invincible, Cissy," Sirius replied, trying to sound smooth and disinterested again.

"Nobody is _invincible_, cousin. Neither are you. And just because you and your little bunch of chums think you can hex anyone in school, you truly shouldn't continue like that outside of Hogwarts. Trust me, I only have your best at heart."

"Oh yes, of course!" He laughed heartily, too. "So I reckon _my best_ would be a heavy case of Dragon Pox, in your opinion? Or some squashed limbs?"

"Look, Sirius, you shouldn't think so ill of others, only because you are so nasty yourself. For all I care, you can be as healthy and striving as you please, as long as I don't have to see you. Be happy, be merry – be _elsewhere_!"

His annoying mates had shown up, dragging him away before he could spray some more if his venom. She received an apologetic glance from one of them – she never got the names right – the one with the unhealthy complexion and the melancholic eyes, and then they were gone. She groaned and turned back to little Reggie.

"Now I know why you're so desperate to go to Bristol. Must be hell to be stuck in one house with him for two weeks."

"Mum will take care, you know."

"You might want to learn to stand up to him yourself, Reggie. You cannot always rely on your mummy to sort things out for you." She leaned back and closed her eyes. She was indeed glad that her aunt wasn't _her_ mother. Aunt Walburga was simply insufferable, bossy, mean-spirited and vile. Little Regulus was her darling, though that didn't mean that she did him any good – commorari leoni et draconi placebit quam habitare cum muliere nequam, brevis omnis malitia super malitiam mulieris.

"We're almost there," Reggie cried out after some minutes. "Let _me_ carry your trunk, Narcissa!"

"Don't be ridiculous! Besides, there's a handy Diminishing Charm. You can jinx your own trunk to fit into your pocket as well. Want to learn it?"

She couldn't say how it happened, but Regulus merely set his trunk on fire. She rolled her eyes while extinguishing the flames, thinking that he was indeed a bit thick sometimes. Sirius would have learnt the same spell in the blink of an eye. He could probably do it already, on a second thought. He might be a repulsive little maggot, but he _was_ talented, she had to hand it to him.

The train throttled speed, and slowly, they arrived in King's Cross. She hadn't been mistaken, the weather was excellent. In less than half an hour, she'd be having tea with her parents in the garden, and perhaps she'd find an opportunity to talk to her mother in private –

She dismounted the train, looking around, she saw her parents and – her heart missed a beat. Next to her mother, she spotted Lucius' lean figure, beaming at her. What… She lowered her gaze, took a deep breath, straightened up and recomposed her face to look as serene and unperturbed as possible, praying that her inner turmoil didn't figure too clearly.

"Papa, Maman," she exclaimed a tad too exuberantly, brushing a kiss on each of their cheeks. "Erm – please, let me to introduce you to my friend, Lucius Malfoy –"

Only then she allowed herself to gaze at him, incapable to suppress the look of overwhelming happiness suffusing her seeing him again. He gave her half a wink, and her father gnarled, "Yes, yes." He shot the young man an odd glance. "We know each other already!"

"Yes, I suppose you do –" she said helplessly, remembering the occasion all too well, or rather Bella's and Lucius' accounts of that morning.

Cygnus pursed his lips. "Now he's taken the trouble of coming, you might just as well greet him properly, daughter."

She cast him a sideways look, unsure how serious he was, but all in all, this wasn't the time to worry about her father. She had missed Lucius for too long to restrain herself as she might have in front of her parents under different circumstances, and flew right into his arms. He lifted her off her feet and whirled her around, whispering, "Welcome back, angel! I missed you like crazy!"

"You _are_ crazy," she whispered back. "What have you been thinking, coming here!"

"I have been thinking of nothing but you!"

He put her back to her feet at last, smiling sheepishly and she couldn't help it but join him, ready to throw herself back in his arms and kiss him, but noticing her father's dour expression, she knew it wouldn't do. Straining to regain her countenance, she stammered, "I believe you have not been duly introduced to each other though –"

"I think it might be a little late for formal introductions," Cygnus said, once more gazing at Lucius with an indecipherable expression. His daughter thought she could discern disapproval, which would have been only natural, but there was more in there, more than rejection even. If she hadn't known better, she'd have thought he appeared almost frightened.

"Excuse my liberty," Lucius explained quietly, "but I felt I just had to come and fetch you!"

"That's – that was very sweet of you. Not quite what I had expected, but still – uhm…"

Her mother was smiling broadly and showered her with French phrases. Her father seemed to forget about his rancour, too, and pressed her tightly. "My dear, dear child," he muttered, "how I've missed you! How _are_ you? I couldn't make anything of your letters, they were all so short –"

Narcissa pretended to have been busy with the preparations for her exams in summer, but truth was that she had spent so much time with writing to Lucius that she hadn't bothered to write much to her parents as well. He was holding her hand, the four of them made their way out of the station, but once outside, Mr Black insisted to have his daughter Apparate alongside himself and she had to let go.

"Don't look like that, dear. You'll see the young gent again soon enough. Your mother has invited him for dinner."

Cygnus couldn't dispel the sour tone from his voice and shot his wife a strange gaze, grabbed his daughter's arm and Disapparated with her before she could even say goodbye to her suitor. Once they arrived at home, they did _not_ have tea. Instead, he pressed his hands in his sides and grumbled, "I do expect an explanation from you, Narcissa!"

"Yes, sir –"

She didn't come any further, for he instantly interrupted her. "Didn't you _swear_ you didn't care three straws for this boy? Didn't you say yourself that he was unreliable and fickle? So how come that he shows up here, claiming he couldn't do without you? Asking me –"

"Cygnus," Amandine said sternly, her brows knitted tightly.

He blushed and cleared his throat. "That he'd accompany us to the station, practically _forcing_ your mother to invite him and all that?"

"I was mistaken, Papa – sir. Nihil peccat, nisi quod nihil peccat. He – we –"

"I've always believed you were so smart, Narcissa! Hasn't the downfall of your sister taught you anything at all?"

"Leave 'er, chéri, it's –"

"Sh! How long is this going about, daughter?"

"Since Valentine's Day, Papa. Or rather say – we've been in love much longer, but we got together on Valentine's Day."

"In love! Ha! I strongly doubt that this guy knows the meaning of that word!"

"He does know it, Papa, and so do I – forgive me for not telling you sooner – for telling you in such a fashion, too – but I wanted to speak to you face to face. Believe me, I had no idea he would come today, I meant to prepare you better –"

"This isn't about _me_ being prepared, Narcissa! Are _you_ prepared, that's the crucial point!"

"Cygnus!" Her mother had got up, shot him a stern glance and smiled at Narcissa then. "Everyzing is fine. It's _fine_. Lucius Malfoy eez a fine young man, very 'andsome, from an excellent family, very wealsy 'imself – zere's one boy who clearly isn't attracted by money to be sure. And 'e seems to like our child very much, and she likes 'im, _zat_ is important."

"Important! Ph! What about you, Narcissa – _do_ you really like him?"

"I love him, Papa, I really do."

Judging his face, she could just as well have slapped him; he gave a little moan and coughed, "Oh well! We'll see about that! All I want from you is that you are cautious, Narcissa. Think of me, will you! I wouldn't survive if – if you were harmed. You do know about your mother's frail health, too!"

"Of course, Papa, I will be nothing but cautious. I _was_ cautious already –" And she told her parents the story about the Veritaserum, making her mother giggle and her father nod.

"Well – that's my girl, I'd say… You ought to have asked for his future intentions, too, while you were at it."

"Cygnus!"

"His intentions are good, Papa, I know it!"

He made no reply except for another moan and rang for the tea instead. She had been right, they did sit down outside in the Greek Pavilion, she could smell oleander and lavender, answered all her parents' questions about school, but her heart wasn't in it. All she could think of was that the worst was over, her father would – well, if not respect him, he'd at least tolerate her choice, and before soon, she'd see Lucius again, and everything would be brilliant.

He came perfectly on time – which was good, Cygnus hated tardiness – and they immediately sat down for dinner. Lucius hadn't told her that he would come to fetch her; in fact he had claimed to be very busy, this had been the main reason why she had been so insecure whether he would find time for her at all. But whenever she referred to this during their dinner conversation, he merely smiled and muttered some hollow commonplaces like 'We'll see' or 'I'm not sure what to do in the next week myself yet'.

The less talkative he was, the more he dampened her good mood. He was concealing something from her, it was so obvious, and feeling a burning sting in her breast, she thought she knew already what he'd have to tell her, sooner or later, because she wouldn't rest until she had made him say it. Procul ex oculi, procul ex mente! Yeah, he _had_ been busy, with some other girl, which, _of course_, didn't mean _anything_ to him, because he _only_ cared for her, yes, he would tell her that she needed to understand that he was only a man after all, blah blah blah.

At least her mother was in excellent spirits, more or less, chatting away, and making it less obtrusive that Narcissa said less and less, desperately fighting against the lump in her throat. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction to see her cry for him, oh no. She wasn't even cross with him, she was cross with _herself_, scolding herself for having been so utterly naïve, to have ignored the voice of reason that had told her that it would be like this, all along. She had _known_ his character – why had she deceived herself still then? Hadn't she told Andy in genuine, even spiteful, confidence that she simply wouldn't _allow_ herself to be heartbroken? Yes, how full of herself she had been to believe _that_! Maybe it was due to her juvenile age, her total want of experience. She had believed to be the mistress of her own heart, that it would only depend on her _will_, that he couldn't hurt her, no matter what, simply because she was so much in control of her own emotions. Right here, at the worst possible time, she had to realise that she had been thoroughly mistaken.

"Ma petite, eez zere anything wrong with you? You look pale –"

"I'm sorry, Maman. I think I am simply tired."

"Ah, oui, naturellement. You must go to bed quickly, you've 'ad a long day, and 'ave another long day a'ead of you."

"Hmm." She avoided looking at Lucius, picking at her broccoli, admonishing herself to keep up her countenance and _smile_, for Merlin's sake, but the only thing she succeeded with was not bursting into tears, at least.

She heard his voice, low and gentle, "Narcissa?"

She only managed some groaning noise, still not looking over and staring at her plate, quickly eating a fork full of potato so she needn't say anything. She could feel his gaze lingering on her, heard him say, "My dearest, you really got me worried! Is there anything we can do for you?"

She shook her head, stubbornly looking at her food. If only he left, then she could find some relief, maybe, by crying her eyes out. That might help to vanquish the burning lump, perhaps she would be able to breathe again properly once she had got rid of it, perhaps she would get a grip again afterwards. Her head was spinning, she could hardly grasp how insanely happy she had felt two hours ago, just when reassuring her father how deep their mutual affection was… Dessert was served, followed by some cups of espresso, but she didn't touch hers, steeling herself for one last brave show.

She got up, smirking as placidly as she could, trying to have her voice not betray her devastation. "You must excuse me – Papa, Maman – Lucius… I have got to go to bed. I'm really unwell." Seeing her father's dismay, she quickly added, "Nothing that a good night's sleep couldn't sort out, I am sure, Papa. Don't worry, I – I just need some sleep. Good night…"

Lucius had got up, too, from the corner of her eye, she saw that he looked troubled as well, but she didn't honour him with an extra address, that would have been asking too much, really. He followed her out into the hallway; she walked as quickly as possible without running, he called out her name, and squeezing her eyes shut for a split second, she resolved to keep her civility and turn around to him.

Indeed, his face showed deep concern, he reached out for her hand, pressed it, kissed it – she gave her best not to flinch – and murmured, "My dear, I am sorry, I don't want to keep you any longer from your well-deserved rest. But I – I need to speak to you, and had hoped that you'd be free, tomorrow? I thought I could fetch you – I talked to your parents and they said you had no prior engagements, as far as they know –"

"Yes, Lucius, let us _talk_. That's what I've thought, too. But excuse me _now_, I _really_ got to go –"

* * *

_Commorari leoni... _It is better to live among dragons and lions, than with a vile woman; short is all malice compared to female spite.

_Nihil peccat..._ He has no mistake apart from having no mistakes.

_Procul ex..._ Out of sight, out of mind.


	30. Contrition

Never in her life has Narcissa wished so badly to be wrong.

* * *

**– I.29. –  
**

Contrition

* * *

_My most brilliant achievement was my ability to be able to persuade my wife to marry me._

_WINSTON CHURCHILL_

* * *

She didn't find a _minute_ of rest that night. She tossed and turned, and _cried_, mostly – she hadn't had a notion that she could have so much water for tears inside her. The lump in her throat did _not_ go away, it got only worse, additionally, she was sick, her guts felt like revolting, she got a headache, undoubtedly from weeping so much, but all that wouldn't have been so terrible, if she hadn't felt so dreadful. Her mind told her that she didn't deserve better, fools will be fools, why had she allowed him to ensnare her, she could have known better, she _had_ known better…

But neither sickness nor anger with herself were the chief parts of her anguish. She was just so sad, so unspeakably unhappy. Lucius didn't love her. He said he did, and perhaps he even thought so, but this was no love. She was no sentimentalist, but she found still that _love_ required a bit more than _that_! If he really loved her, he wouldn't have cheated on her, because he would have _thought_ of her, that he couldn't but hurt her, no matter how cool she ever pretended to be. And love meant that one wouldn't want to hurt the beloved person, right? She would never have hurt _him_.

She was almost grateful when the morning came, when she heard all the familiar noises in the house, the elves preparing breakfast, her father whistling under the shower. She had cried enough, for now at least. She'd face Lucius, she'd hear what he wanted to tell her, and she swore to herself that she wouldn't let him know how badly he had injured her. She would be as cool as ice – this was the day on which she'd finally deserve the title that some of the other students had for her. She'd _be_ the Ice Queen. She could continue to mourn when she was on her own again.

One look into the mirror told her that she could try to be as chilly as she pleased, her looks would give her away, and grinding her teeth, she began to conceal the damage. She bleached her sore nose, her bloodshot eyes, the deep, dark rings around them. When she had finished, she had the grim satisfaction to see that she had hardly ever looked better than in this moment. If he did find her so beautiful, he'd be even sorrier to have gambled away her good opinion of himself, oh yes, he _would_!

She chose robes with a deep décolleté and a tight cut, making her look tempting at her best, and although she was trembling when putting on her earrings, she thought she would conquer that quiver, too. If anything, she would derive strength from her own pride; he could devastate her, but at least he would never know.

She heard his voice in the hallway, and casting her immaculate reflection one last glance, she lifted her chin and strode downstairs, displaying her best school smile, as she would call it – supreme, reserved, cold. For a moment, he smiled back, but then he seemed to have noticed that something was wrong, and when he said hello with a short kiss on her cheek, he muttered, "Anything wrong, dear?"

"No. What should be wrong? Can we go?"

"You… – Never mind." He offered her his arm, they said good bye to her beaming mother and disgruntled father, and left, Disapparated to Malfoy Manor, and shortly, she almost forgot her anguish when seeing the splendour of the blooming gardens surrounding the buildings. God, this place _was_ magnificent – what a pity that she wasn't going to see it again. He didn't take her inside though, but lead her along a path towards the park.

"Let's take a walk," he murmured. "My father doesn't expect us before noon."

"Wouldn't it be more proper to quickly say hello to him first?"

She thought she should, because once they had – _talked_ – she would be too much downcast to keep her façade up and meet old Mr Malfoy, and endure his insolence. She noticed Lucius' awkwardness, finding that it suited him right – at least he wasn't complacent about his crimes. Clearly preoccupied with something, he evaded the question and gestured around instead.

"Do you like the gardens?"

"Very much, yes. They are beautiful indeed," she replied curtly, receiving an odd glance.

"What is bothering you, Narcissa?"

"Bothering me? Why, I don't know what you are talking about."

"You're so – so distant… Are you still feeling unwell?"

"Trust me, I've never felt better."

"You've surely never _looked_ better. That dress is – oh dear. Anyway – why are you – you are so different…"

"Am I? However, let's not talk _about_ me, Lucius. You've said you wanted to talk _to_ me about something?"

She was proud how cool she sounded – perfectly indifferent – and he appeared to notice it, too. He swallowed, she could see it from the corner of her eyes, and murmured, "In a minute, Narcissa…"

"Why, is it so bad then?"

"Bad? Oh, no – at least I hope so…"

"So what are you waiting for?"

"We're not quite there yet –"

"Where are we going then?"

"I'll show you." His voice had dropped and he cleared his throat. Better get through with this as quickly as possible; she took a deep breath, turned her head to face him and showed a smile.

"Lucius, I might appear to you like some silly teenage girl, but I am not _quite_ that silly. I _know_ what you want to say, so can we please make this a quick one?"

His jaw had dropped and he gaped at her for a moment. "You _know_? Did your father – anyway, what do you mean with silly? I don't think you were _silly_, for Merlin's sake!"

"It's not exactly hard to guess, is it? Honestly, out with it, it doesn't get better by doing it in a more beautiful place."

He stopped dead and turned to her with a very quizzical expression. "I think we should clarify something here, Narcissa – _I_ know what I am talking about, but you seem to have something else on your mind, or I couldn't account for your bristling hostility!"

"Am I that hostile? I am sorry, I didn't mean to be. Have you practised a speech?"

"I have, yes… I'm just not sure that you want to hear it."

"Oh, yes, I do want to hear it. I'm truly curious for your excuses. They're bound to be very interesting indeed."

"My _excuses_? For what, please? Have I wronged you in some way that has slipped my notice?"

He really had a nerve, hadn't he? His face was so innocent, he looked as if here were genuinely bewildered, almost frightened, there was a flicker in his eyes that looked like sincere disappointment, but he couldn't deceive her anymore. She pretended to sigh, like her mother would when she was exasperated with Bella, and said, "I don't blame you, you know? I can easily imagine how hard it must be for you. The temptation was just too great, right? You couldn't have constrained yourself, and if it had been for your life? I hope it was worth it, indeed."

He faltered for a moment, staring at her in blank lack of comprehension. "What the _heck_ are you talking about? _What_ was worth _what_? What temptation – I mean –"

"Come on, Lucius, don't be such a coward! You can just tell me, I won't bite your head off. Do I really have to say it myself? You met someone – she was very pretty – impossible to resist – you have a guilty conscience, but you couldn't have helped it either, after all you're just a man –"

He burst out laughing, almost cringing with laughter in fact, and she had to battle down the urge to slap him. She had expected a lot of things, but not that he would dare to ridicule her still! "Narcissa," he croaked, trying to calm himself, "Could it be that you are – are you labouring under the impression I had – oh, my goodness!"

"Pull yourself together," she said as coldly as she could, feeling the uprising tears in her throat.

He bit his lip, closed his eyes for a moment, and looked straight at her then. "My dear, dear Narcissa – if I do not mistake your words, you think that I had – what – betrayed you? Is _that_ what you think?"

"Isn't that right then?" Oh, darn it, why did she have to sound so hopeful? She wanted to sound crisp, disdainful, anything, but certainly not _hopeful_, although she was. Very much so. She'd give her right hand if he only told her that she was wrong and she could believe him.

"No, it is _not_ right! What are you thinking? How could I? Oh my god – do you truly believe I would do that? Why _should_ I? I'm in love with the smartest, most beautiful, most amiable witch on this planet – I've been in love with you since I first saw you – now that I've finally managed to convince you of all that, why should I even _look_ at someone else?"

She was a little speechless, opening and shutting her mouth in the most undignified manner. He pulled her close and chucked her under the chin, coming very close and whispering, "Is that why you have treated me so coldly all day?"

She nodded in silence, and he went on, very earnestly, "I have never betrayed you, and I never will, Cissa. I haven't even _gazed_ at any other woman than you – I've not done as much as _thought_ of anyone but you. You are constantly on my mind! Do you believe me?"

She nodded again, so confused, nay, ashamed now, she could hardly breathe. Yes, she did believe him, and if only because she so desperately wanted him to be telling the truth.

"Have you got no faith in me at all?"

He sounded offended now, and summoning her last wits, she answered miserably, "You were so strange – yesterday – you evaded my questions – you –"

He didn't reply at once, merely gazing down at her, then he swung his arms around her and pressed her close. "Oh Narcissa, I didn't mean to – I'm so sorry… Yes, I did act weird, didn't I… But not because of _that_, anything like that. You see – I'm pretty damned nervous myself, I guess you've just picked up on that –"

He loosened the embrace, pecked a swift kiss on her nose and gave her a very warm smile. "Come on, it's only a few more steps – just around that corner –"

She clang to his arm, not feeling her own legs, her head was empty but for one thought – he hadn't done it – he had been faithful to her – she couldn't even contemplate where he was taking her, or why he should be _nervous_. It didn't matter, as long as he was still hers –

She faintly noticed that the spot they now entered was the most enchanting by far she had ever seen, it bore a fantastic view over the old castle part of Malfoy Manor, the edge of the lake and the orchards; there was a small bench with dark green velvet cushions, underneath some very pretty hazelnut shrubs, all the trees around were blossoming, lilies of the valley everywhere. He led her to the bench and made her sit down, and in the next moment, he was on his knees himself, squeezing her hands and looking up into her face with the strangest expression.

He was very pale now, swallowed hard, kissed her hands a few times before looking up again and speaking in a croaking voice, "My Narcissa – I _have_ practised this speech, but I'm afraid I've forgotten all the words… I – I love you. I cannot live without you. You are the best – the utmost magnificent thing that has ever happened to me and if you let me, I will never let you go… I know, you will think this premature, perhaps even think I was crazy, but I've got to ask you nonetheless. – I want to spend the rest of my life by your side, so would you – would you –"

She stared at him, hardly daring to breathe, thoroughly captivated by his eyes. He moistened his lips, took a deep breath himself and went on, "Would you want to marry me?"

The blow was harder as if someone had hit her with a curse, she nearly sank down – it was lucky that she was already sitting; she was beyond words. He waited for a moment, looking at her expectantly, and when she said nothing, he continued with closed eyes. "I know this must appear bizarre to you – and I could well understand if you found me impertinent – that you couldn't give me your hand, seeing you are only seventeen – but I _had_ to ask you still –"

She had rallied herself far enough to whisper, "I want to be with you, too, Lucius, always –"

His eyes flew open again. "Do you?"

"Yes! _Yes!_"

He stared at her as if he didn't trust his ears. "You mean – you would contemplate to marry me?"

"Yes! And I need not _contemplate_ it! I do want to marry you!"

He covered her hands with kisses, nestled with some pocket, and produced a small velvet box. His hands were shaking, she noticed, and in the next moment, he presented an absolutely incredible ring to her – an artful masterpiece of platinum, sapphires and a huge diamond shaped like a daffodil – putting it onto her left ring finger. "Accept this as a token of my love for you. I swear I will do everything in my power to make you happy; if you do have faith in me, I will never let you down, my angel, my love – I love you more than my own life, Narcissa…"

"I love you, too," she moaned, no longer able to maintain _anything_ like composure. She began to cry, glided from the bench and threw her arms around him, out of herself, pressing her face against his shoulder; he seized her close, she clang to him almost desperately. Her head was in a complete mess, and the last remnants of rational conjecture vanished as well when his lips found hers.

Oh Lord, Merlin, Jesus, Mary and all saints – had he truly just asked her to become his wife? He had, hadn't he? And she had said yes, right? And she had treated him so badly! Had doubted him, had imputed on him that he had turned away from her! How could she accuse _him _of unfaithfulness, when it was really _she _lacking all faith in her only love – her fiancé! And _why_? Because he hadn't been as loquacious as usual at dinner? She was so happy, and incredulous, and very mad with herself for such a lack of trust for no real reason. Perhaps it was her old diffidence, the nagging fear that he'd find himself a girl that he could have more, and easier fun with… However, her behaviour had been unpardonable, and she made a silent oath to never – _never _– doubt him again, and _if _there was something disturbing her, she'd give him the chance to explain before she'd go mad at him… She was still completely out of herself when they returned to the Manor; she felt like hovering above the ground, so much indeed, she almost forgot to be apprehensive of her meeting old Abraxas Malfoy. _Almost_.

"Can't we make some detour?" she asked, fidgeting. "Or – postpone it all, perhaps? I'm just so happy, and I – I'm not entirely sure I'll be able to forgive your father for jilting _this_ of all days…"

He giggled. "I'll make any detour you ask me for, my love. But you need not be afraid of him. In fact, he adores you almost as much as I do."

"Does he?" She was soundly astonished; her only encounter with the man had given her quite the opposite impression.

"Yeah! He thinks, rather astutely, that you're much too good for me –"

"Nonsense!"

"He admires your wit and intelligence, and seriously, Narcissa – show me the man that isn't thoroughly beguiled by you." He gave her a deep, loving look. "So is my father. As brief as your encounter may have been then, as favourable was the impression you've made on him."

She wrinkled her nose in incredulity. As far as her memory of that night was concerned, the evening had been nothing if not disastrous, and that she should have made a good impression in passing on her future father-in-law seemed very unlikely.

"I told him I'd take my chances and ask you, you know?" Lucius went on and smirked, recalling the conversation. "Not because I'd give anything for his approval, but after the positive outcome of talking to _your_ father, I got a bit soft in the head. Perhaps I just meant to prove myself what an old fool my own father is. However, he sort of surprised me. He was all for the idea – this must be the first time ever that he actually approves of something I want to do. Being him, he predicted that you'd say no of course."

"Well, isn't he a charming fellow?" she sniggered and regained a little of her normal humour.

For the first time since she had accepted him, a little shadow flew over his face. "You _are _aware that, once we're married, you'll have to live under the same roof like he…?"

"It's a pretty spacious roof though, Lucius. I daresay we'll manage very comfortably. No, no, the only problem you and I have left is not _your_ father, dear," she said playfully and cuddled closer up to him yet. "_I_ want to marry you, there's nothing I would rather do – but how you want to convince my Papa of this remains a miracle to me."

He sniggered. "Nah… Your father will give us his consent – grudgingly, perhaps, but consent he will."

"Trust me, I know him a little better. I'm his little pet, you know; he's once sworn to kill any man who'd come near me – it's astonishing that he hasn't murdered you yet…"

"Yes, I was a little worried about that, too. In fairness though, I found him far less belligerent than I had initially expected."

"You'll have my mother on your side… She's very fond of you, I think. Maybe she can convince him to only strangle you a bit."

He gave her a roguish look. "You know, I think you're right. I _have_ your mother on my side. She is one of my greatest fans, I reckon… But it appears she has used her good influence on your father already, because he eventually agreed without throwing a single curse at me –"

"He _agreed?_ What – why –"

"I got your sister Bellatrix to thank for the tip. She said that your father was of a peculiar kind, and that I'd better take a little detour if I wanted to secure our future properly…"

"You've asked _him_ before you've asked me?" She laughed and boxed him playfully.

"Well, not exactly." He caught her hand and kissed it. "I just wanted to get it right, you see, and I knew he wouldn't let me come anywhere _near_ you. So I called on him, and seized the first chance I got when he stopped shouting at me to catch his breath, to tell him how much I love you –"

"Knowing my dear Papa, I suppose it took you a while to get to that part?"

He laughed. "Not nearly as long as I had reckoned. Obviously, he wouldn't believe a single word I said at first, and _that_ is where your good mother comes in. Bella said expressly that I should make sure your mother was there. However, he finally did listen, and I told him that you are the only one I've ever loved, that I'm perfectly serious and have nothing but the most sincere intentions, and that I want to marry you at once if only you'll have me – and from that moment on, he was _so_ put out, he couldn't muster the strength anymore to try quarrelling with me."

She giggled. "Poor Papa! You told him you'd steal his pet!"

"'Pluck his little flower,' he called it, yes. I had even brought some strengthening potions – just in case – because you said he's got a weak heart, but luckily, neither of us needed them."

She hurled her arms around his neck. "That was very thoughtful of you!"

"I hope I'll never be any other thing than thoughtful where you are concerned, my angel," he said very earnestly. "I know I have many faults, but I promise you I'll be the best husband you can wish for. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you."

Narcissa remembered her father's seriousness that previous afternoon, how he had tried to impress on her that she should awaken to her true feelings for Lucius, and his grave glances this morning before they had left… She gave him credit for both his concerns and his capability to give her free. If possible, she had never loved her father more than in this minute.

"There's only one drawback, regarding your father… I had to give him my word that you'll finish school first. Are you angry with me for promising him so much, without your consent?"

"Of course not! Hang on – that's more than a year still – oh – I hadn't thought of that –"

"And speaking of waiting, there's another thing… Something I've promised myself, as well as to your father – but you mustn't laugh at me now…" He kissed her, his cheeks pink.

"I won't laugh! Of course I won't!"

No, she didn't _laugh_. Once he had told her, she gaped at him for a full minute, thinking she must have misunderstood him _completely_. Because Lucius, it would appear, had made some solemn oath to himself, even _before_ talking to her parents. He was determined never to touch her before they were properly married. Well, touch her in any other way than to kiss her, or swirl his arm around her waist, or shoulder. She couldn't believe it.

"I could never degrade you to stand in a line with all the – oh well. You know what you thought yourself, only two hours ago; you believed you couldn't trust me because I've done a lot of things that make me appear untrustworthy. I will prove to you that I could deserve you."

"By not – not – you cannot be serious, can you?"

"I am very serious."

"But – I must have got you wrong, Lucius, I'm sorry. You asked me to be your wife – I said yes – meaning we are engaged – and still you don't want to get involved with me?"

He smirked. "Believe me, Narcissa, there is nothing that I want more. I'm beside myself, merely by _looking_ at you, and when we kiss… I do want you. You are beautiful, you are sexy – but then – you're also an angel. You are hallow –"

"I am no such thing!"

"Yes, you are. To me, you are. I've done too many things that I was once proud of and that I now long to make undone. But my feelings for you are different, and therefore I will _act_ differently. Who only does what he always did will only get what he always got. I have far too much respect for you to do anything else. Could there be a better way to show you my earnestness?"

She wasn't convinced that his taking on the whole subject was either sensible, or practicable, or completely sane even. But she had no intention to argue with her so newly betrothed fiancé. – Goodness, _fiancé!_ – She couldn't believe it still. She was _engaged_! He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her! Her bliss couldn't have been more complete. He wanted to be with her as much as she wanted to be with him – _forever_. And especially after this day's unhappy start, she was unspeakably rapturous to know that nothing could ever part them again.


	31. Unravelling The Riddle

Narcissa finds out the truth about Lucius' master.

* * *

**– I.30. –  
**

Unravelling The Riddle

* * *

_Tutemet mirabere._

_TERENCE – Heauton Timorumenos_

* * *

Hogwarts hadn't seen such a piece of jewellery before, and for some days, Narcissa's engagement ring, just like the engagement as such, which had been announced in the Daily Prophet according to Cygnus' demands, were the only topics among the female students. The ring was truly incredible – Jeanie and Lassie nearly fainted when spotting it after the holidays – even Bellatrix had made a joke that small African countries could be run by the equivalent value. Narcissa didn't care for the money it was worth; in her mind, this ring was invaluable.

Her roommates found some odd kind of vicarious pleasure in the whole story. 'One of them' – whatever that was supposed to mean, because Narcissa had certainly never regarded herself belonging to them in any small way – had caught the country's most desirable bachelor. 'One of them' would soon become Europe's richest witch, 'one of them' had captivated that most elusive fellow. Perhaps there was a certain amount of well-disguised envy in all their gushing, but the prevailing sentiment was indeed satisfaction, partly with retroactive effect. Lassie in particular was most willing to declare that Narcissa and Lucius were 'the real deal'; it made her own oh-so-short interlude with the boy so much more dignified. _Of course_ it could not have worked out between them – because Lucius Malfoy's one and true love must always have been Narcissa, so it was really no one's fault. At least the first part of this claim wasn't as far off the mark as Lassie usually was.

They were suddenly willing to cut Narcissa a whole lot of slack, too. Her disinterest in fashion magazines, for example, or her style of dressing herself – which the other girls had always thought weird – were marks of distinction now; the costly, old-fashioned materials, the keenness to cover every bit of skin by sporting extra-long skirts, long-sleeved blouses even on the hottest summer day and turtleneck sweaters in winter, they now interpreted as the proper attire of a sophisticated young lady saving herself up for 'Mr Right'. Speaking of it – speculation was running high in that quarter. Given Lucius Malfoy's reputation, it might have been only natural that they all automatically assumed that the 'impregnable fortress', as Martha had always called her dorm-mate, had been stormed and taken. As annoyed as Narcissa was by all their questioning and talking, as unwilling was she to make the smallest comment on the matter, not to speak of her immense bewilderment. She didn't understand half of the sexual innuendo and frankly, she wasn't sure how enthusiastic she could become of these things. It sounded quite frightful when one listened to Jeanie or Martha. So far, she had come to congratulate herself on Lucius' pledge after all.

Other than that, she had never been more supremely happy, now and then wondering whether it wasn't all just a dream. The only boy she had ever cared for was in love with her and had asked her to be his wife, even her parents approved, not to mention old Mr Malfoy, who was so besotted with his future daughter-in-law that he attempted to curb his grumpiness for her sake; in fact, the two of them got along so splendidly that he was inclined to think little better of his son even. There must be _something_ about the boy after all, he thought, if he had won the heart of such a formidable young woman. Lucius couldn't but marvel at his old man, though he didn't have too much time to ponder. Next to his other obligations, he spent hours each day writing to his beloved while she was in school; it was the only way to be near her during her absence, and he missed her like crazy. How he had ever managed to be without her was as much a mystery to him as the question what he had done to deserve her graciousness to love him. He had the vague impression that his life would have taken very different turns in the past, if he had known then that the most precious of hearts was his, had always been his, too.

Narcissa's only sorrow was that time was ticking away much too slowly, except for the holidays, when it was flying with the speed of an arrow. Her parents still kept a close eye on her, engaged or not, and she couldn't blame them after the debacle of Andromeda's pregnancy. Their caution had at least one advantage – it was slightly easier for the young couple to stick to Lucius' self-imposed reserve. If Narcissa had still been a little frightened of the concept of sex in the Easter holidays, her desire had definitely conquered her anxiety in summer. She got so excited when they kissed – she wanted more of him, much, much more. She could feel the definition of his muscles underneath his robes, and the warmer the weather, the less material there was to disguise them. The darned Quidditch had shaped his body, making it fit and tight and strong, and she dreamt of touching it; actually, she would have been quite content for a start getting to _see_ it. Thank god, autumn came with thicker clothes, but unfortunately, also the start of her seventh year, and another lengthy period where they could rarely see each other.

So she had to content herself with the so-called 'little things' – countless letters, the orchids, lilies, roses he still sent her at least twice per week, rare books, jewellery. As delighted as she was every morning when the post owls arrived – no gift could seriously substitute for the sender. She missed him so badly, and there was only one more Hogsmeade weekend before the Christmas holidays, and both seemed endlessly far away still. Two of the secret passages out of the school had been discovered because some idiotic Third Years had been caught using them, and the third one that Narcissa knew was only accessible during new moon. A number of times, she had sneaked out of the boundaries through the Forbidden Forest to meet her love, but after she accidentally mentioned that she thought she had spotted a couple of werewolves in the distance, Lucius strictly refused to meet her when she had to use this way out, despite her assurances that she might have erred and they had merely been some very large dogs.

In spite of the necessary secrecy, Lucius hadn't concealed his other commitment from Narcissa. He had sworn an oath of lifelong service to the Dark Lord – unlike his studies in College, he was devoted to the Dark Arts and worshipped his master; _this_ was what he really wanted to do, what he was good at, what gave him the kicks. Narcissa hadn't been surprised. She had heard the rumours even before Bella had told her how she had met Lucius; she had known his fancy for the Dark Arts and his general enthusiasm for secret clubs. If she should have guessed who was bound to be part of that mysterious order, she would have betted that Lucius was among them, just like her own sister. This was just like them.

She found the Dark Arts interesting – they were banned from Hogwarts, making them all the more interesting, and she thought that Dumbledore was an old fool. All his students knew curses, and this was, in short, what the Dark Arts were about – curses, more or less dangerous curses. Instead of making such a miracle, nay – _taboo_ out of them, he should treat them as what they were; facts of life that needed to be dealt with. Taboos merely attracted curiosity, made someone like this Lord Voldemort great. Dumbledore was a hypocrite, _that_ was the problem. He'd have _Defence_ Against The Dark Arts taught, the whole subject was to learn curses that were neatly labelled 'counter-curses', as if that was any different.

Still, she didn't feel the slightest inclination to join up herself when Bella mentioned this possibility. She'd worship no master, certainly not, and she had been amazed that Lucius would. On the other hand – his father had never been the strong role-model he had been looking for, never given him the praise and support he received from his master. So perhaps the Dark Order was just the right thing, although she was more than suspicious about this _lifelong_ service thing. Maybe it was just her jealousy; she wanted to be the only one that he'd give lifelong oaths to.

She was curious about the identity of this 'Lord Voldemort'. From Lucius, she knew that this one claimed to be a descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself, but that might be a lie. Those were the rules of the so-called 'street-credibility', claim to be of good stock, be tougher and more ruthless than the rest, create some mystery about yourself, _et voilà_, instant fame. She didn't buy this. That Lord Voldemort might well be a genius, but after all he was just human, and she wanted to get behind his secret. Who was he? Where did he come from? And what the heck was he about? He didn't strike her like an altruist, just wishing to teach talented young magicians. He must have a purpose, and since her fiancé had put all his eggs in this one basket, she'd better find out.

She started with the claim that he was a descendant of Slytherin. This was comparably easy, all she had to do was checking the family chronicles and the Hogwarts' enrolment book. The Slytherin lineage had been extinct since the eleventh century, but some female family members had married into other dynasties. She carefully traced four dozen family trees, finding that the only contemporary family that could claim a connection were the Gaunts. Of course, none of the pure-blooded families would have come through without marrying their own cousins every now and then – just like her Uncle Orion had married his second grade cousin Walburga (and look _what_ had come out of it!) – but the marriage records of the Gaunts were truly appalling. For goodness' sake! However, the last two children of this bloodline were dead, too, according to the records. Merope Gaunt had died in the twenties, aged twenty-two. Morfin Gaunt had died in Azkaban in the fifties. Neither of them seemed to have got any children, ergo their line was extinct, ergo there was no living relative of old Salazar. Lord Voldemort was a fraud, at least concerning his parentage.

This sort of discovery was better _not_ put in a letter, so she decided to wait for the next Hogsmeade weekend and tell Lucius personally. This was lucky, for it spared her a mistake – because two days later, she received a rather formal note from her sister Andromeda – who still hadn't forgiven her for her engagement to Lucius Malfoy, just like Narcissa hadn't forgiven her the unpardonable reaction to those news. Attached to a few courtesy phrases was a photo of the little family, which Narcissa contemplated now. – Andy looked very happy. She beamed at her husband, cuddled her baby daughter and nothing in the picture betrayed the worries they must be having. Cygnus had fulfilled his threats and taken care that Ted got no good job, neither in the Ministry nor elsewhere. He thought he could convince his daughter like this to abandon her husband and return with her 'misbegotten bastard child' to her wealthy family's bosom. Thank god, he had no idea that his own wife undermined his scheming by secretly slipping Andy a good deal of galleons here and there, 'to keep them from starving', as she would say.

'Misbegotten bastard child'… This rang a different kind of bell in her head. Not every family member would necessarily appear on the official family trees, right? She had merely checked Hogwarts' Great Book for possible omissions, but she hadn't thought of checking whether any of them had 'unofficial' children with unsuitable partners, or children that would appear nowhere because they had been born out of wedlock…

She went through the chronicles and alumni books once again, counterchecking with the Great Book. No. No. No… She had almost given up when coming across a few odd entries. Lucius had estimated his master's age – he didn't really _know_, but the Dark Lord was friendly with some of the older members, making it seem as if they knew each other of old, so if he had indeed been in school with Rodolphus' uncle and Mr Rosier, he must be in his mid-forties, five years more or less…

She checked every single entry in the Great Book between 1915 and 1935, which took her two days on total. There were lots of possible candidates. There had been a Muggle war in that period, costing many wizards' lives, too, leaving orphaned children, mothers who'd marry anew, mothers who hadn't managed to marry the father of their child before this one's death… She came across her old friend Tom Riddle again and smiled. He was too young to be an indirect victim of that war, and too old to lose his parents in the next. In the colon with the parents' names, there were two little '_orph._', his residential address was from a Muggle orphanage. Tom Marvolo Riddle… What might have become of him, eh? Hang on… Marvolo… Marvolo… This was no common Muggle name, for a start, and what was more – she had read that quite rare name elsewhere already. Could that boy have a Muggle mother, who had named him after his wizard father? There were only two possible suspects – Ignatius Marvolo Harper, born in 1851, died in 1930, and strangely enough, Marvolo Fengon Gaunt, born in 1868, died in 1925. Harper, it turned out, had suffered from a lingering disease in the last fifteen years of his life; it was unlikely that he had still fathered a son in that time. As for Marvolo… Something else caught her eye in that moment. Marvolo's daughter Merope had died on December 31st, 1925 – which was the day of Tom Marvolo Riddle's birth!

She compared the two photographs in the annuals, dismissing the idea as nonsense. Merope was positively ugly, while Tom looked fantastic. They could impossibly be mother and son! Well, perhaps the father had been good-looking…? But why would some handsome Muggle get involved with a witch that had some resemblance with a hag? Why would a witch become involved with a Muggle anyway? '_Because_ he was handsome', she scolded herself, 'and because _she_ would know some means to an end to make him fancy her, too…' She went through the books once more, this time exclusively focusing on Tom Riddle and Merope Gaunt. Tom had received a medal for special services to the school. It wasn't expressly stated, but she found it rather obvious that this service must have something to do with a certain incident that year – 1942 – in which a student had been killed.

She got up and fetched an album with issues of the Daily Prophet from 1942, flipped through it, and wasn't let down. There… '_HAS THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS BEEN OPENED?_' The Chamber of Secrets was something like a legend, the sort of horror story that older students told the younger ones to frighten them out of their wits. It was said that Salazar Slytherin had built it somewhere in Hogwarts and disguised it so cleverly that it had never been discovered. Only his true heir would be able to open it, and unleash the terrible monster inside. Narcissa had never believed this nonsense, but maybe it was no nonsense after all…? If Tom Riddle truly was Merope Gaunt's son, he _was_ a descendant of old Slytherin, Muggle father or not. 1245 was the magic number here. Tom Riddle had achieved 45 points more than possible, proving what an excellent wizard he was, indicating that he had been crafty beyond his age, beyond his apparent chances… Slytherin had had an aversion against anyone not pureblooded, but surely, he would have been very proud with an heir like Tom, wouldn't he? Such excellence! Such talent!

But Tom wouldn't have been rewarded for opening the Chamber of Secrets. He would have been kicked out of the school, more like, if not incarcerated in Azkaban straightaway! 'Oh, come on, stupid!' She scolded herself again. _If_ a brilliant wizard committed some crime, he'd surely be able to blame someone else for it. More moronic people than him had managed this. He could have opened the Chamber to see what was inside, out of mere curiosity, simply because he _could_… And then, a girl had been killed, and a culprit had needed to be found, and surely, Tom hadn't had the least intention to pay for it himself and be expelled. She grinned triumphantly. _That_ was the reason of this medal! She just knew it. He had got a medal because he had found out the 'culprit' – and he had found him out because he had planted the evidence himself. Of course! Anyone with half a brain would have done the same!

She was absolutely thrilled. After admiring Tom Riddle, the brilliant, incomparable Tom Riddle, for so long, wondering what he might be doing nowadays, envying his excellence, she had finally discovered his secrets. _He_ was Salazar Slytherin's last heir. She would have wagered her right arm that he had changed his name in 'Lord Voldemort' and decided to become a true expert in the Dark Arts.

Wasn't this ironic? And rather wonderful? Lucius should have bound himself to Tom Riddle of all persons? The brilliant, brilliant Tom Riddle? Whom she had admired for so long? Seen in this new light, the duty of kneeling down before one's master appeared a whole lot less repulsive to her. _This_ was after all a _worthy_ master!

That evening, she walked past a couple of First Years in the Common Room who were playing Crabbed, and just sorted out the small letter plates before them. One had gained a hundred and ten points by spelling 'OXYMORON', which wouldn't have been bad for a First Year, if he had spelled it correctly.

"It's '_oxymoron_', with a simple n," Narcissa remarked indifferently while passing them. "Not _oxymoronne_. You cannot put that there."

The other boy gave a spiteful cackle and instantly crossed out his friend's points. "You hear her, Fancourt! It's my turn, and I'll take the 'oxy' over there for 'oxygen' and the 'moron' here, for that's what you are!"

As a child, Narcissa had often played this, beating both her sisters _and_ their parents in style. Where would that board be now? Had her mother kept it? She had been invincible in this game. Some hours later, lying in her bed and thinking once more of her amazing discovery, that talent of old helped her, delivering the last missing piece in her chain of evidence. She was racking her brains why on earth Tom Riddle had chosen that utterly ridiculous title. A wizard as clever as him, and the best pseudonym he could come up with was _Lord Voldemort_? No wonder that people didn't dare to speak it – they must be afraid of bursting out with laughter!

'Tom Marvolo Riddle, what was in your head, eh?' – In that second, it made click. Just _click_. TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE – this _was_ almost LORD VOLDEMORT, except for three superfluous letters, 'a', 'i' and 'm'… That was _it_! 'I am Lord Voldemort'! Was it too far-fetched? No, it was not! She was a hundred percent sure, this _could_ be no coincidence!

She was so impatient to tell her fiancé these exciting news, she could hardly wait. What was more – she missed him so badly anyway that she suggested in her next letter that he ought to come to Hogwarts and watch the next Quidditch match, which was Slytherin versus Gryffindor, the old evergreen. It'd be the perfect pretext for him to come – not even Slughorn would permit him to come to the school only to meet his fiancée, they had tried it. But he wasn't going to mind the old Team Captain coming to watch a match! And he didn't; Lucius got the permission without further ado, causing the old Professor to wink at Narcissa whenever he mentioned the subject.

This was her second Quidditch match ever, and it was as awful as she had remembered from her first. Fourteen students on the brink of getting themselves killed, only to get some stupid balls through some stupid loops… But what did she care; she was sitting next to her beloved, pressing his hand. Lucius was torn between his genuine interest in the match – he wouldn't trust his eyes, the team was playing abysmally! – and his even more genuine affection for his fiancée, whom he hadn't seen in four weeks. He tried a compromise, explaining everything that was happening on the pitch to her.

"That Potter kid is good," he gnarled wryly, following one of the Gryffindor chasers with his eyes. "If only he were playing for _us_!"

"He's a mate of my dreadful cousin."

"That doubles the shame… – What the heck have they done to my team, for Merlin's sake!"

"I know something that's bound to lift your spirits, honey!"

He suppressed a chuckle and turned to her, pecking a kiss on her cheek. "And I know some cosy spots for that, indeed!"

"Oh, so I know _two_ things to cheer you up then."

He looked curious, and straight after the obligate chat with his old Head of House, after the match, they headed for one of the greenhouses, which was out of use for several years now. "What did you want to tell me, my angel?"

"First things first, mon trésor…" She nibbled on his throat and played with the buttons of his robes, and the afternoon's flush of happy spirits made her almost forget her big secret. Fortunately, she remembered when they were on their way back. "Do you happen to remember Tom Riddle, darling?"

"Who?"

She beckoned to make a short stop in the next best broom closet, keen not to be overheard by anyone. This was _her_ great discovery! "Tom Riddle, mon amour. The one with that fabulous OWL result that I wanted to best."

"One trillion points boy, you mean?"

"That's the one. You know how I always wondered what he's doing now. With all his talent!"

He arched a brow. "I know you're a bit obsessed with that bloke, Cissa, but if you've already got me here, I'd know better things to do with you than discussing that weirdo!"

"I bet you'll be _terribly_ interested in him, when I tell you what I've found out!"

"Let me guess…" He pulled her close and let his hand glide into her robes once more. "He's the inventor of – hm… He's invented a broom stick? Anything to do with Quidditch?"

"You're _so_ on the wrong track, love. For a start – he's changed his name since then, that's why I never read anything about him anywhere."

"I'd get rid of that Muggle name, too, if I was him. – This perfume drives me crazy, you know that?"

"It's the one you gave me, honey…" She leaned back, her eyes closed and enjoying his tender caresses. She had to pull herself together to come back to her purpose, indeed! "You in particular know his new name, Lucius. Though you don't like to use it."

Utterly distraught, he muttered between two kisses, "Excuse me?"

"He's taken on quite a career, and I know you admire him endlessly."

She grinned, even more when he replied, "I do rarely admire half-bloods and Muggleborns, and that's what he is, if I remember correctly."

"Trust me, you _worship_ this one."

"There are but two people in this world that I worship, mon ange, and you're one of them." He had found the little spot in the small of her neck that made her lose her last bits of composure when he kissed it and made her gasp.

"I am one of them," she breathed and closed her eyes, enjoying the caress. "And Tom Riddle is the other."

"No, the Dark Lord is the other."

"Yes, that's what I'm saying."

His hands came to a halt, and opening her eyes again, she found him stare at her in sheer incredulity. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm not saying this lightly, Lucius. Trust me. I've checked it over and over again. Tom Marvolo Riddle was born on December 31st in 1925, his mother Merope died after his birth. She was a born Gaunt, who happened to be the last living relations of Salazar Slytherin –"

"You're _kidding_ me!"

"Nope, I'm perfectly serious, even though it's hard with your hands where they're now… Anyway, Tom Marvolo, doubtlessly named for his grandfather Marvolo Gaunt, turned out to be the most brilliant student that this school has seen in more than one millennium. He has taken his name and exchanged the letters, very easily. It's an anagram, you see? Take the letters of his name, and you get 'I am Lord Voldemort'."

"No!"

"Yes! It's either this, or a very unlikely coincidence, which would also include a lie about your master's descent. Salazar Slytherin hasn't got any other possible descendant. I've spent ages in the library to make sure."

"No!"

"Isn't it fantastic? I just _had_ to tell you! You know, I was always a bit intrigued by that whole master-and-servant thing – you're no one's _servant_, mon amour, you could never be. But learning from _Tom Riddle_ – he's a total genius! You couldn't have found yourself a more worthy teacher!"

He was still staring at her, speechless, but not quite as enraptured as she had expected. "You – you must be mistaken, Cissa… He _can't_ be a Mudblood! He _hates_ them!"

"Language, darling! And that he hates them – oh well. That's easy enough to understand, isn't it? Just imagine, from your mother's side, you belong to great Salazar Slytherin, and your father hasn't got enough magic in him to conjure a cup of tea? Take one look at poor Severus' situation and you know where his aversion comes from!"

"But – but – he's my _master_!"

"Yes! So what? He's not a tad less brilliant, only because his father was a non-entity." She quickly reported everything she had found out, about the Chamber of Secrets, about the medal he had got. On the one hand, Lucius increasingly believed her, on the other hand his devastation grew, too. Like her, he didn't consider himself as anybody's _servant_. He would only kneel down for the greatest sorcerer in the world, and he somehow couldn't digest the fact that this one should be a Muggle bastard. Narcissa noticed his uneasiness, anxiously asking whether she had better kept her mouth shut on this issue.

"Nonsense, mon ange." He kissed her hand. "Knowing is always better than not-knowing."

"I didn't think it would affect you so much! I thought you'd be pleased to hear what a total genius he is after all," she said awkwardly.

"Don't worry, sweetness. I'm just so surprised, that's all!"

He smiled at her and brushed a kiss on her forehead, wondering if that remark could technically be counted as a lie. Because he wasn't simply _surprised_ – he was _shocked_ beyond expression. He didn't want to upset her, but _if_ this was lying – well, in _that_ case he had just told his beloved the first lie ever.

* * *

_Tutemet..._ You will be astonished!


	32. Precious

It's Christmas time.

* * *

**– I.31. –  
**

Precious

* * *

_Something in the way she moves attracts me like no other lover... Something in the way she woos me... I don't want to leave her now – you know I believe and how. Something in the way she knows... And all I have to do is think of her - something in the things she shows me..._

_THE BEATLES_

* * *

Christmas was tough – there was a whole row of family parties Narcissa had to attend like usually, and since they were officially engaged, Lucius was expected to accompany her and make a favourable impression. Apart from her father, everyone else was exceedingly pleased with the addition. The Malfoys were the oldest family in the entire country, their fortune was the largest, their pedigree the purest – if only all their children could make such a favourable match! Lucius on the other hand had never known the meaning of 'family life', having everything that money could buy, but nothing resembling a _family_, and found the whole business rather amusing, very much unlike his fiancée.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, after freeing him from her Aunt Walburga's clutches, who had given him a lengthy speech about his fantastic prospects as a Law Wizard, regardless of his repeated objections that he had not the least intention to become one. "I couldn't get away from my Uncle Alphard to rescue you… You must be even more bored than I am!"

"Not at all, ma belle," he replied and squeezed her hand. "This is a walk in the park, compared to an evening with my father."

"Your father is a lovely old gentleman, Lucius."

"He is lovely to _you_, my love, because even the meanest misanthrope couldn't but adore you."

Indeed, Abraxas doted on his future daughter-in-law. Despite himself, he had instantly liked her when meeting her on Lucius' graduation (he had even felt a slight disappointment when his son had told him on the next day that this particular young lady wasn't about to come back), and she had completed her victory on their engagement day by making some clever remarks about the architecture of Malfoy Manor and the gardens, and some shrewd retorts on the subject of conjugal felicity. Apart from that, he admired both her wit, and her usually unsociable temper, resembling his own so much in his eyes. Lucius would marvel at the old man – he hadn't got any idea that his father could be that friendly until seeing him with Narcissa.

After the traditional Christmas Eve at Orion Black's house in this year, Narcissa was to spend Christmas morning with her fiancé and that one's father at Malfoy Manor. For the first time _ever_, Abraxas had ordered the servants to decorate the house according to the occasion, and since neither he nor the house-elves had the slightest experience to gauge what could be appropriate, the decoration was, to put it mildly, bordering on 'bombastic'. Abraxas magically removed the ceiling of the grand parlour, so they could comfortably put up a Christmas tree 50 feet high, boasting 600 pounds of tinsels made of real sterling silver, living fairies just like 9000 candles – emitting so much heat that Narcissa had to change into lighter robes – Christmas baubles made of solid gold (that threatened the entire static of the tree in no small way) and uncountable gems. Lucius had gasped when seeing this monster of a tree in the morning, and tried to remove the worst tackiness before his fiancée's arrival, but inevitably failed to give the enterprise taste. That battle had been lost before it had begun.

But Narcissa was tactful, and used to being polite facing no matter what ghastliness. Her countenance didn't even falter when her future father-in-law presented her with her Christmas gift – a chalet in the French Alps. In a private moment, she whispered into Lucius' ear though, "If this is his Christmas present, what on earth does he intend to give us for the _wedding_?"

"I reckon he intends to buy the Taj Mahal for you, chérie," he returned, only half-joking, and continued slightly awkwardly, "I hope you're not disappointed with my present now…"

"I could impossibly be!"

And she wasn't. In fact, she cut a very uncharacteristic caper with joy. – He led her out of the parlour and upstairs, stopping before the door of one of the many smaller parlours. Narcissa shot him a curious glance and giggled when he produced a silk scarf and blindfolded her.

"Just how naughty is this going to be, my love?"

"Very, blossom," he purred into her ear. He swung one arm around her waist, pushed open the door with the other hand and led her in. Not undoing the blindfold, he said, "194 more days, and you are going to be the Mistress of this house. I hope my gift is fit to endear you to your new home some more…"

He took off the scarf, and Narcissa couldn't but gape. The entire parlour had been re-arranged, new wallpapers, curtains, carpets and furniture, but most of all – a _magnificent_ grand piano, mirror finished ebony, intricately carved. Incapable to say anything, she pecked a kiss on his lips and dragged him over, to sit down next to her on the bench while she tinkled the first chord.

"It's – it's – _I love you_, Lucius!"

He smiled radiantly with that statement and pointed at a leather map before her. He opened it; there were sheets of music inside, and once she began to play, she realised that the map was charmed to automatically turn over the pages while she was playing. She laughed with delight, and he told her that this gift was actually from little Severus; it would work for whatever music she put into the map.

Narcissa was moved by the boy's consideration; like Lucius, he had given it a good deal of thought what might actually please her the most. She was almost sorry that her own gift for him had been so superficial; she had simply bought a costly Potions encyclopaedia for him and sent it to his parents' place. She would have seen how unfounded her sudden anxiety was if she could have witnessed his reaction to the huge package containing the twenty volumes – he was out of himself with joy, which was only topped when unwrapping the next package, infinitely much smaller.

"Look what Santa's brought," his father said in a cheery, slurred tone.

"I stopped believing in Santa when I was four, Father."

"Did ya?"

"Mum lost her fake beard after she stumbled over one of your whiskey bottles. After that, we had the _talk_."

His father narrowed his eyes. "Did she cover the other stuff, too? Ya know – bees… Birds… Chicks…?"

Severus nodded absent-mindedly, incredulous with old Toby's remark, and opened the card that was attached to the smaller package. '_Dear Sev, MERRY CHRISTMAS to you – I hope the gift helps you to ignore a little better whatever it is that might bother you… Yours, Lily_'

The package had contained a pair of earmuffs, just that they had appeared decidedly much too small to be actual _earmuffs_, each of them had roughly the size of a Sickle, and they were connected by a thin piece of wire. He tried them on and a wide smile spread over his features. As soon as he had covered his ears, a song drowned out every other sound, gentle but impervious. The band was vastly popular both among Muggles, and wizardkind, 'The Beetles'. Severus' mum was a huge fan of them, theirs were the only magic records Tobias would allow in the house, because they were successful in the Muggle world, too. This song was the boy's declared all-time-favourite, even though he had never told Lily why this was so, and he blushed, wondering if she had finally guessed.

Old Toby managed to be completely drunk long before lunch and vanished to go to the pub. Eileen went out, too, to attend the Christmas church service, and Severus had to run after her because she had forgotten to don her cloak, and then he finally had the time to make a call on the Evans' and give Lily his present for her, too. Her older sister opened the door, and would have slammed it right shut again when seeing who the visitor was, if it hadn't been for Lily, crying from the living room, "That's Sev, right?"

Petunia scowled at him, and snapped, "Well, let the freak show begin!"

"I'm delighted to see you, too," he snarled back and shot her a fake grin when pushing past her. Lily appeared in the open door, looking even lovelier than anyway. She wore a dark turquoise blouse that enhanced the colour of her hair most favourably, just like her rosy complexion, and blushing once again, Severus hurriedly turned away from her to say hello to her parents for a start.

Mr and Mrs Evans were the kindest adults he had ever come across, and so much different from his own parents. Harold Evans – 'call me Harry, lad!' was a chemistry teacher at the local grammar school and had a great sense of sarcastic humour. Lily's mother – 'Rosy' – was good-natured, sweet, a fabulous cook and worked as a secretary. They would invite Severus for family outings, everyone's but Petunia's birthday, and at least once per week for dinner during the holidays. He only went back home from Hogwarts during the summer and Christmas vacations, and he mainly did so in case of the latter because of Lily and her parents, even though they made him feel the deficiencies of his own so much the more.

"Petunia, be a dear and fetch Severus a glass of punch," Mrs Evans cried and embraced him. "Merry Christmas, dear!"

"Merry Christmas to you, too, Mrs – erm – Rosy. And Merry Christmas to you, sir!"

"Sir Harry – I always meant to become a knight one day. Thanks for dignifying me, Sev, that's a hell of a Christmas present!"

Severus' cheeks turned scarlet, but Lily spared him an answer by flying around his neck, too. "Merry, merry Christmas, Sev! Did you get my present?"

He told her that he had indeed, and also how much he loved it. Then he produced his own present for her, explaining awkwardly, "You know I don't have much money, so I – I made it myself, I hope you don't mind…"

"Well, I can only say how much I like it once I know what it is, can't I?" She beamed at him, impatiently ripping the wrapper. It was a small bottle, filled with an innocuous pale green liquid. She looked at it and tilted her head. "Is this – a potion?"

Mr Evans giggled and answered instead of Severus, "Daughter, every now and then, you do amaze me, you know? Why would the young lad give you a _potion_? Just open the bottle!"

She did, and a soft scent suffused the room, smelling of roses, lilies, lemon and vanilla. "How wonderful! Thanks!" And she hugged him once more, careful not to spill any of the perfume. "And you really did that yourself? For me?"

This time, it was Petunia sparing him the embarrassment, although involuntarily. She had returned with the punch, spotted her sister holding the flacon, wrinkled her nose and cried, "Yuck! What's that stink?"

"Petunia, darling, you really shouldn't say such a thing," Mr Evans said. "Your mother spent all morning preparing the roast, you know, I think we owe her a little gratefulness even if it's burnt."

He, Mrs Evans and Lily burst out laughing – Petunia looked sour as usually and slammed the punch glass on the table, while Severus battled down the urge to throw his arms around Mr Evans' neck to thank him, and ask if they would please, _please_ adopt him, possibly. He'd be happy enough if they'd allow him to sleep in their garage, if only he could have – be a part of – something, _anything_ like this.


	33. The Sweetest Perfection

**Author's note:** so this chapter is nothing if not smut, pure and unadulterated. It has no whatsoever plot impact, and was written and put here for mere self-indulgence and the fact that some readers asked me to ;) Anyway, if you mind something like this, just skip the chapter.

* * *

Narcissa and Lucius celebrate the anniversary of their first kiss.

* * *

**– I.32. –  
**

The Sweetest Perfection

* * *

_Quoque magis tegitur, tectus magis aestuat ignis. Acrius invitos multoque ferocius urget, quam qui servitium ferre fatentur, Amor._

_OVID_

* * *

There was one more thing that had let him enjoy the Black family celebrations – Lucius had a deal with Cygnus. He had sold it as a sort of compromise – he would have to leave his poor, lonesome father alone for Christmas, in return he hoped to spend New Year's Eve with Narcissa and Abraxas. Cygnus, ignorant of Lucius' aversion to his father, thought this sounded fair, and equally ignorant he was of the fact that Lucius and Abraxas hadn't spent that night together in the past eight years, and had no mind to change that tradition this year either.

In a way, this night marked the beginning of their relationship, and Lucius had some plans to celebrate the first anniversary of their first kiss. Narcissa didn't like parties anyhow. _Their_ party contained exactly two persons, and it would take place in his London apartment. No, he wouldn't break his vow. But he thought he had found a clever way to interpret his own rules.

He only told Narcissa that they'd spend the evening on their own, at his place in London, and that he had dished up her father some story. She misinterpreted the circumstances and his roguish smile, preparing herself to be made a woman this night. She spared him all the remarks on the tip of her tongue; she was far too thrilled anyhow.

He had even asked the Dark Lord to guarantee him that he wouldn't be summoned this night, and although the master had been highly amused, not to say scornful, he had agreed. The elves had prepared everything and disappeared then, like he had told them, and with a curious expression, Narcissa now looked around.

"So, what's it going to be, mon amour? Are we getting wasted by ourselves, or are you in for a game of backgammon?" she teased him with her most saucy smile.

"Games it's going to be, but I didn't have backgammon in mind."

She smiled suggestively. "Ah, that sounds interesting. What sort of games _did_ you have in mind?"

"You'll see soon enough, ma belle. If you're not entertained, I'll get the backgammon board."

She shot him an intrigued glance, they toasted and sipped their champagne, and when she had finished her glass, he seized her close, kissed her and lifted her up, murmuring into her hear, "Do you trust me?"

"I do absolutely!"

"Excellent." He carried her into his bedroom, carefully putting her down on the large bed. She was grinning broadly now and tilted her head.

"I am very happy to see that you've changed your mind, or did you bring me here to admire the bed linen?"

"I didn't exactly change my mind," he said calmly and sat down next to her. "I've just thought of a way to interpret the rules."

"Is that how they call it these days?"

He placed a finger on her lips, gave her an intent look and made her lie down comfortably, kneeling above her and starting to kiss her very gently. She had one hand in his neck, the other one stroked his back and shoulders, and with astonishing strength, she pulled him as close as she could. This was going to be every _bit_ as hard for him as he had thought.

The kisses grew more passionate, until he trailed away, caressing her temple, the side of her neck, and for the first time ever, her décolleté. Oh Merlin. Her skin was even more soft than it looked, it scented sweeter than a bouquet of roses and as for the sensation of her breasts, accidentally touching him here and there… She had fumbled with the string that had held his hair and now ruffled through it, gasping when he hit a very sensitive spot, and very slowly, he let his hands glide along her sides, up and down, with each turn wandering a little more to the middle.

She sharply drew her breath when his hands glided over her breasts for the first time; her hands shot forth and groped his wrists, trying to steady him right there, but he was stronger than her and would not linger, moving back to her belly. His lips were busy caressing her throat and he growled, "Do you like to be touched right there, my blossom?"

"You bet," she moaned, still struggling with his wrists.

"Excellent…" He stroked over her breasts once more, lingering a little longer now; she arched her back to press against his hands and he chuckled lowly. "And here?"

"Mmmm," was all she managed to reply; he went on teasing her, until he finally cupped her breasts with his hands and left them there; he could feel her nipples through the silky fabric of her dress robes, he also felt his own erection push against his trousers, but that, of course, would not do. This was for her, and for her only. He kneaded her, massaged her, she moaned softly; he raised his head far enough to see her face and drank in the vision of her even features contorted with pleasure. He flattered himself to know what he was doing, and that this was only the beginning. In his many years of steady practise, he had made an art form out of this, and she was going to reap the benefits.

When he started to kiss her nipples through her clothes, she whimpered and clutched his hair – when he began to push down the straps of her robes, inch by inch, covering each spot he discovered with kisses, she was trembling. He dared not opening his eyes when he had pushed the fabric so far down that he could have seen her bra; by now his hard-on was throbbing, yearning to be released, but he must not give in.

Naturally, he did open his eyes at some point, stunned, nay, _petrified_ with what he saw. God! She was beautiful! Her firm, full breasts cupped in golden green laces – it was more than he could take. The laces were made of silk, but they felt ordinary and coarse in contrast to the softness of her peachy skin. Somewhere in the outskirts of his mind, he thought that he would never leave their bed again, once they were married; he would simply spend the rest of his living days caressing this sweetest of all creatures, until he died of exhaustion, a happy man.

If he should have made a guess, he would have predicted that she was hot and wet between her thighs, judging her moves, her shaking, the little sounds she made, the way her hands cramped into his hair, his side, raking his skin; he'd let her do anything but move down to his crotch. He had undressed her down to her waistline; her nipples jutted forth, he caressed them one after the other, changing in between, lips, tongue, teeth on the one side, experienced hands on the other, not stopping once until she almost screamed. Very well. He smiled against her velvety skin and crawled a little upwards; he kissed her lips again, enjoying her pants, her vows of love in between.

"Do you want me to go on?" he whispered and nagged on her earlobe.

"I'll kill you if you stop!"

"Mmmh. Now that's incentive!"

He took his time, every now and then considering to summon some ice with his wand and pour it into his trousers; when he had removed her skirt and panties, he struggled a whole minute with his self-control not to plunge into her at once, and that her hands roamed his body and she wriggled provocatively didn't improve the matter. He had never wanted anyone, anything so badly. To distract himself, he pursued his original plan and bent down between her legs, doing her with his hands first, with his mouth later, and although he didn't exactly count, he thought she had come three or four times when he let go of her at last.

She was covered in sweat and quivered, little spasms still twitching through her body, she gasped for breath and made utmost peculiar little sounds; he lay down beside her and took her in his arms, drawing up the covers and wrapping her in. She clang to him like dear life, entwining her legs with his, burying her face in the arch between his throat and shoulders, her fingers clasping his hair and his side, and the mere fact of her lying like this next to him, fully naked and moaning still, made his erection even more painful.

"You… I…" she panted, hoarse with exhaustion. "You're… _Incredible!_"

"Not nearly as incredible as you, angel."

The way she kissed him when she had caught her breath again! Her voice was hoarse and rasping; she begged him to get undressed as well, but this one wish he had to decline. He tried to explain the problem as tastefully as possible, making her chuckle and tease him and press against him even tighter.

"All right, all right. But there can be no serious objection to taking off your shirt, right?"

"My shirt?"

"Yes, your _shirt_, for Christ's sake! I want to _see_ you! Come on, that's only fair!"

"I guess so," he said and chuckled, sitting up and looking down onto her gorgeous face. She looked hungry, ordering him to do it slowly, and with languorous moves, he unbuttoned his shirt, waiting when it was open and gasping when her hands shot forth to stroke over his chest. _Perhaps_ this had been not such a good idea after all.

"That looks even better than I had pictured," she breathed, pulling on his left lapel and pushing the shirt over his shoulder. She saw him close his eyes, and discovered that she had a bit of a sadist in her. She saw the bulge in his trousers, and had a faint notion how difficult this must be for him – all the better, after all this had been _his_ idea. And it was _his _idea, too, to stick to his self-imposed celibacy! Her hands glided down, but he was quicker, snapping her wrists and forcing her away from his crotch.

"Don't… Please, petal, _don't_!"

"You've spoilt me, mon amour. Let me gratify you, too…"

He hesitated, but feebly shook his head. "No. This night's for _you_, my love, and for you only."

"Yes, I get that, but to make my bliss complete, I should like to do some things with _you_, too," she exclaimed, raised her upper body and pecked a kiss on his collarbone. "Come on, I can _see_ that you're in need of a helping hand!"

"I want to consummate our love in our wedding night, my love!"

"That's all right with me – you shall marry a virgin. That state cannot be altered by some caresses, can it?"

"Narcissa, I'll explode – literally, _explode_ in the moment you touch me."

"Look, so we're talking of even less, eh? Let me make you explode, Lucius, my love… Please!" she cajoled him with her most flattering voice.

He hadn't got enough blood in his head to argue with her, let alone win. At least, he succeeded in insisting to keep his trousers on – he thought he might be in need of that additional barrier if he wanted to resist temptation and stick to his pledge in this situation. Predictably enough, he came approximately thirty seconds after she had put her hand in his lap, but she wasn't content yet. She pulled him to lie next to her, entwined their legs, put his left hand on her naked bottom and the other on her bare breast and began to kiss him, until he was stiff once more, and even though he was half dressed, her training as a pianist proved to be invaluable when massaging him through the fabric.

"Temptress," he whimpered in his second orgasm's aftermath. She laughed brightly and settled in his arms, half lying next to him, half on top. Her lithe, and ever so bare body pressed against him; her fingers glided over his stomach, his chest, his throat and back again, her lips nibbled on his nipple. Lucius faintly thought that there couldn't be a man in the whole wide world _remotely_ as blessed as he was, even though the feeble voice of reason scolded him for being such an idiot. After this night – after seeing her full beauty at last, her passion, her fire, all of which had exceeded his wildest dreams – after experiencing what this innocent girl was capable to do with her lips and hands on her very first try… How on earth was he supposed to live through the next one hundred eighty-eight days without going insane?

* * *

_Quoque magis..._ The more you try to hide it, the more the loving fire will burn. Fiercer and more vehemently Amor assails the struggling, than those who surrender to him.


	34. For Better, For Worse, For Good

Narcissa and Lucius celebrate their provisional happy ending.

* * *

**– I.33. –  
**

For Better, For Worse – For Good

* * *

_Inquietum est cor nostrum, donec requiescat in te._

_AUGUSTINUS – Confessiones_

* * *

The wedding was scheduled for July 07th – exactly one week after Narcissa's graduation. She hadn't even tried to keep her mother from planning a huge ceremony with eight hundred guests; the only point she had prevailed on was that they wouldn't be married by Pater Anselm, her mother's priest and confessor. She wasn't religious, and she took her wedding far too serious to seal it with a ceremony that had no meaning for her, or the groom. They wanted to make their own vows.

Amandine had been out of herself, beseeching her daughter, begging her on her knees, soothsaying that it was bad luck to enter conjugal life without the proper blessings, crying, sobbing, wailing, but for once in her life, Narcissa hadn't obliged her by giving in. Pater Anselm was invited and heartily welcome, but he would not perform the ceremony – Abraxas and Cygnus would. The former would gladly do her any favour she'd ask for, while her father was supremely proud in bringing his favourite daughter's wedding about, he was neither superstitious nor religious like his wife, let alone Catholic. And if he had to part with his 'little flower', he could at least have a central role in the deplorable incident.

In time, he had accustomed to Lucius – the boy had proven his reliability and consistency, was actually willing to stake his life on it, and even when Cygnus' fatherly jealousy would never allow true affection for this rival for his darling Narcissa's attachment, he could easily see how happy his dearest child was with him. And her happiness was what counted after all.

Poor Amandine, aggrieved as she was anyway, found no sleep in the nights prior to the wedding. She had so much to consider! And she still wasn't satisfied with the robes. It was her own wedding gown, adjusted to fit Narcissa, who was taller and had a smaller built. She had personally embellished it with a thousand real diamonds and pearls, had sewn a matching veil made of laces from Brussels had purchased a dozen pairs of shoes to give her daughter a bit of a selection. And that was only that. The organisation of the food, the robes for the bridesmaids, the fittings, having rooms in Malfoy Manor prepared for the guests who'd stay overnight, the table arrangements, the servants… And that she had to deal with the more than unpleasant father of the bridegroom didn't make her hard lot any simpler.

She had to handle it all by herself – she found that men had no talent for those things, and none of her daughters was there to help either; Narcissa still in school, Bellatrix supremely disinterested, and as for Andromeda… For Narcissa had also insisted that _both_ of her sisters should be her bridesmaids, causing much trouble. It was obvious that Andromeda wouldn't come at all if her insufferable husband and illegitimate children weren't invited as well. On the other hand their appearance must be prevented under all circumstances; Cygnus would get a cardiac arrest of his own, and there were loads of other family members bound to make unpleasant scenes. Amandine settled for the measles, feeling only _un peu_ guilty of contaminating her own grandchildren – it was worth that price – compelling the father to stay at home with his sick offspring. Astonishingly, Andromeda didn't even become suspicious. Maybe she didn't believe her old Maman capable of such underhanded tricks.

Narcissa herself didn't sleep well either. She was incredibly excited. Her NEWT results had been outstanding, she would begin to study Philosophy and Literature in autumn, and in a few hours, she would be _married_, able at last to be with the one she loved, and never part with him again. And there was yet another aspect thrilling her out of her mind –

"Need any tips?" Bellatrix asked leeringly, at the first possible occasion; their mother had just left the room to fetch the jewels.

Narcissa hardly listened, but Andromeda asked, "Tips for _what_ exactly?"

"Oh, you see, unlike certain _other_ family members, our dearest Cissily here will go as a virgin to her wedding bed."

"_What_?"

"Leave it, Bella," Narcissa muttered, wondering how to fasten the garters. "I really don't want to debate this. Help me with that thing, if you want to do something useful."

Bellatrix obeyed concerning the second plea, but merrily continued, "Your groom deserves an award, Cissy. The poor guy!"

"If there's one thing that Lucius Malfoy is _not_, it's this – he's not poor, neither technically nor figuratively," Andromeda gnarled. Being _poor_ was a touchy subject with her, since her own father had pulled every string to prevent Ted from getting a good job, and the whole family had live on the modest salary that he earned as a Muggle warehouseman, and the occasional paintings he'd manage to sell.

"The _poor_ _guy_," Bellatrix stubbornly went on, "didn't get it for – what – twenty months or so?"

"You are _kidding_ me!"

Narcissa sighed in exasperation. "No, she's _not_ kidding you. Can we get over with this?"

"You're a virgin? You're engaged for more than a year- to _that_ guy – and yet you're a _virgin_?"

"You say that as if it were immoral!"

"I'm just gobsmacked! I hadn't figured that even _you_ could be _that_ – uhm – _reserved_!"

"If you truly want to know – it wasn't _my_ idea."

"You didn't seriously listen to Maman then?" Andromeda asked, a whole bit less upfront. She knew what had made their parents heighten the security measures to guard their youngest daughter.

"The bridegroom himself suggested it, Andy," Bella snarled.

"You mean Malfoy – no – come on! You're _both_ kidding me! The guy shagged half of the frigging school, he –"

"Quit making remarks about my soon-to-be husband, will you! I'd also prefer it if you could use his first name, at least on our wedding day, and if you could get by without some gibes about his ex-girlfriends!"

"But you _did_ consider that only because he hasn't slept with _you_, it doesn't follow that he –"

Narcissa had opened her mouth for a sharp – and hurt – reply, but Bellatrix was faster. _Way_ faster; Andromeda suddenly found a wand pressed against her throat and her older sister breathing down her neck. "_Shut up_, Andy," she growled flatly and with unveiled threat. "I'd hate to ruin Cissy's great day by cursing my fellow bridesmaid, but _if_ either of us two must ruin her day, it'll be _me_. Understood?"

"Leave her, Bella," Narcissa groaned. "I appreciate your commitment, but it really won't do. And Andy – I know you cannot stand the sight of Lucius, but you leave _him_ alone, too. Suffice to hear that I _know_, okay? I'm not half as naïve as you seem to believe."

Andromeda shook her head, but said no more, and they helped Narcissa to put on her robes, her jewels, her veil. Amandine was crying already when they left the house to Apparate to Malfoy Manor altogether, Cygnus rehearsed his lines over and over, and the two older sisters bickered all the way through. None of them was fit to support the bride who felt on the verge of fainting; no one even seemed to notice. She wanted by all means to marry – there was only one part of the celebration that made her panic – another thing that hadn't been _her_ idea.

The wedding ceremony took place in the gardens next to the lake. Hundreds of chairs had been put up, the guests were waiting in eager anticipation – if not for the romantic bits, they were keen on the dinner anyway – and down the aisle, Narcissa saw Lucius and Abraxas waiting. She clung to her father's arm, not knowing how they got over there, all she could see was her fiancé – husband – _groom_, anyway, their gazed locked at once. Abraxas held his solemn speech, then the young couple knelt down and held each other's hands.

"À la très chère, à la très belle," Lucius began reciting the first ever poem he had memorised because of her; not bothering to raise his voice. He was speaking for her, not the guests in the back rows. "Qui remplit mon cœur de clarté; à l'ange, à l'idole immortelle, salut en l'immortalité! Elle se répand dans ma vie comme un air imprégné de sel et dans mon âme inassouvie verse le goût de l'éternel… À la très bonne, à la très belle, qui fait ma joie et ma santé, à l'ange, à l'idole immortelle, salut en immortalité!"

Narcissa took a deep breath and answered equally quiet, "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach, when feeling out of sight for the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for right, I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use in my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life – and, if god choose, I shall but love thee better after death."

Abraxas and Cygnus stepped forth and both took their respective child's hand. "Do you, Lucius Apollonius Maximus, take my beloved daughter Narcissa Leda Aurora's hand to be joined for good in holy matrimony?"

"I do," he whispered, reaching out for Narcissa's hand.

"Will you do everything in your power to make my dearest child happy on every single day of her life?"

"I will!"

Abraxas cleared his throat, but his voice still sounded unfamiliarly gentle. "And do you, my dear Narcissa, take my son Lucius' hand to be joined for good in holy matrimony?"

She was lost in Lucius' silvery eyes. "I do!"

"Will you stand by him, for better or worse, as long as you both shall live?"

"I will!"

Her heart was beating so madly, she could hardly catch her breath. Lucius put the ring on her finger and she put on his, then their hands entwined. The two fathers raised their wands, shooting up golden and silvery sparks, and solemnly announced the young couple to be husband and wife. Narcissa was glad that she had years and years of experience to keep her composure, because she felt like crying. She was so unspeakably happy. As a matter of fact, she was afraid she'd pass out on the spot – every ounce of common sense in her screamed that they ought to stop _right_ _here_ – they were married, they didn't _need_ the following – but Lucius pressed her hand, mouthed an 'I love you' and shot her a reassuring smile.

She faintly shook her head, her eyes imploring him to stop, but he didn't. He looked very earnest and spoke very clearly, "Will you, my beloved Narcissa, respect and honour me as your husband, treasure our love and hold it dear, for better and worse, in health and in sickness, until the end of time?"

"I will," she breathed, looking straight into his eyes, and scared out of her wits. A flame shot from Cygnus' wand and wound around their joined hands. She scarcely found her voice to continue, "And will you, Lucius, love and treasure me as your wife, respect me, hold me dear, for better and worse, in health and in sickness, until the end of time?"

"I will."

Another flame, and Narcissa took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a second, and sighed, "And will you have faith in me, be true to me and our union, be faithful to me as your wife until death doth us part?"

"I will," he said with emphasis, pressing her hand and shooting her a very intense look. They had almost argued – for the first and hopefully last time since they were together actually _argued_ about this part of their wedding oath. Curiously, it had been Lucius' wish to add it, while she had severely objected. Sadly, she was alone in her reluctance; her father and Abraxas had found the idea brilliant as well. But this was an Unbreakable Vow! He'd just _die_ if he trespassed against this oath, and as much as she feared the possibility of him betraying her, it was still nothing compared to her dread of losing him for good. He had insisted though, laughed off her doubts and reasoned that she must have faith in him _not_ to die, because of his faith in _her_.

"So will you have faith in me, trust me, be true to me and faithful until death doth us part?"

"I will!" She felt like sinking with agitation, adding under her breath, "Of course I will!"

"I know," he whispered and shot her a wide smile, squeezing her hand again and gently pulling her up. Louder, he declared with an enraptured smile, "Te amo, toto meam corde in saecula saeculorum."

"Ego tu sum, tu ego es, unius animi sumus!"

Oh, and she meant every single word! Never had she meant anything more seriously! – They were married now – really, properly, officially married! Abraxas said some more words that Narcissa could hardly listen to, oblivious to anything but the man at her side; at least _he_ had some more scratches of focus left, or they would have stood there, transfixed to the ground for the rest of the day. They kissed, far more chaste than either of them would have wanted, but everything else would have been inappropriate, then he tugged her arm under his and lead her along the aisle, everyone was cheering and applauding, and from the corner of her eye, Narcissa saw her mother, lost in tears, and Aunt Walburga pressing her wand against cousin Sirius' cheek with a resolute expression.

Lucius murmured, "You think it would be considered as very bad style if we left right now, my love?"

"It would surely be considered so," she replied with a gentle smirk. "Why, are you in a hurry?"

"Not so much _hurry_. I'm _dying_ with impatience to be alone with you after all!"

She heard Bellatrix' and Andromeda's suppressed giggles behind her back; in fact, she felt a little bit like giggling herself. Once they had dealt with the countless guests and managed to get through dinner, they would finally – _finally!_ – be really together for the first time! She was as thrilled with the idea as she felt suddenly anxious. After all that time she had longed for this moment, she was suddenly worried that she couldn't stand up to his expectations… Her concerns vanished as quickly as they had come; Lucius holding her tight, whispering vows of love into her ear – this was the first day of the rest of her life, and she knew that it would be _perfect_. Just – _perfect_. Her life was going to be heaven on earth!

Well, so far they were still very much on _earth_, and the reception was an ordeal – the young couple, four parents (Lucius' mother Elisabeth had indeed found the way to be present on her son's great day, after Amandine had paid her a visit and painted a glowing picture of the kind of retribution she favoured in case Elisabeth spoilt this great day by not showing up), two bridesmaids and 803 guests meant 6448 handshakes and forced smiles on total. Her cousin Sirius – his mother's wand still boring into his back – didn't even bother for so much; he merely beckoned at his cousin, and ignored the groom altogether. They both saw countless people they thought they had never met before, but who'd profess their best wishes nonetheless, or people they hadn't seen in _ages_, who'd staunchly claim the newly-weds hadn't changed the _slightest_ bit since then. Narcissa was glad when Severus suddenly stood before her – a truly friendly face, at last.

"I'm so glad to see you!"

"Thanks for the invitation, we're very honoured –"

"Stop this nonsense, kids! I have never spoken a single word to half of these people, still I had to invite them. I'm very happy to shake hands with someone I actually _like_!"

"Lovely robes!"

"Lovely ceremony!"

"Hang on with your praise until you've tried the food, folks," Lucius exclaimed jocularly, shaking their hands as well. Narcissa beamed at her husband – _husband, husband, husband_, she couldn't get enough of the idea. Two and a half hours later, the reception was finally over and they sat down for dinner. Amandine and Elisabeth had taken on insulting each other in elaborate French about motherly duties, Andromeda and Pater Anselm were arguing in plain English about the sanctity of chastity, Aunt Walburga and her eldest threatened each other with eloquent Latin curses under their breaths, and Bellatrix and Rodolphus were speechlessly getting drunk on finest Irish Whiskey. Narcissa was perfectly oblivious of all this, incapable to swallow a single bite – her entire attention focused on the man beside her.

"You look so stunning, my precious… Pulchra enim sunt ubera quae paululum supereminent et tument modice!"

"Lucius!" She blushed. "It doesn't get more decent just because you say it in Latin!"

He replied in an undertone, "I'm not inclined to be _decent_ today, petal! Besides, the only one who has heard and understood me is good Pater Anselm. Look at him!"

The good old priest had fiercely reddened and turned his eyes down, and Narcissa couldn't suppress to laugh softly, whispering in return, "Poor man!"

"Poor _me_! I wonder whether we could leave just now? I can't take this much longer, I may end up saying something _very_ inappropriate, very loudly!"

She shot him her sweetest smile. "We need to get through dinner, mon amour!"

"All I want to eat is you, sweetness!"

"And _after_ dinner, we have to do three dances, at least."

"_Three?_ Why's that?"

She laughed. "I thought my mother had introduced the protocol to you at great length?"

"_Great length_ being the key term in that, blossom. Forgive my forgetfulness, but my mind must have been preoccupied with very different matters…" He took her hand, kissed and caressed it, squinting up to her with a decidedly suggestive grin.

"You'll have to dance with _me_, my love –"

"Gladly! But we could do number two and three upstairs, couldn't we?"

"Hardly, because you'll have the second dance with my mother, and the third with _your_ mother, and I truly don't want to see either of them in our bedroom."

"I won't dance with _my_ _mother_ and if my life depends on it!"

"Please, mon amour. I know you cannot stand the sight of her, but do it for me."

"That's not fair. You know I'd do anything for you!"

Rather preoccupied, they got through their obligations, and Lucius was so distraught he almost forgot to argue with Elisabeth. He hadn't seen her in years, and the last time he _had _seen her, their parting had been more than a little ugly. She was cold and scornful as ever – her son vaguely wondered why it hadn't worked out between her and Abraxas; they were _perfect_ for each other! – and she made a whole lot of derogatory remarks, starting with the wedding arrangements and continuing with his new relations, which he returned with just as much spite, until –

"And the bride _really _should have –"

He interrupted her at once, with the fiercest scowl. "You say _one_ word about my wife, Mutter, and I swear by god, I'll curse you right here and now!"

"The same sweet, patient temper like your father. How extraordinarily alike you two are!"

"Oh, yes, as far as our dislike for you goes, we're one heart and mind!"

She smiled with mock sweetness. "Well, then all that remains for me to say is that I wish your marriage will be _just_ as happy as your father's and mine!"

He smiled, too. "Now I know the one thing my mother-in-law forgot to organise, indeed – we haven't got a snake charmer to take care of you. Please, try to spread not _too_ much of your venom, you might run out of it."

"At least your wits you got from me."

"_That_ was low, Mutter!"

He wouldn't allow her to spoil this great day though, and as soon as the last note faded away, he had had enough, resolutely dropped his mother's hand and took his wife's instead, marching out of the hall with her without even saying goodbye to anyone.

"Finally," he said softly.

Narcissa nodded with a brilliant smile. "At last!"

He embraced and kissed her, lifted her up and carried her upstairs, which wasn't only romantic, but also pretty necessary, because Narcissa was so dizzy, she couldn't have relied on her own legs. He whispered into her ear what he intended to do with her, making her only more excited, and she managed to murmur, "I hope you're not disappointed with me…"

He laughed and brushed a kiss on her forehead. "Nonsense! What are you talking about?"

"Oh, you know… I never –"

"My love," he groaned very earnestly. "I've dreamt of this night for – oh Merlin, a couple of _years_, and had practically _nothing_ else on my mind in the past six months. You might well assume that my expectations are as high as they could possibly be. But there's nothing _you_ could do wrong, all right? Trust me. Absolutely _nothing_. Except falling asleep, perhaps…" He chuckled and chucked her under the chin. "Leave it all to me."

Amandine would have appreciated his care regarding his first approach of undressing his wife, and have been utterly appalled by the vigour with which he ripped off the rest. This gown wouldn't be worn by another bride, so much was certain; countless diamonds and pearls were rolling over the floor, shreds of costly Belgian lace everywhere. Suffice to say that neither of them was in any way disappointed with the following nights and days – they actually had to postpone the beginning of their honeymoon trip, because they both flatly refused to leave the bedroom.

* * *

_Inquietum..._ Stirred are our hearts until they find rest in you.

_A la très chère..._To the most lovely, the most dear,

who steeps my heart in splendency;

angel, immortal idol, hear!

All hail in immortality!

Into my life she flows translated

as saline breezes fill the sky,

and pours into my soul unsated

the taste of what can never die.

To the most good one, the most dear,

my joy, my health, my sanity –

angel, immortal idol, hear!

I hail thee in eternity!

From : Charles Baudelaire, 'Hymne'. – English translation by Roy Campbell, Jacques LeClercq and myself.

_How do I love thee... _From: Elizabeth Barrett-Browning, 'Sonnet XLIII'.

_Te amo..._ I love you with all my heart, to the end of time.

_Ego tu..._ I am you, you are me, we are one heart and one soul.

_Pulchra enim..._ For beautiful are those breasts that protrude a little and swell with measure!


	35. The Dark Lord Rising

There _is_ a life after the happy ending.

* * *

**– Phineas' Narration –**

The Dark Lord Rising

* * *

_Wild, dark times are rumbling toward us, and the prophet who wishes to write a new apocalypse will have to invent entirely new beasts, and beasts so terrible that the ancient animal symbols of Saint John will seem like cooing doves and cupids in comparison._

_HEINRICH HEINE_

* * *

...

– _Phineas?_ –

Hm?

– _Phineas, I think it's your turn to speak up again._ –

Oh! Oh, yes – I beg your pardon! Indeed – where was I…

~ Can we get a new narrator, please? This one is obviously getting decrepit! ~

Impudent boy! Who's _decrepit_ here!

~ Would you rather prefer _senile_? ~

Oh, be quiet! And you young rascals out there – yes, _you_ I mean! Stop giggling! I was just taking a little nap, that's all! So, back to the essentials –

~ Back to _me_, you mean? ~

– _Severus_, please! _Let Phineas continue!_ –

~ Well, for that he needs to get _started_ first. ~

_This_ is hell. It must be. Spending a fraction of one's afterlife _here_ – like _this_ – constantly surrounded by this lot, who are either plain crazy nuts, or _really_ senile like good Armando over there, or insolent youngsters like –

~ Whining, whining, whining, that's all _you_ do, all day long! You think you're more pleasurable company? ~

I won't dignify that brazenness with an answer! _Anyway_. The _story_. Yes. I think I remember where we left off. My dearest great-granddaughter got married to this Idiot, indeed, and for a start, they went on honeymoon together – on her part for consolation, I imagine. However, seven weeks, four countries, six cities, fourteen museums, eight art galleries, and uncounted sights later – my dear girl is a great enthusiast for _les belles arts_, you must know; I fathom her unworthy suitor just pretended to take an interest for her sake – the rich, beautiful – well, _he_ was rich, _she_ was both – married couple returned to Southern Wiltshire to live in the unworthy bridegroom's stately manor, at least on the weekends. My dearest great-granddaughter Narcissa enrolled in Artemis College, too, The Idiot began to attend graduate Law classes, and during the week, they frequently stayed in his old bachelor apartment in London because he wasn't in the mood to endure his father. Which I can understand just too well; I was Abraxas Malfoy's Head of House then – a nasty temper, that one, a –

– _Phineas!_ –

Thank Salazar that my dear great-grandchild had a good deal more brains than her spouse, or their story might have ended at this point already. After pledging himself to Lord Voldemort's cause of all causes, The Idiot soon realised that he might have committed himself too rashly. For example – his master wasn't exactly pleased when he found out that The Idiot had heard about his master's true identity, and threatened to take it out on my poor girl if he thought of telling anybody else! But she taught him Occlumency to prevent further predicaments like this one. Her initial enthusiasm after finding out that Lord Voldemort was really nobody else but Tom Riddle, the boy that she very nearly had beaten in her OWLs, had quickly worn off, too.

Albeit The Idiot's comet-like career in the Dark Order – not quite three years after joining up, he was made second-in-command, aged only twenty-two – neither he nor my dearest girl were too content with the whole affair. He did appreciate the magical power he gained – just like the actual power, I'd imagine – but now that he had a lovely wife waiting for him at home, he had little liking to spend his evenings elsewhere and otherwise. Also, he became more and more annoyed; purging the magical community of Mudbloods –

~ Oh, _shut_ your mouth! ~

Oh, very well, _Muggleborns_ then – happy now, Snape? That was one thing in The Idiot's mind; but risking his own behind for it quite another. He had tried to get accustomed to his master's inferior standing – now let me continue, Snape! I'm merely saying what was going through The Idiot's head! – But he didn't succeed very far, and what was more, he thought that Lord Voldemort was acting fairly nonsensical. He got assigned to a number of missions whose purpose was a mystery to him, and every now and then, things got _very_ close – far _too_ close for his, or my good girl's equanimity.

My poor, poor great-granddaughter! Oh well, why did she have to marry this Idiot, but all the same! My poor child! Once she realised just how dangerous her husband's assignments were, her peace of mind was lost. She didn't comprehend this – what did that wretched man think he was doing? He was a genius, why wasn't he satisfied with straining to become the most powerful wizard by far, some experimental magic, some research? Why would he send her husband out to battle Aurors just for the sake of it? Why would he have random people slain for no reason at all? She had seen The Idiot perform the Dark Arts, he was fantastic – even I must admit to that, and I'm not his greatest fan, as you might have noticed. Despite his talent, my poor girl couldn't dispel the concern that he might meet a foe more excellent yet. What if he was injured? Arrested? Or – but _no_, she didn't allow herself to even _think_ it.

Still, she knew how many Death Eaters had been captured, or killed. She stopped reading the Daily Prophet in the morning, unless her husband had read it first and removed all the bits that might disturb her. Neither did he tell her what he was up to concerning his service for Lord Voldemort – she didn't want to know, nor did he want to either upset her, or lie to her. But no caution could stop her from fretting at night, waiting for her husband to come back home.

~ In fairness though, Lucius never lingered – he rushed home in the very moment when he was free to go. ~

Who's narrating here, Snape? You or me? My dear great-granddaughter _fretted_; she was eaten up by worries for the wretched boy's sake. Well, she claimed she loved him. But I'm still suspecting that he put her under a Confounding Charm, or slipped a love potion into her coffee…

~ You really are a bitter, old man! ~

Look who's talking!

– _Well, Severus certainly didn't get a chance of becoming OLD…_ –

~ And I'm still wondering whom to give the most credits for _that_ fact. The Dark Lord, his shoddy snake, or my old _friend_ and boss! ~

Oh _well_. Not only had young Tom Riddle made quite a career to become Lord Voldemort – his star was rising still. When he had come back to England after almost twenty years of travelling, his skills in the Dark Arts had been unrivalled. Five years later, he was famous, or rather say _infamous_ – he and his followers were close to overthrow the Ministry of Magic, not because they were planning some coup d'état, but simply because they _existed_. He was hungry for power, not the conventional sort of power – he had no intention to become Minister for Magic, for Salazar's sake. He relished the power he had on the _minds_ of people; even his own supporters wouldn't dare to speak his name. His ulterior motive wasn't mere power though. He thought that nobody but he knew about this motive then, not even his faithful Death Eaters, which weren't named so for nothing.

He wasn't afraid of death. He _hated_ it. Death! Death is universally supposed to be the one matter that cannot be conquered; warlocks, kings, knights and heroes, they all are powerless when facing it. But Tom Riddle wouldn't give in like that, like his own mother, who had simply lied down to die instead of fighting, for life in itself, for her son! And he had already succeeded in vanquishing death. He had been a schoolboy still when toying with the idea already, and he had spent the past twenty-five years very usefully to realise his plan.

It was simple enough. So simple in fact that he couldn't believe that no one before him had tried it! All it'd take was transferring parts of his soul into separate objects – all right, all right, _that_ bit wasn't exactly _easy_, but once he knew how to do it… Body and soul belong, living and dying together. So if there is a part of the soul still living autonomously when the physical frame has died, this frame can be revived, over and over and –

– _I believe they have grasped the concept, Phineas. It's fairly well explained in the books._ –

But they're _Muggles_, Dumbledore! How bright can they be? Well, never mind now. As I said – immortality isn't that complicated, when one is so talented and crafty like Tom Riddle certainly was. Most exceptional student that this school has ever seen, if I remember correctly.

– _If only he had employed his prodigious skills for a good cause!_ –

~ Like – 'For The Greater Good', Dumbledore? ~

– _Oh, when will you stop going on with that, Severus! You, I remember, were no saint in your youth either!_ –

~ At least, _I_ reformed in my twenties! _I_ wasn't prepared to send countless people to their deaths! ~

– _You'll be grizzling about that for the next century, will you?_ –

I'm so sorry to interrupt you, my esteemed colleagues, _but I'm telling a story here!_ If you cannot be quiet, get out of here at once! Do I have your attention now? Yes? Good! – As I was saying before these two butted in: Tom Riddle – Lord Voldemort he called himself by then – was a genius and had found a way to gain immortality. He paid little attention to the fact that with every piece of his soul that he disposed of, he lost more and more of his humaneness –

~ And his common sense. And his logical capacity. – Sorry to interrupt you once more, but it's true! That lunatic really, really lost it! ~

True. He created his first Horcrux aged sixteen, which _is _quite a feat, I've got to hand it to the boy. For this, he killed another student and used an old diary to store a part of his soul. When he was seventeen, he created the second after murdering his Muggle father, in form of a certain family heirloom.

~ I bet _you_ in particular remember that one, don't you, Dumbledore? ~

Both objects proved that he indeed was Salazar Slytherin's true heir, marked his first victims, showed his ingenuity – how many sixteen-year-old wizards can implant their memory in a book, eh? None, none! He gathered gifted wizards around him, the most talented wizards from all Europe, from the most ancient families – but none of them – not _one_ was a patch on him and _his_ talent!

– _Spoken like a true admirer, Phineas._ –

It's not wise to underestimate one's opponent, Dumbledore. It is what brought him down eventually, isn't it? The third object was a golden cup that had once belonged to Helga Hufflepuff and which bore fantastic powers of its own, neutralising poisons, enhancing potions, turning water to whatever substance you willed. He turned it into a Horcrux after killing the then-Minister for Magic. Number four was a locket from Salazar Slytherin himself – Phoebus Penrose, the famous Muggle advocate, gave his life for this one. The fifth and next to last one was Rowena Ravenclaw's famous tiara. He had made it a rule to only use them when he had killed somebody special – but I forgot who got killed for this one.

~ I believe it was Hannibal Greyback, Fenrir's father. He was a champion for the reconciliation of humans and werewolves. ~

In any case, he safeguarded his survival fairly well. And extended the Dark Order. He strictly ruled it, with a tight hierarchy. Naturally, he was the number one. His right hand was The Idiot Boy, who distinguished himself for many reasons, his impeccable pedigree, his immense talent, but foremost his will and determination. Then there was my _other _great-granddaughter – troublesome, all her life, I tell you! Nothing but trouble! She was one of the few witches serving him – she would have been in her brother-in-law's position, if she hadn't been a woman. He considered women in general to be weak, too soft, too easily scared – which is true in essentials –

~ No, it isn't! ~

Sissy!

~ _Women_ are _not_ weaker than men in essentials! Dumbledore! ~

– _He's right, you know?_ –

~ Thank you. ~

That's it! I've had it! _You_ go on telling the story, if you think you two are so clever! At least, I don't have to suffer your constant interrupting any longer!

~ Very well. You were explaining the Dark Order's hierarchy, I believe? Well, I'm better suited to talk about _that_, anyway. Indeed, Lucius was the Dark Lord's second-in-command, and the mad woman was his most trusted executioner. Really, no one would have been better fitted for the job. For some time, he wanted Narcissa to join up, too, because he had heard much of her cleverness and talent. She and Lucius could dissuade him though. Narcissa was a fabulous Occlumens, not showing her disgust with the enterprise as such, only her hesitations and scruples, and he understood that there was no use in having a servant who was, right from the start, unwilling to do what it would take. There were plenty of alternatives, people that were hungry for the opportunities he could offer.

He truly understood what to offer to bind his disciples to himself. Some of them were hungry for power, magic or mundane power or both, like Lucius, or Bellatrix. Some were simply – well – perhaps 'adventurous' is the right term. Some were bullies and sadists, relishing the power they could exploit over others. Some were unhappy, unsatisfied, balancing their discontent with the possibilities he gave them. He left them to their own ways, only intervening when their actions endangered the order. It was best like this, tying them closer to him still – crimes done in common are a mighty band. He had his people everywhere. In almost every department of the Ministry, in the Wizengamot, at Gringotts and St Mungo's; he's had his people in various newspapers and broadcasting, he had the Defence against the Dark Arts instructor in Artemis College in the palm of his hand, and a number of Hogwarts students just waiting to leave school and join up, too. Bellatrix and Lucius were so well-respected, they had access to every house and family in the country. He had Greyback, the giants, the majority of vampires, and created a legion of Inferi. He had all sides covered, really. ~

– _The only spy he still wanted was one in my school._ –

~ Yes, someone close to you, not just a student. You were actually the only enemy that the Dark Lord ever truly respected, and he had his heart – nah, bad wording – he had his _mind _set on defeating you, and kept on assuring us that there would come the day that saw the end of the great Albus Dumbledore, and that he, the Dark Lord, would be dancing on your grave then. ~

– _He did do that before the end, didn't he?_ –

~ I really couldn't say. If I had seen him dig out that blasted wand, I _might_ have been a little better prepared that he'd kill me out of the blue! ~

– _Before you start again with_ _THAT_ _old story, I suggest we get back to the actual protocols, hm?_ –


	36. The Betrayal

Severus has a brush with death and learns that justice is only a matter of perspective.

* * *

**– II.1. –**

The Betrayal

* * *

_The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference._

_ELIE WIESEL_

* * *

"…and then I mentioned in passing how to disable the Whomping Willow!"

James cracked up, crudely patting his best friend's back. "Good one, Padfoot!"

Peter was laughing as well, and Sirius, in stitches, added breathlessly, "Now all left to hope is that the git doesn't accidentally hurt poor Moony before he tears old Snivellus to shreds!"

The merry laughter continued for some more seconds before the Knut had dropped with James. He shot Sirius an intrigued glance and panted, "You are joking, right?"

"Of course I am!"

James relaxed again and went back to grin. "For a moment, you know –"

"_Of course_ the stupid git won't stand a chance against a fully-fledged werewolf!"

"You – you mean – you _told_ him?" James stared in perfect incredulity. "You told him that Remus is – that he is a werewolf?"

"I did not! What d'you think of me! I merely mentioned how to disable the enchantment on the Whomping Willow, silly! Serves him right, why does he stick his big beak into other people's business!"

"Sirius," James said very sternly, still gasping at his mate, "let us be clear – you – you _told_ Snape how to get past the Willow? As in – how to get into the secret passageway? That leads to the Shrieking Shack? _Tonight?_"

"I didn't _tell_ him. I told Peter while Snipelius happened to stand close – he got no one to blame but himself, eavesdropping on other people!"

"You mean – if we're unlucky, Snape is on his way – _right now_ – to see what's up with Moony?"

Sirius was clearly offended by his friend's reluctance to get the joke. "Don't be so dull, Prongs! He won't be able to give Moony away, once he –"

"Are you out of your head? You practically _sent_ Snape to his own death?"

James was on his feet in a split second, not even bothering to get properly dressed before storming out of their dorm, or consult the Marauders Map for confirmation. "What are you doing?" Sirius cried after him, but didn't get an answer.

James couldn't _believe_ this! If Snape had believed what he had heard – and why shouldn't he – he'd been on their tails for _months_ now, if that was enough – he'd go straight into the Shack, only to find – Remus' secret – no one must know – but the worst – he would just – just – _die_! Poor Remus would kill him without knowing what he was doing even, and tomorrow – oh _Lord_!

"I'm not sure how I find your new take on leisure fashion," the Ravenclaw Senior Prefect snarled when James sprinted past him in his pyjamas. "That's five points – _hey!_ I'm _talking_ to you, Potter!"

James was out of the castle before Boot could have finished his indignant rant, and saw his worst premonition confirmed two minutes later. There it stood in perfect peace – the Whomping Willow, for once _not_ whomping – and James' heart missed several beats, but he didn't slow down. Damn it! Damn _him_! 'Nosy idiot, if Moony gets you, it'll be no one's fault but your own, you stupid prat!'

But another voice in his head told him that the Headmaster wouldn't see it that way, _nobody_ would – nobody that mattered in this respect! They'd send poor Remus to Azkaban – at least! Maybe they'd even kill him – could they do something like that? Put him down like a rampaging Hippogriff? And Sirius – but perhaps it'd be possible to keep Sirius' name out of this, at least – if Snape was dead, he couldn't betray whom he had got the secret from…

Once inside the passage, he stopped for a second, to catch his breath, and also because he hoped to hear something. If he could still _hear_ Snape, this one couldn't be too far into the tunnel, and in _that_ case, all hope wasn't lost yet. James would – what – yes, stun him and drag him back without any harm done, and they'd just have to come up with another obstacle keeping Snape's curiosity at bay at the next full moon… Obviously, they wouldn't be able to ask Dumbledore – Dumbledore must never find out – he'd be so mad with them all – could they be expelled for this…? Expelled – because of _Snape_! Ph! That must never happen! But what other chance did he have, right now?

He took up pace again, noticing with growing horror that he got closer and closer to the Shrieking Shack, and still no trace of bloody Snivellus! He shrank back with his own pun and made a silent prayer that Snivellus must not be _bloody_ – not tonight, anyway! In the distance, he saw the tunnel take a sharp turn, and utterly miserable, James realised that this was the last turn before the exit, and behind that exit, a monster was waiting – a monster that happened to be one of his best friends! Fifty metres to the turning – forty – James' lungs felt like bursting – but he couldn't stop now, even though it might already be too late – thirty – twenty – and in that moment, a ferocious howl pierced his eardrum and let his blood curl.

"_NO!_ Don't – _Moony!_"

He ran on, hearing another dreadful noise, a human scream this time, one of terror and shock, followed by some incantation and he saw a flash of red light around the corner – he was almost there, and so was Snape, judging the yell. James braced himself for the worst and burst around that one last corner, seeing his greatest fear dispelled, but that was as good as it would get. Snape was _not_ dead, but only a hair's breadth away from death, so much was certain.

There it – _he_, Remus, James reminded himself – was, already transformed into his werewolf-self, a smouldering wound in his fur on the throat, but ready to strike. Snape was lying on his back, muttering one protection spell after the other under his breath, but the werewolf closed in inch by inch, not overly concerned by Snape's muttering. Well, there weren't many spells that could take out a werewolf, as James well knew. Snape cast a Blasting Curse that threw Remus back for ten feet, thus infuriating the beast even more.

"Get up! _Get up!_" James screeched, fumbling with his own wand and pointing it at his best friend.

But Snape didn't get up, instead he lashed out his wand and shouted a spell that James had never heard, missing Remus the slightest bit because this one leaped forwards in this second – and the spell severed half of the werewolf's tail. James vaguely realised that _this_ spell would have killed Remus if it had hit him fully, and instead of hexing the beast, he instinctively pointed his wand at Snape on the ground.

"Don't! Don't kill him!"

Again, Snape didn't listen, didn't even turn his head, but repeated the movement and – "_Sect_-"

"_Expelliarmus_!" Snape's wand flew threw the air and landed somewhere behind James and his next spell drove Remus, or what used to be Remus most of the time, back again. "I said _don't kill him, arsehole!_"

"I don't give a damn what you say, Potter!" Snape retorted on top of his lungs, but at least he got to his feet again, backing away from Remus. What could he do? What on earth – he couldn't transform into his Animagus form; the tunnel was much too narrow for that – he wouldn't want to give Snape another go at murdering Remus either – these protective spells wouldn't keep Remus at bay for long – Lord, what could they _do_ –

"Get your wand, stupid," he yelled at Snape.

"What d'you think I'm doing," was the furious reply, and from the corner of his eye, James saw Snape stooping, groping in the darkness. He shot another Blasting Curse at Remus, followed by a series of flashlights to support Snape's search for his lost wand. "When you have it back, count to three, and then we'll _both_ send a Stunner at him – maybe _that_ works!"

"I already tried a Stunner, dimwit!"

"But now we're two, retard!"

Two more Blasting Curses before Snape had got his wand back, and indeed, the blithering idiot for once did what he was told – at the count of _three_ they both shot a Stunner at the werewolf who was once more ready to strike and dangerously close by now. James' curse hit the beast's chest, Snape's hit him right between the eyes, and James bit down the urge to remark on that admirably aimed shot. They had hit him in the leap, and in mid-air, the monster's limbs slackened and he crashed to the ground with a sickening _thud_.

James grabbed Snape's lapels before this one could try to disable Remus 'for good' with that weird spell of his, pulled him around and away. "Now let's get out of here, I don't know how long the effect will last!"

Snape didn't resist and followed him back towards the school, but clearly couldn't refrain from being his all-too-well-known, nasty self even if his life depended on it. "Are you completely insane, Potter? Why –"

"Why I didn't let you murder him? Go figure, bastard!"

"Why did you take my wand away, you fucking jerk?"

"_Because_ – oh, _forget_ it, grease ball!"

Suddenly, Snape stopped, and James slowed down, shouting over his shoulder, "I know you've got the condition of a two-hundred-year-old hag, Snape, but could you at least _try_ to get out of here in one piece?"

"_Reducto!_" Snape yelled, and with a very loud noise, a good part of the tunnel ceiling came crashing down. For a second, James thought that tonight's shock had robbed Snape of the little wit he might have left – did he intend them to be buried alive or what? But then he realised that Snape had used a rather mild version, leaving most of the tunnel perfectly intact, but making a bit of an obstacle just in case Remus would follow them once he had recovered from the Stunners.

Again, he refrained from commending the smart move and simply went on in the feeble light of his wand, a little slower now. Snape threatened to catch up with him, so he took up some more pace, until they were both practically running again. At least, that stopped Snape from speaking – that bloke really was no athlete, so much was certain. And as much as James liked to make fun of this fact, he thought he couldn't be more grateful about it now. He wouldn't _bear_ to hear Snivellus' accusations – justified for the first time in his entire wretched life.

Once they were out of the tunnel and had activated the mechanism working on the Whomping Willow again, Snape fell to his knees, just out of reach of the tree branches, and clutched his sides, panting and gasping for breath. James gazed at him, figuring out if he could dare to try an _Obliviatus_ on the old fart right now. Snape was an idiot, but one had to hand it to him – he knew his way with curses, he was bloody fast, and as his curse against Remus had shown, hardly missed his aim. But James also knew that his chances would never be better again than right now, with his victim out of breath and _slightly_ distraught. And he _had_ to Obliviate him in the first place, because there was no chance on earth that Snape wouldn't seize this marvellous opportunity and go blabbing about Remus little – erm – _problem_.

He had just made up his mind to give it a try, at least, when he heard the most unwelcome voice. "_Oi!_ Whatcha fellas think yer doin here at this time o' nigh'?"

James let his wand glide back into his pocket and turned around with what he knew to be his most pleasant smile. "Mr Ogg, Sir –"

"Quit that gobbledygook, mate! Yer forbidden te leave the castle at nigh'time, I bet someone's told ya that!"

Nope, _charm_ never did the job with Ogg, but it didn't matter anyway, because the Headmaster himself appeared on scene, wearing a furious look that was mingled with relief right now. In his tow were Peter and Sirius, the former looking frightened, the latter appeared to be sulking. James opened his mouth for an explanation, but Dumbledore stopped him at once, and said that he didn't want to hear a single word but that they were okay for the moment. "My office is the proper place to explain."

Under his breath, Peter explained that it had been him who had alerted Dumbledore – after James hadn't come back, he had become anxious that something serious might have happened. James only half-listened. On the one hand he thought that Peter was a soft little idiot – running off to the Headmaster when he could have come down to the Shack himself, he must know how _numbers_ really mattered when confronting a werewolf! And together, they might have managed to overwhelm old Snivellus before this one could give _his_ distorted version of the story! On the other hand – Dumbledore was better than anyone else they could have come across, _he_ would sort it out, at least in respect to Snape. He would obviously Obliviate the evil git so he couldn't go blabbing, and at least Remus was going to be safe, right?

His mind was racing; what could he do, he'd have to _do_ something, or they'd be in such awful trouble! He squinted over to Snape, who was eerily silent, his face a mask void of anything much. No fear, no anger, no glee – no _nothing_, and James knew the nasty git long enough to understand that it could hardly come worse. Snape made mistakes when he got angry, but right now, he was in his Narcissa-Black-imitation-mode, meaning he was cold and calculating, and James could only _hope_, really, that Dumbledore would stick up for Remus. 'Oh Sirius, boy, wait until I get you…'

Ironically, Severus Snape was thinking pretty much along the same lines. 'Oh Black, wait until I'm through with you!' Twenty minutes ago, he had looked his certain death into the face – he still couldn't grasp the full meaning of what he had seen. He had _known_ that this was it, that he wouldn't leave that tunnel alive again. Well, obviously he had erred, because he was _here_, alive and breathing – well, trying to breathe again, anyway. Neither could he believe that he had truly allowed Black to set him up like this – Black had planned this all along – that _bastard_, that cursed piece of rotten filth – he had always thought that Black and Potter were _the_ most obnoxious, hideous, repulsive people on the planet, but… No, he wouldn't have believed that Black was _so_ ruthless, sending someone he disliked straight to his death.

Obviously, Madam Pomfrey knew about Lupin. He had seen her take him down to that secret passage time and time again. And if Madam Pomfrey knew, so must the Headmaster. McGonagall, sure. And Slughorn, too, thinking about it. And they had told Lupin's mates – so that these could use their knowledge to their own ends. Black had tonight, and Potter… Well, Severus hadn't yet figured out Potter's part in this game. Truth was that Potter had just saved his ass, even in his shock and outrage, Severus couldn't deny _that_. But he also understood _why_ he had done so. If Lupin had killed someone, he would have been made responsible and gone to Azkaban for it. Potter had come to that tunnel tonight because he had wanted to save his buddy Lupin, not because of Severus.

They arrived at Dumbledore's office and the Headmaster wanted to know what had happened, starting with Severus. So that was what he did, he told him. He told him how he had become suspicious about Lupin's mysterious absences, how he had tried to find out what it was all about, how Black had called him out on it, and when Severus had told him to leave him alone, how Black had made sure that Severus would overhear him talking about the Whomping Willow –

"That's not true!" Potter interrupted forcefully, speaking up for the first time. "Sirius did no such thing! _You_ spying after us, there's hardly a conversation we could be sure of you _not_ overhearing!"

Severus wasn't surprised and arched a brow. "Is that so? I wonder why they would talk in stage whisper then, right behind the shelf where I sit every evening in the library?"

Potter fluttered his hand impatiently and turned to Dumbledore with the most innocent expression. Oh, _come on!_ No one could _possibly_ fall for this shit!

"Sir," Potter addressed the Headmaster, "I know very well that all of us have a reputation for trouble-making, but _seriously_ – there's a difference between a prank, between cursing someone for fun, and sending someone into the arms of a werewolf! Neither Sirius, nor I, would _ever_ do anything like that!"

'Who d'ya think you're fooling?' Oh, joyous night – it would see the fulfilment of one of Severus' dearest wishes – Black's expulsion! Not even Potter with all his smooth lying would be able to talk his pal out of _this_ crime! "Potter – tell me one thing," he said with a soft smile. "If it hadn't been Black's deliberate intention that I should hear him talking to Pettigrew about the Whomping Willow – why did you think you'd have to come looking for me in the first place?"

Potter's cheeks flushed an ugly scarlet. "Oh, shut your big trap, Snivellus!"

"Mr Potter!"

"But, sir –"

Dumbledore lifted his hands. "I am sure Mr Black, reckless and irresponsible as his behaviour might have been, didn't think through the possible consequences of his actions –"

"_What?_" Severus cried, totally taken aback.

"_Exactly!_" Black cried, nodding wildly.

"Because this carelessness could easily have warranted Mr Lupin's expulsion, incarceration even, and I dare say Mr Black wouldn't have wanted _that_."

"_What?_"

"_Exactly!_"

"I must impress on you how serious this matter is, on all of you. You –" Dumbledore pointedly looked at Potter and Black. "– must be aware what would happen if Mr Lupin's problem was spread in the school."

The two boys nodded uncomfortably and shot Severus a strange glance.

Dumbledore went on, looking at Severus now, "And the same is true for you, Mr Snape. Mr Lupin would be the one punished if anybody outside of this room got wind of tonight's events, and you will agree with me that it's hardly _Mr Lupin_ at fault here."

Severus could merely stare at him, but nodded nevertheless, if vaguely so. He didn't give a damn about Lupin; he was an idiot, sure, but next to Black, he easily appeared like a decent human being. As long as Black got his just punishment, he didn't care for _anything_ else much.

"Do I have your word," the Headmaster continued gravely, "that you shall not speak to _anybody_, in this school or outside of it, about anything that has come to your knowledge tonight, or about the incident as such?"

"I have no grudge with Lupin – not because of tonight, anyhow," Severus growled and shook Dumbledore's outstretched hand.

"I have your word of honour then?"

"Yes, sir."

Oh, this was worth it, judging by Black's and Potter's stunned faces! "But sir," Potter gasped, "aren't you going to Obliviate him? He'll tell the whole school, and by tomorrow –"

"Mr Snape has just given me _his word_, Mr Potter. That is good enough for me!"

"But he's a _Slytherin_!" Black cried indignantly.

"He certainly is, but why do you suppose that would make any difference? The Slytherin code of honour might not be the same like that of Gryffindor, but it doesn't follow that it is of any less value. I have all trust in Mr Snape's integrity to stand by his word, and so should _you_. Let us not forget who has provoked this situation."

"_He_ did!" Black snapped, paper-white, and stabbed his finger at Severus. "That nosy little –"

"Mr Black, calm yourself at once!" Dumbledore cut him short and his lips resembled McGonagall's in this moment. "I don't know how _you_ came to know about Mr Lupin's secret, because I sincerely doubt that it was _he_ disclosing it. Which would mean that _you_ have been – _nosy_, you call it – as well! Be that as it may, I am very surprised and displeased how recklessly you have gambled with that knowledge!"

That deflated Black visibly, and if Severus wasn't mistaken, even Potter shot his buddy an angry side-glance. Pettigrew didn't look happy either.

Dumbledore went on, calmer, "I will desist from punishing either of you for being out of bed after curfew. I'm sure Mr Snape has learnt that lesson in the most painful way tonight, and as for Mr Potter – well, we're _all_ lucky that he disregarded the respective rules this one time. As for _your_ punishment, Mr Black –"

Severus hardly dared to breathe, so much he was itching with excitement. Finally! At last! This would be the last time he'd have to see _that_ mug! It was almost worth being nearly killed. Well, _almost_.

"I cannot emphasise enough how serious this is! You have gambled with two lives tonight, and a third – Mr Potter's, who I believe you call your _best friend_ – due to a very deplorable lack of judgement. Therefore I think that detentions are in order, regardless of your upcoming OWL exams."

Severus' jaw dropped. _Detentions?_ Like in – cleaning the floors? Like in – chopping flobberworms? What about the expulsion, the temporary stint in Azkaban, the taring and feathering…?

"You will help Madam Pince storing away the returned books _every _night until the end of term. When you have finished, you'll report to Mr Filch, who is bound to have more work to do. And make no mistake, Mr Black – I will check on you to execute your work to be as responsible and thorough as it was irresponsible and ill-judged tonight. Have I made myself clear?"

Black nodded slowly – he must be as dumfounded as Severus felt numb. Storing away books, and clean the Owlery for the next three months? _That_ was Dumbledore's idea of _punishment_ for wanting to see another student dead? Potter wasn't content either. "But Professor," he exclaimed, "how is Sirius supposed to study for the –"

"This is my last word on the subject, Mr Potter! In _every_ respect! I would have been forced to expel the unfortunate Mr Lupin if anything else had happened, so _expulsion_ is the only other means I have in case my orders are not followed by _all_ of you. If I am to hear _one word_ about this incident, regardless from which side; if I see that Mr Black isn't doing his work as he ought to, I am determined to resort to this harshest punishment in my power. You understand?"

All four boys were dismissed and sent back to their dorms – 'without _any_ detour, Mr Black, Mr Potter – or I will _know_' – and once they were out of earshot, Black hissed, "One word about Remus and you're _dead_, Snape!"

Severus could only sneer. "I learnt tonight that this is no empty threat, didn't I, Black?"

"Oh, cut it out, both of you," Potter snarled testily and shot his mate a withering glance.

"But –" Black began, but was muted by another angry look from Potter. "_What?_"

"I think James means –" Pettigrew tried, but shut his mouth after catching Potter's gaze, too. They had reached the corner where the Gryffindors would ascend to their tower, and Severus had to turn downstairs. They parted without a goodbye, which was only natural, but he had indeed reckoned with a 'sorry' from _someone_, at least. But neither of these prats would _ever_ admit to have been in the wrong; what had he been thinking! And what had he expected of Dumbledore, too! To actually trust that this one would expel a member of his own old House, or dearest Sirius Black in particular – preposterous! How could he have been that naïve! Even if Black had succeeded with his murderous plan, Black's punishment would probably have consisted of nothing worse than being banned from watching the next Quidditch match! Narcissa and Lucius had been right, Dumbledore was a soft old fool, and biased, and _unfair_! Lucius had always said, 'Forget about the _rules_,boy! The only question that _matters _is what you can get away with, and _that _depends!' And Potter! Acting like quite the hero, as if he had bothered the slightest bit for Severus' life in this instance! That Potter had shown up to get him out of the werewolf's claws was owed to the fact that this werewolf happened to be his mate, and not much else!

Severus returned to the dungeons in a mixture of shock, frustration and bottomless fury, but the three boys mounting the stairs to Gryffindor Tower were hardly more high-spirited. James and Peter were silent, on the latter's part this was due to helplessness, on the former's the wish to keep himself from exploding. He still couldn't grasp what Sirius had done. To bring poor Remus into such a terrible situation! And worse even – he was genuinely shocked that the boy that he considered to be his best friend, that this boy appeared to be ready to have someone killed – even if it was that total butthead Snape!

"Great," Sirius muttered shortly before they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady. "Three months of polishing medals in the trophy room. Yee-ha. As if I had nothing better to –"

James swivelled around and glared at him. "Shut up, Sirius, just _shut up_! You could have been expelled for this shit! And frankly, I think you would have _deserved_ it, too!"

"But it was only –"

"Don't complete that sentence, pal, or I swear, I'll curse you like not even Snivellus could ever be cursing you! Don't you have any idea how bad this was? What would have happened with Remus? With you? Are you really that keen to spend the remainder of your days in Azkaban?"

"Tone down your voice, young man!" The Fat Lady narrowed her eyes.

"Sorry… _Victorious_," James muttered the password, and the portrait gave way with a last disapproving gnarl. He returned to be silent until they had reached their dorm and he put a couple of silencing charms on the door. Very slowly, he turned around to face Sirius. "I would never have believed what a total bastard you can be."

Sirius scowled back. "Nobody would ever have found out what had happened," he said defiantly, making up for his dawning embarrassment by extra stubbornness. "There wouldn't have been left enough of Snape to snitch on any of –"

"That's not the point, idiot! That's not the freaking _point_! Gawd! You really don't get it, do you! You would be willing to make Remus a killer? You would be willing to get bloody Snape murdered? You think it's a joke to betray everything, honour, common decency, your best friends even? You really _are_ a Black!"

Sirius blushed and spat, "Don't you dare!"

"Or what? Want to get me killed, too?" James saw his friend grab his wand, but he didn't move. "Go ahead, mate. Do it. Make it complete."

"Shut up, James!"

"Oh, with pleasure! One last thing though – once in your life, Sirius, only _one blithering time_ – would it really kill you to admit that you've been acting like a royal jerk? Is that really asking for too much?"

They didn't talk to each other for the next three days; even when Remus had returned, and both Sirius and James had explained to him what had happened – he had already been wondering about a couple of curse marks that he had no explanation for – and Sirius had been practically on his knees to apologise to their werewolf buddy, they still kept to their icy silence. Sirius had made sure that neither James nor Peter were present when he had begged for Remus' forgiveness. He didn't want to back up their triumph over him, but what was more – by now, he _had_ realised how wrong he had been, and this realisation put him to so much shame that he shrank away from facing his friends. James had been right. Damn him, but he had been right. They had all been right, even Peter, the little nut, not to speak of Dumbledore. Yes, he had been irresponsible, incredibly short-sighted, his demeanour had been that of a _royal jerk_ indeed, a Black through and through. For the first time in his life, he had done something that he suspected his mother would approve of – getting a filthy half-blood killed, alas! In short – he _was_ an evil git, no better than even Snipelius and his sodding Slytherin gang. The Sorting Hat must have sorted him to Gryffindor by mistake!

They had all been cowed with dread that Snape would break his word. Remus had been so sick with fear, he had spent a couple of days in the Infirmary forreal. James had been practising _Obliviate_ day and night, just in case. Sirius had contemplated to learn a few curses to spell any Slytherin in the know, but James' lecture had eventually done the job. As far as he could see, the only thing he _could_ do was hang his head in perfect misery and report to Mr Filch every evening.

But surprise, surprise! For some unfathomable reason, nothing happened. Nothing at all. Not a single Slytherin did as much as _hint_ on Remus' secret. They were all acting perfectly normal. Well, in their case that meant that were as nasty and obnoxious as usually, hexing anyone in their way, and making all kinds of rude jokes otherwise. But for once, the Marauders found themselves _appreciating_ that routine. Snape had not blabbed. Which could only mean that he was saving the big revelation for a better purpose, and knowing old Snivellus, that was an ill omen, but what the heck. At least for the time being, Remus' butt was safe.

"Now would you two please, please reconcile?" Remus asked that night, looking decidedly dismayed. "Sirius – James didn't really mean what he said to you."

"I did," James insisted, but added in a flush, "I mean, the part about acting irresponsibly and bringing Remus into this predicament…"

"Right. He did _not_, however, mean what he said about you being a Black and all that crap. And James – Sirius is very, very sorry, too; he told me. He didn't think about any consequences at all, he was simply unnerved by Snape. By no means did he intend to either get that one killed, or me into any kind of real trouble. Isn't that true, Padfoot?"

"Yeah," Sirius replied in genuine contrition, not daring to meet James' eye. "I'd never have deliberately betrayed my friends' trust… Plus… I know you were right, Prongs, and I'm glad that you – well, if it hadn't been for you – you _know_! I shouldn't have… And I _swear_ I'll never again…"

"T's all right," James said, and before Sirius knew what was going on, his best friend had groped his hand, shook it, and gave him a big hug next. "Never again –"

"I'll never cock it up again, I promise!"

"_Never again_," James repeated and patted his back, "shall the ugly git come between us. Or anything else either. We're _friends_, nothing else matters!"

"Never!"

"Never," Remus and Peter joined the chorus.


	37. Missing Chances

It would seem that diffidence is love's strongest adversary

* * *

**- 2.2. -**

Missing Chances

* * *

_There's nothing I could say to make you try to feel okay, and nothing you could do to stop me feeling the way I do. And if the chance should happen that I never see you again - just remember that I'll always love you. I'd be a better person on the other side, I'm sure. You'd find a way to help yourself and find another door, to shrug off minor incidents and make us both feel proud. I'd just wish I could be there to see you through. You always were the one to make us stand out in a crowd, though every once upon a while your head was in a cloud. There's nothing you could never do to ever let me down, and remember that I'll always love you_

_BADLY DRAWN BOY_

_

* * *

_

"I don't think I should go," Lily insisted once more, but quite feebly so.

"And I definitely think you should go by all means," Severus repeated for the umpteenth time, grinning at her. The grin was supposed to cover up his anxiety, because he so desperately wanted her to attend the party with him that it had taken him almost three weeks to muster the guts to ask. That uneasiness had several causes; for once – the party in question was organised by the members of the Sepulture Septuplet, whose present members weren't known for embracing Muggle-borns like Lily with a friendly smile and an open mind. It had taken him quite a bit of persuasion with Mulciber to make him agree to invite Lily – well, her good looks had done the job in the end, but Severus was still slightly queasy, dreading that some guy or other would seize the opportunity to make stupid remarks.

What weighed much heavier though – good God, this was _Lily_, and Severus' insides were squirming even if he was just talking to her, let alone… To ask her out – because that was what it was basically all about, wasn't it? – asking her out made him feel as if his brains were turning into some jellyish substance. What if she started to laugh about him? What if she said no? Or worse – what if she said _yes_…? It was unthinkable!

But she _did_ say yes eventually, and as happy as Severus was, he was also scared out of his wits. "The little Mudblood said yes, then?" Travers asked that night, leering.

"Leave her alone, Travis!"

"Pity she's not a pureblood… Or a half-blood, at least."

Travers' own grandmother had been a Muggle-born witch, but the family had enough money to make up for that fault. Severus was well aware of his fellow students' occasional hypocrisy – Travers' grandmother, Mulciber's older brother who had eloped with a half-blood, Narcissa's sister Andromeda… There was not a single male Slytherin that hadn't yet stared after Muggle-born Lily Evans, or Ravenclaw half-blood Enid Crick. It was all about talking big, the rest was – well, the rest.

"Of course, come the Revolution…" Travers said now, dreamily beaming. "You better hurry up getting into her knickers, Savvy, before the Death Eaters are through with her and her lot."

Severus shot him a contemptuous glare. "She is my _friend_, Travis, hard as that concept might be for you to grasp! Lily's _knickers_ are the last thing I think about!"

"Idiot. She's got a thing for you, you know?"

"No, she has _not_, and since you're speaking of the '_Revolution_' –" He emphasised the word with hooked fingers. "– what good would it be to kill off someone as talented and clever as she is?!"

"Well – maybe they'll make an exception for her."

"They better do!"

Travers was taking this subject fairly serious and made a pensive face. "Well – if someone – with influence – what about Malfoy – I think his wife was rather fond of the little Mudblood, too –"

"Oh, be _quiet_ for once in your life, Travis!"

"I'm just saying – if someone influential vouchsafed for the little – _hottie_ – her butt might be safe despite everything. And what a butt it is! It'd be a shame to –"

"Don't talk about her like that! In fact, stop talking about her, full stop!"

Travers didn't even notice the other boy's thinly veiled outrage. He cupped his hands, giggled, and smacked the imaginary bottom before him. "Can we come back to the subject of her knickers?"

Severus shut him up with a spell, frothing on the inside, but succeeding in not letting it show too badly. He had become truly good at that. Not letting it show. Not letting show how Potter's and Black's insults offended him. Not letting show how Mulciber's and the others' thoughtless remarks about his father, about Lily, about the fact that he was supposed to be less worth than them, the purebloods, hurt him. Not letting show how much Lily affected him. It was all just a big show, and he thought he was an amazingly good actor. Funny. He had used to be a boy wearing his heart on his lapels when coming to Hogwarts. By now, he could hardly remember when he had last _not_ put up an act.

Or what about his profession, over and over again, how Lily was nothing but a friend for him? Obviously, she _was_ only a friend, but it wasn't as if he didn't _want_ her to be more than that. She was – well, incomparable, really! She was so smart, so pretty, so funny, but most of all, she was the genuinely kindest person he had ever met. Nothing about her was false; she was always honest, always truthful. When someone needed help, she was always the first to volunteer, even if she was tired and had lots to do herself. She had a great sense of humour… Nothing ever scared her… And when she smiled at him, with those incredible, shiny, wonderful eyes – it made him forget the whole world. To make it short – Lily Evans was perfect, so perfect indeed that he wouldn't _dare_ to approach her in any other way than that of friendship. She was just too good for someone like him. She was too good for anyone.

The closer the party was at hand, the more nervous he became. What if the other guys mocked her? What if they mocked him, making their filthy insinuations in front of _her_? What if he behaved like a total idiot, spilling his drink over her dress like he had on Narcissa's and Lucius' wedding? What if he grew a pimple before the great day? What if –

It had become a bit of a tradition of the Sepulture Septuplet to throw a big party before each holiday. As a kind of 'goodbye, see you all after Christmas', or Easter, or summer. They would go to the Shrieking Shack for those parties, using a secret passage out of the school that Narcissa had once shown him, and which would only open during new moon nights. All members of the Septuplet were allowed to invite whoever they liked, but so far, Severus had never dared to suggest that he might bring Lily. And he hadn't thought that she would like to go either; her dislike of his mates was legendary. 'Vile', 'wicked', 'nasty' and 'obnoxious' were among the nicer terms she had in store for Mulciber, Travers, Avery, Aubrey, and the two Lestrange siblings. He thought she was exaggerating; yeah, admittedly, some of Mulciber's pranks and jokes were out of line, but they weren't nearly as bad as those of Potter and his cronies. _Mulciber_ didn't send people into certain death!

"It's going to be brilliant," Severus told his friend when guiding her through the secret passage, trying to reassure himself as much as her. "Don't worry."

"I'm not worried. Why should I be?"

He blushed for the sixteenth time, approximately; how lucky that she wouldn't see it in the dim light of their wands. It was so dark that she actually clung to his arm for guidance, not actually heightening his power of concentration. He tripped over a root, almost falling and pulling her down with him. She burst out in merry laughter, and Severus thought that this was just like him. Making an arse of himself like usually, and Lily laughing about him.

What a pity that he didn't understand why she was giggling, because in fact, Lily was almost as awkward as he was about this whole night, about everything, really. No, she hadn't got the least desire to spend an evening in the company of these complete dunderheads. She, too, foresaw a whole lot of jibes and mean remarks. Like Severus, she was nervous like hell – but like him, she was also rather good in concealing it. When he had struggled with that root, her heart had missed a beat, and it wasn't for the fear to fall down. She had bumped against him and a shiver had run down her spine, and her only release had been to laugh.

The Shrieking Shack had a reputation for being the most haunted house in Great Britain; Lily didn't believe in those stories, but seeing the place now, she wondered if there might be a grain of truth in them after all. Sure, the guys had decorated the two narrow rooms to appear even more eerie. They had artfully spread cobwebs, nothing but black candles lighted the place, with normal flames just like red, green and blue ones. There were mirrors that wouldn't show the person looking into it, or uncannily distorted the reflection. A choir of tamed banshees was singing, charming a green, oscillating cobra with sparkling gems on the elegant head, and were supported by three Augureys. The drinks were served in Erumpent horns. Whispering veils had been hung up, but they didn't completely cover the strange marks that looked like the traces of fangs tearing on the wooden furniture, or the scratches of mighty crawls on the wooden planks and walls.

Lily noticed her friend's gloomy glances at those marks and thought of the story she had heard lately. Well, it didn't even qualify as a _story_, and the source was more than questionable, too. Her classmate Black had been hinting that his best buddy Potter had rescued Sev from the Shrieking Shack some weeks ago in an act of 'sheer Gryffindor valour, Evans!' She had tried to ask her friend if that was true, but he strictly refused to make any comment on it, making her think that despite everything, Black might for once have said the truth. Or scratched on in rather. Because if they were talking about complete dunderheads, not only the members of Sev's House were sticking out – Black and Potter were a league of their own, concerning unpleasant nastiness. Like Mulciber now, or Malfoy in the old days, they were rich, and handsome, and popular because they were so good at Quidditch, and that gave them the idea that they could do whatever they pleased, hex anyone in their way, or insult them – the only difference between Potter and Mulciber was the _kind_ of spells they used.

"What is it?" she asked tentatively and touched his shoulder.

He gave a little start and she quickly withdrew her hand. She thought that he didn't want his pals to see how a _Mudblood_ touched him; the idea made her angry and her guts revolting, but she bit down her disappointment in him. Instead, she arched a brow and beckoned at the horns they were holding.

"I thought Erumpents are close to extinction?"

"Uh…" He looked puzzled. "I reckon you're right…"

"And the last few are killed for rich kids using the horns as goblets…?"

He sniggered mirthlessly. "What would I know about rich kids, Lily, honestly?"

"They're your friends, aren't they?"

He shrugged. "But we've never discussed their parents' hollow-ware."

"Oi, folks! There at last!" They were joined by Avery and Rosalind, who gave Lily a measuring glance and patted Severus on the back. The girls knew each other from Slughorn's little club evenings, and to say that they didn't like each other would have been an understatement. Lily thought that Rosalind Lestrange, just like her younger brother, was conceited, rude and fairly dim-witted, possibly due to ten centuries of inbreeding. Rosalind in exchange found Lily Evans annoyingly pretty, an awful smart aleck, and it went without saying, a Mudblood that had no right to attend this school, even. Almost immediately, the two girls started to squabble about the Erumpent horn goblets, and only stopped when some late guests arrived, who were welcomed more than eagerly.

Lily knew two of them; Lucius Malfoy and Damocles Belby, once members of the Potions Club, had come in the company of a few wizards that were introduced as 'Rabastan Lestrange' – apparently a cousin of Rosalind and Reynold, 'Crabs' and 'Golly', who she thought she faintly remembered from school, and an impressing, incredibly good-looking witch called Bellatrix Lestrange, the sister-in-law of that other fellow. Lily thought she recognised her, but she didn't know why.

"That's Narcissa's oldest sister," Sev explained to her under his breath.

Lily couldn't help it but smirk. "That would explain the good looks."

"It surely does." Again, she couldn't help herself – she elbowed him rather insensitively. "Ouch! What was _that_ for?!"

"She's _married_, Sev!"

"Yeah, I _know_. We were at the wedding, remember?"

"Means you gotta stop making goo-goo eyes at her!"

He burst out laughing. "Stop being ridiculous, Lily!"

"Oh, _now_ I'm being _ridiculous_, yeah?! With your pureblood buddies around –"

"You know _perfectly well_ what utter nons-"

"Severus!" Lucius Malfoy had strolled over and smiled at his old charge. He lifted his hand in something like a wave for Lily, too. "Little Lily Evans, eh? Why, you've – _grown_!"

He exchanged a glance with Severus, on Malfoy's part amused, on Sev's clearly embarrassed, and Lily's temper hit another peak. She couldn't but goggle at Malfoy and that weird avuncular attitude; the last person who had told her that she had _grown_ had been her mum's colleague Mr Barnes, and she was old enough to understand that it wasn't how much she had grown in height that had caught his attention.

"Hey Lucius," she muttered wanly and lifted her hand as well. "Where's Narcissa?"

"Ah, you know how she dislikes parties. And she's got to finish some paper for College, too."

This time, Lily smiled for real. Admittedly, Narcissa Black – Malfoy it was now – was sort of all right. She remembered her well from their Potions Club. But she also remembered very vividly how much Sev admired her; oh, just how _cool_ Narcissa was, how _poised_, how _smart_ and _erudite_, and how marvellously _nice_ to have the grace condescending from her high horse and accept him! Clearly, Narcissa wasn't half as keen on seeing _him_ again tonight as vice versa!

Sev and Lucius made a bit of small-talk, and Lucius exclaimed, "I'm glad to see that the old spirit hasn't died out. Two weeks to your OWLs and you kids are having a party!"

"One night less of studying should hardly make a difference, right?" Lily asked pertly. "For if it did, one wouldn't be properly prepared _at all_."

"Bold as ever, Evans!"

"You say 'bold', my Head of House calls it 'cheeky'."

"Dear old Minerva. Oh, how I miss her reprimands and lectures on the _proper attitude_," he said languidly and sniggered.

"What's McGonagall know about _the proper attitude_, I wonder? I pity her lack of pride." His sister-in-law joined them and was introduced to Lily. As soon as hearing her last name, Madam Lestrange sneered disparagingly, her gaze altering between Sev and Lily. "Well, well – bird of a feather flock together… Anyway, Lucius – did you talk to Chester's son already?"

"Young Avery? I don't think I did, no. And I better do before I got to go home again."

"You really shouldn't allow Cissy to give you a curfew, Lucius," Madam Lestrange snarled and raised her eyes to the ceiling. Malfoy didn't seem offended though, but laughed brightly.

"Curfew? Good heavens, Bella, you really do not have a clue. How could I prefer someone else's company to my wife's?"

She shot Severus and Lily another disgusted glance. "Well, certainly not the _present_ company."

Lily thought to herself that _this_ sister let cold, haughty Narcissa Black appear like a warm-hearted, mild-mannered person, but before she could give a similarly snide retort to such insolence, Sev had taken her arm and led her away and out of the shack. She was frothing with anger.

"Embarrassed that you brought me?" she asked, outraged.

"Oh, come on, Lily, you –"

"What kind of people are you hanging out with, Sev?!"

"For a start – I'm not _hanging out _with her; tonight was the second time in my life I've ever seen that woman! And secondly – you must be aware that she despises _me_ as much as you." Her eyebrows disappeared beneath her fringe, and he added hurriedly, "Now that came out wrong –"

"I really don't _get_ it! What do you _see_ in these people?! Why do you spend _any_ time at all with people you think yourself were despising you?!"

Even in the faint light of the new moon outside the Shack, she noticed how unhappy he looked when replying, "They're not all like that. Like Madam Lestrange. And I _got_ to get along with the people in my own House. You have no idea how – in my first year – before Narcissa –"

"Narcissa!" Lily snorted, put out.

"_And_ Lucius… I don't want to go back to _that_, Lily. And what do you have against Narcissa, all of a sudden, anyway?"

Lily felt how her cheeks flushed and turned away and towards a little grove. "I don't have anything against her," she growled evasively.

"You surely sound as if you do!"

"Oh, is that right!"

"She's been nothing but nice to you!"

This was true; Narcissa Black had never been unfriendly to her, all right, but that really wasn't the point now! "Oh yes, dearest darling Narcissa – _so_ nice!"

"See? There it is again – that tone!"

"Mind my tone, Sev? Well, I'm sure it's not nearly as _nice_ as _Narcissa's_ – how could it, coming from my unworthy Mudblood lips?!"

He stared at her. "Are you drunk…?"

"I wish I was," she muttered, trying to rally herself. "I suppose that party has got the better of me…"

"Look – I'm sorry…"

"You do have to admit that she's really lofty, and…"

"You know her better than that, Lily. You do." His voice sounded almost like begging. "If it wasn't for her and Lucius, I'd have no friends at all –"

"And what about me?!"

"– in Slytherin," he finished the sentence and caught up with her. "Don't be mad with me, Lily. I'm sorry that this is turning out to be such a fiasco. I truly thought – I thought it'd be nice…"

"It _is_ nice." She pulled herself together and gave him a smile. "Just tell me we don't have to go back."

"Course not!"

"Great. Because I might end up cursing that arrogant cow, otherwise."

"You could give her a nice pair of antlers!" He grinned and winked at her. Only some weeks ago, she had come down on Potter like a ton of bricks and given him exactly that, following his buddies calling him 'Prongs' for some unfathomable reason. Speaking of _idiots_ – the school seemed to be cramped full of them.

"And give her additional weapons? I think not!" Lily laughed, too, willing him to come a little closer still, and inwardly rejoicing when he did settle next to her on a felled tree. Uncharacteristically timid, she murmured, "It was a nice idea to invite me, Sev, but the next time, _I'll_ choose a party for us."

"If I attend a Gryffindor party, _I'd_ be the one ending up with antlers, if that's enough."

"Ph! Gryffindor party. You don't suppose I'd go to one of Black's and Potter's parties, either!"

He said he were glad to hear her say so, and they talked about people at home – Muggles, old friends of Lily who believed she was attending some posh boarding school – who were _bound_ to throw some parties in the summer holidays, too. They talked about Petunia, who had announced that she would be looking for a summer job, in order to spend as little time as possible with 'that freak' of a sister. They talked about Sev's unbearable father, but she sensed that he felt uncomfortable with the topic, so she changed it deliberately, gesturing at the valley beneath the shack that they were looking upon.

"Picturesque, don't you think?"

She wanted to smack herself for saying something so stupid, but he answered without scorn, "Yes, it's very pretty."

"You like my perfume?" Oh _God_! If she didn't stop blabbing this _complete_ trash –

"Er…" He bent slightly towards her and made a sniffing sound. "Oh! Oh, yes! Now that you mention it – uhm…"

"It's the one you gave me, then…"

"You still have that? You don't use it very often, do you?"

He sounded disappointed, and she didn't come up with an answer. She could impossibly tell him that she only used it for special occasions _because_ she liked it so much. That tonight had been supposed to be such a _special occasion_. And she couldn't tell him that she was so dull in conversation because her heart was beating so madly, either. She looked over to him, trying to make up for being so taciturn by smiling as nicely as she could, finding him look somewhat strange.

She held his gaze, hoping, _praying_ that he would come a little closer still, that he'd put his arm around her shoulder and seize her close, and finally kiss her. After all this time, just _kiss_ her! But after a few minutes, she had to realise that _kissing_ was clearly the last endeavour he was inclined to launch into. Of course not. Maybe they _were_ friends for half of their both lives, but that was as good as it'd get. He'd _never_ touch her, the little Mudblood, what would his buddies say! That idea made her incredibly sad, but also furious, and she got to her feet with one energetic move.

"I think it's time for me to go," she hissed without looking at him once more. "It's already too late!"

"No! No, it isn't!"

"Oh yes, it _is_!"


	38. The Worst Day

Lily ends her and Severus' friendship

* * *

**- 2.3. -**

The Worst Day

* * *

_Delere licebit quod non edideris; nescit vox missa reverti._

_HORAZ – De Arte Poetica_

_

* * *

_

Lily was obviously angry with him, but Sev had no idea why, or how he could reconcile with her. The next time they got a chance to talk was when they met Monday afternoon to study for their Transfiguration OWL; she was bristling and weird, and made a whole lot of ill-advised jokes about her status as a Muggle-born. He wondered if Travis or Dev had said something to her at the party, that Severus hadn't overheard.

"Well… Urm… Wanna practise the Fire Transfiguration once more?" he asked awkwardly after she had just cracked another self-deprecating remark.

"But why?! My head already looks like it's on fire, perhaps I can get away with it like that!"

"Yeah," he muttered fondly and gazed at her dark red hair, but she was clearly determined to mistake whatever he would say and hissed at him. "If you don't want this," he hurried to add, "we could try Transitional Animagism. I definitely need some more practise with that."

She calmed down. "Yes, me too. And I still fail to see the whole point of the business. Why dare a risky transformation that won't last for more than five minutes, if you can use a potion that'll last for hours?"

He smirked lopsidedly. "You think they'd accept that as an answer?"

She laughed her bright, lovely laugh, throwing back her head and revealing her graceful throat, her hair framing her like tingling flames. Seeing Lily laugh was the most enthralling sight he could imagine. Their transitory peace didn't last for long though; not ten minutes later, they could hear voices, swelling louder and louder, a heated argument it would seem. At first, they both sniggered, thinking that another unfortunate student had come across Madam Pince after making an accidental dog-ear in one of her treasures.

That idea was obviously wrong though, as they soon realised. The voices came closer. In the moment that Lily recognised the voice of her roommate Mary Macdonald, Sev identified the other contender as _his_ own dorm mate Devlin Mulciber. 'Oh _Merlin_!' Severus rolled his eyes. Dev had the hots for Macdonald, despite the fact that she, too, was a Muggle-born. He wasn't in love with her, certainly not – he simply had a bet running with Rosalind that he could lay Macdonald. Well, judging from the girl's vicious retorts there, Dev was going to be parted from his vintage Oakshaft broomstick. No way in hell he'd be lucky with Macdonald.

"Oh, _come on_, sweeting. I don't know what you're playing at."

"There are libraries full of what you don't know, Mulciber! Now get off me, or you'll –"

"I'll…? You're not seriously sticking with that buffoon Abbott, are you! You deserve better than that!"

"Oh, do I, yes? And I'm supposed to think _you _are that better option, am I?" Macdonald taunted scornfully. "Want a Mudblood like myself for your little collection, yes? _God_, you're pathetic!"

"Shh, sweeting. I know you don't mean this. You chicks all pine for the bad boys – Leo Abbott is a soft little loser, you must know that. _I_ on the other hand –"

"_You_ on the other hand are a nasty git who thinks he is creation's crowning glory! I won't say this again, Mulciber – back off, or you'll regret it!"

Lily and Severus had got up and peeked through the bookshelves, seeing their two room mates three shelves further down the aisle, and witnessing Macdonald snatch her wand now. They could only see the back of Mulciber's head and not his face, but the next thing, he pushed the girl back against the wall and twisted the wrist of her wand-hand. Lily gave a startled shriek and raced off to reach the scene. Severus stayed where he was, incredulous at what he saw there, and quite instinctively produced his own wand. Macdonald spit into Mulciber's face, the boy shouted at her, irate, and pushed her back so fiercely that it seemed to knock the air out of her. She gasped for breath, and Severus trained his wand on the boy.

"_Panikos Pantex!_" he muttered, and the curse hit Dev in the back at the same moment that Lily reached them. Mulciber collapsed, cringing and howling, but Lily didn't spare him a single glance, heading for her friend instead. Severus would have liked to observe the effect of the curse – he had never used it before – had never seen it used before either – and was positively delighted that it seemed to work so well now, on his first attempt. Rosalind and Reynold had mentioned it; they had learnt it from their elder cousins – it was supposed to induce heedless fear on the victim, and judging by Dev's despairing whimpers over there, it worked excellently. Severus had no qualms about cursing his mate; Dev had had it coming, the idiot. 'I'll have the little Mudblood – they all love the dangerous ones, you know!' If someone should ask Sev, he'd simply say he had meant to aim at Macdonald instead, and missed her.

Lily was done with checking on her friend and turned around to the whining, writhing aggressor on the floor. She frowned, then looked up and practically met Sev's eyes, still peering through the obstacles. He thought she'd be pleased, but she surely didn't look like it. Her expression was rather shocked and she took out her wand, flicking it and barking, "_Finite Incantatem!_ – Now leg it, Mulciber, or there's more where this was coming from!"

She led her friend out of the library, and returned half an hour later, cornering Severus with a disgusted demeanour. She demanded to know what kind of spell this had been – where he had got it from – and how the hell he had dared to use such a spell on _anyone_, even if it was 'just Mulciber!' He tried to explain, how he had wanted to help her friend – she objected that he might just as well have missed 'the arse' and hit Mary instead, and that she was _repelled_ by that brand of magic, repelled, too, by _him_ for making use of it. Severus goggled at her, wondering what on earth she might be about – if she had any idea what could have happened if he had _not_ intervened – but he couldn't say much, so stumped he was, and also, Lily didn't give him a chance to speak up.

"Is that what you do, in your Common Room?! As a pastime in the evenings? Practise Dark magic and train up to become Death Eaters?" she shrieked, her hands pressed in her sides and her lips thin.

"Oh, will you get off it! Who cares what kind of spell it was, if it helped your –"

"Who cares?! _Who cares?!_ I DO!"

"Yeah, but then you're the only one, aren't you! Just for the record – maybe it _was_ a Dark spell, and I'm not saying that it is – but it worked well enough for the purpose!"

"It's evil!"

"Evil?!" He giggled, incredulous. "Have you got the slightest clue just how ridiculous you're being?! _Evil?!_ There's no such thing as an evil spell, daisy! Just malicious _intent_!"

She threw her hands in the air. "Oh, THERE WE ARE AGAIN! Narcissa Black's Pearls Of Wisdom, part forty-seven!"

"You want to claim the opposite, then?!" He smirked, thinking for a second that the matter was settled, but for Lily, it clearly wasn't.

"I won't parrot Narcissa Black, I won't!"

"Because you know that she's right, or do you have any more specific objections?"

Lily looked as if _she _was about to curse him, and with no benevolent intent either. "I hadn't believed how low you could sink!"

"Are you out of your head?! For ages you've been going on just how awful you find Mulciber, and then he attacks your dorm-mate, but you would rather have me stand by and watch?!"

"Just because it was Mulciber doesn't make it any better to use a Dark spell on him!"

"Please, Lily, don't make such a drama out of this!"

"I?! I?! I'm not making a drama out of anything! _You_ are acting like a jerk!"

"And you are acting like McGonagall!"

"Better like McGonagall than like You Know Who's Chosen Youth!"

"Oh, be quiet!" He cracked up, but in no very merry fashion.

"You won't shut me up, Severus Snape, you wont!"

He was at least as angry as she was, confused and angry. Oh, these little Gryffindor hypocrites! Did she seriously mean to tell him that she'd rather have her own friend be assaulted by a complete idiot, than seeing that one taken down by an – admittedly – Dark spell?! She _couldn't_ be serious! His confusion got increasingly worse, and that he let himself be distracted by Lily's emerald green eyes, that sparkled so beautifully the more furious she got, didn't improve matters. She exploded eventually, and her last line before turning on her heels was 'I've never been more disappointed with you! I wouldn't have thought it possible!'

He opened his mouth to say something, call after her, but he couldn't utter a sound. When Lily got angry, she was fiercer than a dragon on warpath, but she had never been remotely as angry with him, and the realisation that she was mad at him now – because of _that_ – made him unreasonably furious. 'Have it your way, then!' he thought, huffing. 'Go on and keep on fawning over sacred Black and Potter, heroes of Gryffindor House and not _a tad_ better than Mulciber! Oh, but _that's_ different, right, it's always different when _they_ are involved! _They_ can plot to have someone killed – but that's all just a big joke, a bit of storing books away will remedy _their_ crimes! But if _I_ try to help your own friend, you get all scandalised, do you?!'

They stopped talking, and for the next few days, Severus felt very self-righteous about their argument. He was right and she was not, damn it! And sooner or later, she'd realise this, too, and then she'd apologise, and he'd forget all about it, but for a start, he _really_ wanted to hear her apology! But she didn't apologise – she didn't even look at him, and in the course of the following week, Severus felt exceedingly miserable about this. They had had arguments before, but they had always reconciled pretty quickly again – and rather astonished, Severus realised that he was dependent on Lily's friendliness. He had his pals in the Sepulture Septuplet, all right, but that wasn't the same. Not remotely the same.

At least, his anguish was tempered by his busy preparations for the forth-coming OWLs. Yes, he missed studying with her, like they had used to do for so long. But he simply focused on the books before him, concentrated on his work, and got by during the days. The nights, alone in his bed, were worse, and every night he swore to himself to make up the following morning, but there was just too much to do, and he didn't even come across her because she kept on studying in Gryffindor Tower, to avoid meeting him, he assumed.

The OWLs came; on Monday they sat Charms, on Tuesday they sat Herbology, on Wednesday the Care of Magical Creatures exams took place, and theoretical Defence Against The Dark Arts was due on Thursday. He got through all of this without difficulties – the years of practising with Lily and Narcissa finally paid off. It was almost too easy. After the Defence test, he went out to the grounds, sat down next to some rhododendrons despite his hay fever and went over question 34 again, shaking his head at himself. 'Five signs that identify the werewolf' – gosh, this was so basic, every child could know this, and every child did – even the Muggles knew about werewolves! And he had been prying after one for almost five years and had failed to recognise him! He had nearly got himself killed for being so blind!

He could easily imagine the average answer to this, the tufted tail, the pupils, yes, yes. But he was quite confident that _his_ answer would get him at least five extra points – every idiot, or Muggle, could recognise a transformed werewolf, but _he_ had described some symptoms that the wizard would show _before_ the transformation. It was a bit too late to understand once one was facing a fully transformed werewolf, right?! So Severus had named the distinct skin condition – sallow, slightly waxen, large-pored, the state of the fingernails – yellowish, slivered, the distinct metabolism in a circle of 28 days…

But who'd have reckoned that a werewolf was strolling around the school grounds, he defended himself in vexation. He hadn't recognised the signs because it should have been _impossible_! No Headmaster in his right mind would have allowed a werewolf in the student body! Well – he could have known that Dumbledore _wasn't_ right in his head, so much was obvious!

He had given the old crackpot his word and he was determined to stick with it. Black – little wonder – had blabbed, had bragged of his pal's _heroics_ in front of Lily; Severus felt even more contempt for the bloody twits. No, _he_ would stick to his word. But that didn't say that he couldn't look for Lily and discuss his OWL answers with her, right? Perfectly legitimate – and knowing how astute Lily was – she would understand the truth – and she would see the true culprits –

He had got to his feet again and absent-mindedly packed his things away. He would go back to the castle and see if he could find Lily and involve her in a casual conversation for a start. No matter why she was so angry with him, she couldn't still be sulking, could she, and if she still was, he'd simply apologise for whatever she thought he had done… Always worked for his parents. His mum had forgiven his dad worse things than that.

"All right, Snivellus?"

The voice was familiar enough, and automatically, Severus' hand flew into his pocket, but his fingertips had hardly touched his wand when Potter shouted the disarming spell. His wand landed on the lawn behind him and he tried to grab it, but again, he was far from getting it when he was hit by another spell.

"How did the exam go, Snivelly?"

"I was watching him – his nose was touching the parchment," Black predictably took up the cue from his best buddy. "There'll be great grease marks all over it. They won't be able to read a word!"

Even more predictably, the other students around them began to cackle. Severus didn't look over, he despised these sycophants that would be laughing still if Black now cast a Killing Curse. 'Oh, how funny,' they'd say and nudge their friends, 'these guys are simply hilarious!'

"You wait – you wait," he growled, struggling with the curse's effects and furious with himself for his own carelessness. How could he have left his wand in his pocket – here on open grounds with Potter and Black roaming about! He should have known! It wasn't as if this was the first – or tenth – or even the hundredth time. Potter and Black had done practically nothing else in the past five years – and their _Prefect_ buddy Lupin over there feigned looking the other way, that ridiculous coward! Too sissy to tell off his pals, too cowardly to join in the laughs and hazard his Prefect badge!

Black sneered unpleasantly. "Waiting for what? What are you going to do, Snivelly? Wipe your nose on us?"

Wasn't this just like Black, making fun of someone's hay fever even, this bloody arse, this cursed son of an inbred dynasty, this – he hardly noticed that he spoke some of the irate comments out aloud, regrettably without eloquence. Still, Potter saw fit to admonish him and point a hex at him filling Severus' mouth with soap bubbles. He swallowed the ghastly liquid, he almost suffocated on it – and the other students laughing patently still – he had difficulties breathing due to his allergies anyway, and his sore mucous membranes burnt with the soap running through his nose.

"Leave him _alone_!"

Severus wished he _was_ dead. Lily had come – Lily saw him like _this_ – how should she ever believe in his power to protect her if he couldn't even defend himself against some school yard pest –

Potter puffed himself up and smiled his sleaziest smile at Lily – she _couldn't_ fall for this shit, could she – but then, Dumbledore had, too… And what did Dev always say – 'the chicks don't want the _nice _blokes, pal!' Severus tried to crawl to get his wand; Lily and Potter were involved in some banter, they weren't paying attention, maybe he'd be able to get his wand… In the crowd, he saw Rosalind Lestrange and Bertram Aubrey, laughing too – they shrugged their shoulders at Severus and made a face as if to say 'Tough luck – come on, show us why you made it to Slytherin!' – his fingers touched his wand and with a flush of loathing, he managed the _Sectumsempra_ spell non-verbally and left a nice cut on Potter's cheek. 'Hopefully you'll keep a big fat scar there, Potter!'

His luck didn't last long though, and his misery reached another peak, because Potter used the Levicorpus spell on him in return – his own spell – he could see a little smirk around Lily's mouth – Lily! Who had been so cross with him for inventing this spell in the first place! But of course, when _Potter_ did it, it was a _completely_ different matter!

"Let him down!"

"Certainly."

Severus crashed onto the ground, head first; he heard an ominous crack and could taste blood in his mouth. At last he had his wand back, he was almost trembling with hate, going through the possible curses in his head, and even though stars were dancing before his eyes, he finally managed to raise himself – only to be hit by another petrifying spell.

"Leave him alone!" Lily repeated, and Potter answered something, but Severus was too dizzy to follow, and almost deaf and blind, suffused with wordless rage. He felt as if half of his bones were smashed – his skull felt like bursting – but nothing, _nothing_ was worse than the humiliation. He barely noticed that the spell was released after all; he saw Lily grinning smugly at Potter – did she truly find this funny, yeah? – what had he been thinking – _these_ were the unrivalled heroes of her cursed House – how dared she criticise _him_ because his roommate Mulciber had set her roommates' books on fire! How dared she be cross with him for defending _her_ roommate with a spell that hadn't broken _any_ of Mulciber's bones, that hadn't caused him more than a minute of panicked anguish?! Hypocrites – all of them – filthy hypocrites – and Potter their uncrowned king! Did she really not see what Potter was?! That Potter was just as bad as Mulciber – if that was enough – that Potter only wanted to get off with her to flatter his vanity?! That he had probably the same sort of sick bet running with his best buddy as Mulciber and Rosalind?! That he simply wanted 'a little Mudblood' for his collection?!

"… lucky Evans was here, Snivellus!" Potter cried in his usual complacency, and beamed at Lily. Severus was nauseated by that grin.

"I don't need help – from filthy little Mudbloods – like her," Severus croaked, wanting to hurt Potter, and realising much too late what he had just said – actually, he wondered for a second why Lily would look as if he had just cursed her until he saw the light. Her eyes widened; she blinked, looking as if she had never seen him before.

"Fine. I won't bother in the future. And I'd wash your pants if I were you, Snivellus."

Severus was speechless. Speechless at her joining Potter in using the hateful name – but even more with his own use of the word 'Mudblood'. She herself used it often enough – 'Mudblood and proud of it' – and he had always tried to make her stop saying it – and now that he had said it – and she _must_ know that he had aimed at Potter, not her – they'd been friends like forever – she _must_ have understood – but she hadn't, judging by her look… His head was in a daze; he saw her and Potter go on arguing before she finally stormed away, and Potter resumed his favourite pastime, until his mate Lupin finally got up and gently pushed down Potter's wand arm.

"He's _bleeding_, James," Lupin muttered. "It's enough."

Severus found no words to express his fury, his unspeakable fury – he could not even voice his most predominant thought in this moment – 'why stop them _now_, Lupin – just let them kill me – let them kill me – let them finish what they want to do so dearly – oh, I hope my spirit lingers long enough on this plane to see how Dumbledore hushes it all up _this_ time around!'

"Well, well," he heard Rosalind Lestrange's familiar voice, yanking on his arm to pull him up. "For someone just sitting his Defence exams, you really wanna get up your defensive reflexes, Savvy."

"Get off me!"

"Whoa, mind your tone, half-blood."

"Shut up your ugly trap, Lestrange! Better a half-blood than the product of centuries of inbreeding like Black!"

She actually had the nerve to giggle. "_You_ call _me_ ugly? Walked past a mirror lately? Now come on, the old tart Pomfrey better take a look at your head. I believe you got yourself a concussion - you're mistaking friend and foe. Your old pal Evans looked as if you'd slapped her!"

Maybe he had truly lost too much blood, because he passed out on the spot again. When he awoke, he was lying in a bed in the Infirmary, his headaches gone just like all other physical hurt. He wished it were the other way round – his head still bursting, but this afternoon's memories removed. Oh _Lord_! Lily! He had to apologise to Lily – he had to tell her that he didn't mean to offend her – must make her see what really happened – she must forgive him – they'd been arguing far too much recently, but it was going to be all right again. Whatever she wanted, he'd do it – if only she told him what'd been bothering her, he'd adjust to it – oh, if only he could eat his own words – if only he hadn't said this – his object had been Potter, but Potter didn't _matter_ – if only…

It was already dark; he sat up and removed the bandages around his head. He conjured a mirror and in the light of his wand, he removed the last stains of blood on his lips and knuckles. He didn't want Lily's pity – he wanted her forgiveness. He sneaked out of the Infirmary and up to Gryffindor Tower. For a while, he tried to convince the portrait guarding the entrance to let him in, by way of exception, but she refused. Naturally. This was her job, after all.

He settled on the cold flagstone floor, and she screeched at him, "What d'you think you're doing there, boy!"

"You can prevent me from entering, but you can't force me to leave," he replied simply, leaning his head against the wall and smirking at her. "I'm not going to disturb you."

She was pouting and nagging some more, but gave in eventually – 'if you want to catch your death here – _fine_!' He thought that it'd be all right either way. Either he did catch his death here – unlikely though, the floor was cold, but one could scarcely die from cold in a night in June. Or – he'd wait here until Lily emerged from the portrait hole tomorrow morning, so he could apologise to her and they'd make up, and everything would be as it had been, and he'd never again allow Potter and his buddies to come between them –

"Oi!"

Turning his head, he saw Lily's roommate Mary Macdonald and her Hufflepuff boyfriend Abbott enter the corridor. Abbott grabbed his wand, but Mary held him back and whispered something into his ear. He nodded, they kissed, and the Hufflepuff vanished around the corner again. Mary walked closer, her head inclined.

"What the heck are you doing here, Snape?" she asked, and the witch in the portrait nodded forcefully.

"I've been asking exactly the same!"

"You know that, Macdonald. I want to talk to Lily."

"But _she_ doesn't want to talk to _you_."

"Look, I know she's angry, and she's got every right to be –"

Mary interrupted him with a wave of her hand. "You understand _nothing_, Snape. Seriously."

"Of course I understand! What's there not to understand! I behaved like an idiot – like the king of all idiots – but I'm here to apologise. We're _friends_, Macdonald!"

She shook her head. "_Friends?_ Really, Snape… I'd have thought you more intelligent than that."

"I know I crossed the line – _I know_, all right? But I'm here to make up with her. I'm here to beg her forgiveness, and –"

"But she won't come out of here again this night! Go back to your dorm, man! If you want to apologise, come back tomorrow morning!"

"No, I'll stay here."

"For what, though? Didn't you hear me? She was in bed already when I left – she's sound asleep, and she'll be for the next six hours if that's enough!"

"I'll stay here."

"What are you planning to do – sleep on the floor?" she taunted him with a weird smile.

"Yeah. Why not!"

"That's… You're an odd number, Severus Snape."

"Yeah. That's what I've been told every single day since coming to this wretched place."

The little smile on her lips lingered; she proceeded to the portrait and murmured in passing, "I'll see what I can do. But if she's not out here in five minutes, you really ought to go back to the dungeons, or you'll mess up the Ancient Runes exam tomorrow."

"I don't give a bloody damn about the bloody exam. I'll stay here and if it takes the whole night, and if she doesn't come out tomorrow, I'll stay another day. She's got to listen to me eventually!"

Mary merely chuckled, whispered something to the portrait and disappeared inside of the Gryffindor Common Room. She hurried up to her dorm, laughing to herself, and carefully opened the curtains of her friend Lily's bed to wake her up. But Lily wasn't asleep. She sat leaning against the headboard, her face resting on her knees, her arms embracing her thighs, and looked up in amazement.

"Anything wrong with Leo?" she asked.

"Lovely as ever, _he_ is. No… I think you should go downstairs, Lily. There's someone waiting in the corridor for you."

Lily gave a little start. "You… Mean…"

"Of course I mean. Who else!"

"He can rot in hell!" Lily retorted fiercely.

"You don't mean that."

Oh, but she did! She had it! Enough! She had made a fool of herself long enough, and for what, for what! To be called a _Mudblood_?! To let herself be reduced to vermin, as soon as his friends were around?! How long was she supposed to be pining for him, to be let down over and over again!

"Go and talk to him, Lily. He's sitting in the corridor, swearing to your friendship, and that he'll sleep over in the corridor if you don't talk to him –"

"It's called _blackmailing_, Mary!"

"Oh, get off it. He didn't think I'd walk by to tell you. He thought he'd be staying there until dawn."

"Let him catch a cold then! Maybe that will sober him up again!"

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Lily. The poor sod doesn't even know just _how_ badly he's hurt you. He clearly hasn't got the slightest idea what you fee-"

"Cut it out, Mary! That's over! Once and for all – _over_!"

"Well, tell him that, then!"

"Oh, but I will!" With one lithe move, she was out of bed and snatched her dressing gown. "Never again! Ha! _Never again!_ You know what? There are _plenty_ of guys in this school who actually _like_ me!"

"You don't believe he doesn't _like_ you. What do you think he's doing there, if he doesn't _like_ you –"

"He doesn't like me enough! I deserve more than that!"

"_That_ I can subscribe to," Mary admitted and put on her pyjamas.

Lily raced down the stairs, fastening the belt of her dressing gown as she went. Yes. Yes! She'd get over with this whole idiocy once and for all! Ph! _Friends!_ Was _this_ his conception of friendship, then? All the time, she had contented herself with being _friends_, but the bloody fool didn't even manage so much, and – _argh!_

She stormed into the dimly-lit corridor, finding him on the floor, clambering to his feet when he spotted her. "Lily," he began with an apologetic expression, but she didn't let him go on.

"Get lost, Sev!"

"I'm so sorry – you _know_ I am – I never –"

"What do I have to do to shut you up!"

"_I'd_ like to know that, too!" the Fat Lady cried behind them.

"I'm _sorry_ –"

"I'm not interested!"

He started anew. "_I'm sorry –_"

"Save your breath! I only came out because Mary told me you were threatening to sleep here!"

"I was! I would have done," he stammered, frightened witless by her expression. Her eyes were sparkling dangerously, and there was something in her face bespeaking an adamant determination to dismiss whatever he was going to say, but he had to try nonetheless – he _had_ to – and _she_ had to _listen_ – he only wanted her to listen, and see how much he – that he couldn't – without her… "I never meant to call you Mudblood – it just –"

She sneered. "Slipped out? It's too late. I've made excuses for you for years! None of my friends can understand why I even _talk_ to you! You and your precious little Death Eater Friends –" He took a deep breath to interrupt her, but thought he'd better not speak up just now. Her voice became a tad icier yet. "You see?! You don't even deny it! You don't even deny that's what you're all aiming to be! You can't wait to join You Know Who, can you!"

Yes, he had thought about this indeed – because if he joined up, and if he did his stuff well, he'd be able to protect her – Mulciber had said so – so had Lucius – Lucius had said that he was guarding over Narcissa's brother-in-law, even though their other sister had set her heart on murdering that bloke. Being a proper Death Eater meant being capable of guarding those that one loved – Severus would look after Lily, he wouldn't allow anyone to harm her – he'd never allow anyone to harm her – but he could impossibly tell her _that_, could he?!

Lily glared at him and lifted her shoulders now. "I can't pretend any more – you've chosen your way, I've chosen mine!"

There was finality in her words, and Severus knew he'd have to say _something_, even if he couldn't disclose his real feelings on this subject. "No! Listen! I didn't mean –"

"To call me Mudblood?!" He winced back with the disdain in her voice. "But you call everyone else of my birth _Mudblood_, Severus – why should _I_ be any different!"

Because he loved her! Because _she_ used that word over and over again and he simply never had the guts to tell her to stop! Because she was his best friend – his only real friend – because he had sworn to himself many years ago that there was nothing that he wouldn't do for her! Because – _because_ – he would protect her, come death, famine, or apocalypse! He could! She might have got the wrong impression today – but he really, really could! He had been training so much, and once he was out of this cursed school – where he would get into awful trouble using that kind of magic – but in _real_ _life_, he could shield her, he could! And one day she would look at him and _see_ him as he _really_ was, she would understand him, she would understand what he felt on her account, and if nothing else, she would be grateful for his protection, and they'd always, always remain friends, like they had always been, and –

He realised that he hadn't uttered a single word and that she was halfway through the portrait hole again. She turned around once more and shook her head with the most terrible sneer. Then she was gone, and the fat ugly portrait inhabitant scowled at him.

"You spoke your piece, young man – now bugger off, will you!"

In a helpless gesture of fury and frustration, he shook his wand at the picture. "Shut up! _Shut up!_"

"Or what? Will you try to curse me, boy? Hm? You can't stun a portrait, you know?"

True. He put on his best sneer and shot her a look sparkling with spite. "I cannot _stun_ you. But slashing canvas is really the easiest thing in the world."

The fat woman blanched visibly, even in the dim light. "You wouldn't _dare_!"

"Haven't you heard the girl? I've chosen my way, have I?" He grinned in utter disdain and flicked his wand, focusing his mind on the _Sectumsempra_, and cleanly cut the portrait out of its frame to fall down onto the floor, nagging and ranting with indignation. "Now consider yourself lucky if I don't set you on fire. Nighty night!"

He felt an idiotic wave of triumph washing over him, even if it didn't last for long. So he had won an argument with a _portrait_ – big deal! Bah! He stalked down the endless stairs, wondering where to go. Into his dorm? To Dev and Travis?! No blithering way! Into the Common Room – facing Rosalind? Bloody unlikely! Back into the Infirmary? He thought about this option for a minute, but remembering what Madam Pomfrey would do once she discovered that he had taken off his bandages and sneaked off… Rather not. He had been dressed down badly enough for today.

Irresolutely, he made for the ground floor, and once he got there, he turned towards the rear entrance to the greenhouses. It was a warm night, he could sleep in one of the deserted greenhouses… Slowly, and unwillingly too, the bottom line of all this sunk in after all. So this was _it_…? _That_ should have been the end of his friendship with Lily? A friendship that had lasted for seven years? Over – just like that? Because of _one_ sodding wrong word?! She couldn't possibly mean it! She couldn't!

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to dispel the memories, but unable to succeed. The look in her eyes – this afternoon, just now in the corridor… The cold, final tone of her voice… Yes, they _had_ had their fights before. About trifles, too. But never had she looked at him like this, never had she talked in such a detached manner. She _did_ mean what she had said.

He broke into the greenhouse, not bothering for a reversible spell, but simply destroying the handle. It didn't matter. Should they chuck him out of school, he didn't care. Every freaking day in this place had been miserable – he wouldn't want to prolong his stay, would he! Without Lily – without their friendship – it didn't matter anyhow. Why should he care for Hogwarts? Why should he care for anything?! None of this mattered anymore. And if he was kicked out, he could join up with the Death Eaters straight away, couldn't he? He sneered. 'You Know Who's Chosen Youth, Lily? Yes? Oh, you'll see!'

Well, apparently Lily no longer wanted to pursue their original plan for the summer then, right? Bicycling along the Thames, from Maidenhead to Blenheim and Stowe and back home again? No, how could they go cycling together if _they had chosen different ways_! She'd end up in Ipswich instead, poor thing! Ha! And if he didn't have to spend the summer with _her_, he could just as well accept Lucius' and Narcissa's invitation to spend a few days with _them_, right? Oh yes, that's what he'd do! He would have the _time of his life_, and surely he'd meet a whole lot of people she'd despise, and he wouldn't have to feel guilty or bad about spending time with them, while she was sitting around at home, with her despicable Muggle sister, both of them moping and miserable, ha! Ha! HA!

"You wait and see, Lily, you wait and see!" He kicked a terracotta pot into a corner, chortling maniacally. "You just wait, Lily Evans. You stick with brutes and idiots like Potter, oh yes – see where it gets you!"

* * *

_Delere..._ You can still stop the word unspoken – once it has left your mouth, it cannot be reversed.


	39. Disenchanted

Narcissa refused joining the Order and wishes Lucius had done the same

* * *

**- 2.4. -**

Disenchanted

* * *

_One minute I held the key  
Next the walls were closed on me  
And I discovered that my castles stand  
Upon pillars of salt, and pillars of sand_

_COLDPLAY – Viva la vida_

_

* * *

_

If only he had the slightest clue what they were doing here. Lurking in the cold, drenched by rain, in the middle of the night without knowing why was rather unsatisfying. For all Lucius could say, they were waiting for a delivery. The waning spirits of his companions didn't improve the general situation either.

"Rooted to the spot – I never knew what that phrase really _means_," Karkaroff muttered and received some sniggers for the remark. "Bloody English climate!"

"Can't imagine it's so much better in Russia, is it!"

"You mark my words, Malfoy, it is _not_ raining eleven days out of ten!"

"I've got a terrible itch. That owl is killing me!"

"Try chasing it away then, Avery!"

"Why are the Lestranges allowed to wait in that cellar while we're standing _here_?!"

"Just shut it, Yaxley."

"I'd rather trade places with Kegg, you know!"

"Kegg cannot transform himself into a tree, though."

"Well, perhaps he'd manage some bush?"

"If you don't shut up I'll transfigure you into firewood as soon as this is over! All of you!"

Thus, the strange, barren trees fell silent again and stared at the back entrance they were monitoring. The small barn owl sitting on a particularly strong branch still ruffled its feathers, and in the distance, a clock was striking two times. Lucius was as discontent as everybody else, but at least he didn't speak his mind. His thoughts trailed away – home – to his wife. He knew she didn't go to bed before he was back, she never did, but he pictured her tugged up in their warm comfortable bed all the same, in that favourite negligee of his. Oh, Cissa, warm, soft, tender Cissa; he longed to lie down next to her and wrap her up in his arms...

Indeed, Narcissa was still up, waiting. She blankly refused going to bed before her husband was home in nights like this. If he was just out with some friends or business partners, she might lie down and read a book, but if he was gone for an assignment, she was too restless for that much. She had no exact idea what he was doing on those occasions; she thought she didn't want to know, but she knew that it might be dangerous.

Her greatest solace was the fact that Lucius indeed had a unique gift for Dark Magic. He hadn't achieved his rank in the Dark Order for nothing! No, he was a mighty fighter, almost unrivalled in his powers. _Perhaps_ Bella was en par with him – and then there was his master, of course – but otherwise, nobody could match him.

His _master_, ph! Narcissa remembered very well how much she had admired young Tom Riddle – most excellent student Hogwarts had ever seen – and how enthusiastic she had been when understanding that he of all persons should be the one to instruct Lucius. No, in that regard, she didn't suffer from amnesia. Only her assessment of the situation had changed diametrically. Tom Riddle – or how he nowadays styled himself: Lord Voldemort (ts!) – was certainly a genius in his own right, but he was also a dangerous lunatic, if one asked the wife of his right-hand-man.

To give an example – when he had realised that Lucius knew the secret of his origin, he had completely freaked out, had downright threatened him, and even though Lucius had never mentioned it, she was fairly sure that the damned man had threatened _her_ as well. That was his usual strategy. As a consequence, she had started to learn Occlumency and taught it to Lucius as well. When one of his Death Eaters was insubordinate, the punishment was severe. And if one tried to resign, the punishment was death – and not the quick and painless sort! Narcissa hadn't got the least bit of sympathy for that line of policy, all the more because she didn't understand what he _wanted_. For all she could see, he didn't have any rational purpose at all. He had founded an order, coerced his men to pledge their lives to him – and since then, he just dabbled around. He frequently had Muggles killed, and Muggle-born, and people openly sympathizing with either. He'd also let his people assault Ministry wizards or Wizengamot members, but nothing of all this seemed to _lead_ anywhere much. And for this nonsense, Lucius was risking everything?!

The decay of his rational capacities had gone hand in hand with the complete destruction of the man's appearance. Remembering that photo she had so often looked at, the handsome, delicate face with the piercing, dark eyes and wavy dark hair, she couldn't imagine how it had come to _this_. All right, so he had become older, but people got older all the time! Nowadays, his skin was white like wax; it looked not so much unhealthy but _unnatural_, and speaking of _unnatural_ – what on _earth_ was wrong with his eyes?! They were no longer dark, but rather red. His features were altered beyond recognition as well; no one right in their mind would have suspected him to have been a good-looking fellow in his teens!

He had heard about Narcissa's talent and intelligence, and even though only very few witches were serving him, it had been suggested that she should join up as well. A simple 'No, thanks' was no option though, even less for the wife of Lucius Malfoy. Narcissa still shuddered when thinking of that night, and how very, _very_ lucky she had been. She had always taken a certain amount of pride in her countenance; she wasn't one to flinch, or let her thoughts and emotions show. That night, she hadn't been so much proud of that ability – she had felt rather blessed.

The meeting had taken place in Magna Timor, the Lestranges' country mansion. Originally, they had been supposed to gather in Malfoy Manor, but both Lucius and Narcissa had deemed that a pretty bad idea. It was never prudent to invite guests when there was just a small chance that they might encounter Abraxas, and it was decidedly unsafe to invite that particular set of people. Whatever he might say, Lucius didn't want to see his father being killed, and that would have been a likely outcome should the old man meet the _other_ old man. Abraxas could never keep his mouth shut, let alone his mind.

Bella, of course, had been all for the idea, and Narcissa had been prudent enough to never do as much as hint at her utter disinclination to become another of Voldemort's servants. So she had smiled modestly, had trembled a little, and spoken of the 'great honour' – all the while she had stood up the old warlock's inquisitive gaze, seemingly allowing him to search her mind but actually only showing him what he was supposed to see – her diffidence, her horror of violence, her fears and hesitations. He had soon enough interrupted the interrogation with a dismissive gesture.

"She's not fit to be one of us," he had stated in disdain, addressing Lucius and Bella as if Narcissa wasn't even there. "Too soft. She'll never do what it takes in the crucial moment!"

"But Master!" Bella had cried.

"Silence! You've heard me."

Narcissa had lowered her head and let her shoulders sink. "Give me another chance, my lord, I beg you –"

"She is the smartest witch I have ever met," Lucius had dutifully thrown in. "I have taught her a little, and if _you_ could take over to instruct her –"

"I'll not waste my time on a lost cause, and that's the last I'll say on the case!"

Lucius had trimmed his face into defeated resignation, Narcissa had managed to let her eyes well up, Bella had put on a pout – and that had been it, then. Later that night, she and Lucius had drunken two bottles of the best champagne in Abraxas' cellar to celebrate their victory.

She sometimes wondered whether her decision had been right. As a Death Eater, she could at least be with her husband... _Now_ she was sitting at home, staring out of the window into black nothingness and almost biting her fingernails with the unbearable tension. 'He's an awesome Dark wizard,' she kept on reminding herself, 'his powers are only rivaled by his master's, nothing can happen to him, nothing will happen to him, before long he'll be right back with me, it will be all right.'

She repeated that mantra, which was less optimistic but desperate, all through the night's darkest hours, while a storm was raging outside, but she hardly noticed the hail and lightning. What if something happened to him? What if he was injured! Or if he got himself arrested? Or if... No! She didn't allow herself to do as much as _think_ of it! Nothing would happen to him! Everything would be fine, she kept on telling herself. Everything _was_ fine, more than just fine. Her life was _heaven_! She was sitting in an armchair next to the window of their bedroom, until she couldn't endure it any longer, wrapped herself up in a large pashmina and sneaked out and up into the library.

She had not quite entered it when almost bumping into Abraxas. "You haven't been to bed yet," he stated matter-of-factly, appraising her with narrowed eyes. "That boy has earned himself a sound thrashing for troubling you so, my dear."

"I'm fine, Father. Nothing's the matter. I just meant to get a book –"

"I know you always stick up for him and I give you credit for that loyalty, but you know that I am right."

"No, you're not, Father." She gave him her most charming smile, anxious to change the topic. She didn't know how long she could keep up that sham, because truth was – she was so nervous, she was on the verge of crying. "But why are _you_ still up, hm?"

"For the same reason like you. I'm waiting for my son to come back home, safe and sound. You cannot fool me, Narcissa. You know, I've half a mind to tell your father what your nonsensical sister and my wayward son are going on about. Perhaps together we –"

"No!" she cried, aghast. "You mustn't do that! You must promise to me that you will not do _that_! Papa's got a weak heart, he –"

"I _know_, dear. But what do you think will happen to him if your sister is caught, eh? Or killed, straightaway!"

"Nothing will happen to her," she murmured stubbornly. "She's incredible with the Dark Arts – and so is Lucius, incidentally! He is an awesome wizard, Father, when will you finally acknowledge that? Nothing will happen to him!"

Her father-in-law shot her a benevolent, sad smile. "It's called 'wishful thinking', my dear child. No matter how powerful some wizard is, there'll always come along another one sooner or later even more powerful."

"Don't, Father, please! Stop it, I pray you!"

But he didn't, of course. "He'd never listen to me, but if _you_ could talk to him, dear. He hasn't got an ounce of common sense, but he'll do what you'll say and –"

"I'll do nothing of the kind, Father! I'd condemn him to his death! Haven't you heard what happened to Arminius Wobble?! You cannot resign from the Dark Order, they've sworn an oath of life-long service!"

"Foolish children! All of them! Pledging their lives to – to what, actually?! I've never grasped what they're even fighting for!"

Yes, well… To be honest, Narcissa didn't quite understand that herself. Straining to remain calm, she murmured, "It doesn't matter, does it? One cause or another… I've never believed in causes and crusades; nothing of all this is worth dying for if you want _my_ opinion. But that is the pivotal point – neither your opinion, nor mine, nor Lucius', has any weight in the question. He cannot go back, it's as simple as that!"

"If he at least had a son –" Abraxas sighed.

Narcissa knew what'd come next, and she thought she really had no nerve for _that_ discussion. "We _will_ have a son one day, Father, and _you_ need not worry that the family line has come to an end. Lucius will return soon, he'll return tomorrow and every other goddamned day and sooner or later we will have a child together and everything will be bloody fine!"

She had pressed the words through clenched teeth, but it was her use of the word 'bloody' that startled Abraxas, made him reach out for her arm and press it gently. "You know what I mean, my dear. Forgive an old man for fretting that his son is the last branch of an old tree."

"I am sorry for speaking out of turn, Father," she replied deliberately mildly and did her best to smile.

In this moment, they were interrupted. "Master! Master!" Breathlessly, Nobby Apparated right between them, clutching a newspaper – an extra edition it would seem – and waving with it at his master before realizing who else was here. "Oh! My Lady Narcissa! Disturbing – _I'm_ disturbing you – I better –"

And he would have Disapparated on the spot again if Narcissa had not grabbed his arm. "What is it?" she asked urgently, her grip on him steely, unrelenting and wrestling the paper out of his tiny hands.

Abraxas tried to intervene. "Don't, Narcissa, you mustn't –"

"What's this! What –" Only then, she could read the headline on the front page and her heart stopped beating.

_MINISTRY TRIUMPHS! SIX DEATH EATERS KILLED!_

She didn't notice that she was swaying, she didn't notice that her knees gave way, she didn't notice that Abraxas and Nobby caught her before she hit the ground. Cursing his son under his breath, Abraxas called for more elves and together, they transported the barely conscious witch back to her bedroom, put her down on the large bed, put cushions under her head and spread blankets over her body. Tears were streaming down her face like sheets of rain, and she kept on chanting, "No, no, no, he's fine, he's fine, he'll be home in a minute, he's fine, nothing can happen to him, he's fine –"

Abraxas was a tough old codger, but his one soft spot was his young daughter-in-law, and it broke his heart to see her like this. His compassion even overruled his own worries for his son, it drowned out even the seething anger for a little while. "Shhh, shhh, my dearest, the blithering arse will come home to you soon… You said it yourself, he is a mighty Dark Wizard. It'll all be all right. Shhh…"

But Narcissa wasn't to be soothed. In fact, the crying got harder and harder; she was shaken violently with sobs, and Abraxas' fury returned with a vengeance. That stupid, irresponsible excuse for a son of his! How could he inflict such pain on that poor girl?! Oh, let him come home and Abraxas would teach him a lesson he was bound to remember!

The door was opened without a sound and the old man expected to see another elf popping in to check on its mistress, but it was the bloody boy himself and not thinking twice, Abraxas grabbed his wand and hurled a curse at him. Lucius barely managed to duck and cast a shield charm, and Narcissa screeched and was out of bed with one quick leap and hurled herself into her husband's arms.

"You wayward worm, you pathetic dunderhead of a good-for-nothing numbskull!" Abraxas boomed in the background.

His son didn't even notice that outbreak, he only heard Narcissa's hoarse whispers, "You're back! You're back! I thought I should never see you again! You're back with me!"

"I've sworn I'd never leave you, did you forget?" he said under his breath, pressing her so tightly she could hardly breathe. He couldn't remember to have ever seen Narcissa cry like this; she wasn't the type to cry in the first place, and he didn't quite grasp what had happened to unsettle her so. A fight with Abraxas? A nightmare? What? The he faintly registered the newspaper on the floor, front page on top, and understood it all at once. Oh, shit. Damn it, damn it, damn it!

"Hey..." He gently chucked her under the chin, made her look into his face, smiled at her, then wiped away the tears from her cheeks. "Everything's all right, mon ange –"

"_All right?!_" Abraxas thundered.

Lucius ignored him and placed a kiss on his wife's forehead. He didn't know what to say. That nothing had happened? That was a lie and she knew it; what was more – he never deliberately lied to her. "I'm fine, ma chère, not a scratch. You must not trouble yourself so..."

"Who's dead?" Abraxas asked now, his voice calmer, and Lucius was sort of grateful because at least on that head, he had some answers to give.

"Spencer Kegg, the two Nelson brothers, old Geoff Mortlake and – well –"

"Bella?" Narcissa groaned with bated breath.

"Bella! No! She's like vermin, unstoppable, invincible and really –" He bit his lip. This was _not_ the moment to divulge on Bella's latest atrocities. He didn't tell Narcissa about her sister's blood thirst if he could prevent it anyhow. "No, I'm afraid Robinius is – he got killed."

"Young Robinius Lestrange is dead?" Abraxas asked, sounding slightly put out. 'Young' was, of course, only a matter of perspective here. Robinius was – had been – an old man, but ten years Abraxas' junior still. But the old man found back to his usual verve immediately. "Oh, well. They had it coming!"

His shaking wife in his arms, Lucius shot his father a grave look. "Tomorrow, Father. If you _really_ want to discuss any of this, let us speak _tomorrow_. I want to take Cissa to bed now."

And that was what he did. Not ten minutes later, they were lying in bed together, tightly embracing, and Narcissa whispered, "Was it very bad? I mean – close?"

Merlin, yes. More than close. These damned museum wizards had been guarded by Aurors, who apparently had expected a robbery – though they clearly hadn't reckoned with a bunch of Death Eaters attacking the delivery of... Well, Lucius still didn't know what had been supposed to be in that crate. His order had been to _get_ the goddamned thing, and at least in that respect, he had been successful, even if one third of his crew had lost their lives for it. He had brought it to the master, who had quickly looked through the contents, clearly dissatisfied because he had set it on fire with a quick flick of his wand. The news that six of his men had died, he had answered with a mere shrug. "Survival of the fittest – isn't that what the Muggles say?"

Lucius kissed the top of Narcissa's head. "Do you truly want an answer, my love?"

She hesitated, before murmuring, "I guess I do... After seeing that bloody paper..."

"I'll make sure that never happens again, Cissa. If I can't promise you any better, I can at least see to that!"

"So what happened?"

He told her about the plan, his subdued anger to be reduced to petty theft, the arrival of that silly crate, how it had been a trap and how all hell had broken loose next. The Aurors had permission to kill now and as soon as seeing that they weren't dealing with normal thieves, they had no longer held back in any small degree.

Nothing he said was a lie, but he took great care to speak in casual tones as if to suggest that the course of events had been but a slight change of routine. That strategy didn't work out, however, because he could feel her getting more and more tense.

"The Aurors have permission to kill now?" she echoed.

"Apparently."

"What if... Can something..."

"Nah. Don't you worry, my love. I'm not scared of them. The most dangerous thing tonight were our own folks. Kegg and one of the Nelsons died by friendly fire."

Narcissa groaned. "Oh, Merlin!"


	40. Ready

Severus wants to show what's in him

* * *

**- 2.5. -**

Ready

* * *

_Is it so wrong to crave recognition? Is it so wrong to want rewarding? To want more than is given to you? Tonight make me unstoppable, and I will charm, I will slice, I will dazzle them with my wit. Tonight make me unstoppable and I will charm, I will slice, I will dazzle, I will outshine all._

_BLOC PARTY_

_

* * *

_

He crumpled the page of the newspaper which he felt was deriding him personally, and threw it into the fireplace, watching it catch fire like all the other things he had hurled into the flames tonight. As crumpled as the paper, his insides felt, because he could burn the notice, but he couldn't vanquish his burning awareness. '_PAULINE AND RUSSEL POTTER ARE PROUD TO PRONOUNCE THE WEDDING BETWEEN THEIR SON JAMES POTTER AND LILY EVANS. WE WISH TO THANK EVERYBODY WHO…_'

Wish to thank everybody who didn't turn up at the wedding and kill the bridegroom?! No – Severus wasn't mentioned by name. Even though he had indeed merited an invitation – he had been stunned how unfeeling Lily could be, inviting _him_ of all persons to _her_ wedding with the world's greatest prat! It wasn't as if Severus had been running a close second place for the then vacant position, he had never – well – even _mentioned_ that he… And if she had noticed, she had been kind enough to never mention it either. But her new _husband_ – his lips curled disdainfully with the thought – had rapidly vanquished all kindness that Lily had ever possessed, and if he hadn't fully succeeded yet, he surely would soon. As the invitation proved.

There was a knock at the door, and he growled, "Whatever it is – go _away_!"

"It's me, Savvy."

He squeezed his eyes shut and adopted a friendlier tone, "Please, Narcissa, leave me alone. I'm really not in the mood to –"

"Stop making excuses and open the door. You know I'm not above blasting it."

"Yes, you are," he said, unable to suppress a little smile.

"In any case, I'm not above staying here and getting on your nerves!"

"I could hex the door sound-proof, you know?"

"And you know that I'd know a spell to counteract that. Now stop making such a fuss and let me in."

"I've got work to do, Cissa. I really have no time to – I got to finish two essays, and –"

Of course he opened the door after all, but not without making another dozen excuses first. Narcissa entered in all her regal glory – there weren't that many witches on campus clad in brocade robes, and certainly none with her kind of attitude – and wearing a subtle smile on top. He sighed and gave her a little smile, too, indicating at a huge pile of books on his desk. She skimmed them with a disparaging glance.

"You've read all of them before you were of age even, Severus. You can fool anyone, but not me."

"And why, I ask you, would I try to fool you?"

"Because you're in a huff. Don't you deny it – it's written all across your face." She cast a poignant glance at the fireplace, and the remnants of letters and photos smouldering there. She arched a brow, half quizzical, half pitiful, and said, "Now get your act together and accompany me, Lucius is waiting for us."

He was speechless, and could only shake his head. He _was_ of age by now, he had graduated from Hogwarts, enrolled in College, and even if he'd live to an old age – Narcissa would never drop that habit of looking at him like he was still a meagre First Year, skulking in some corner of the Slytherin Common Room. She seemed to guess his thoughts, because her air suddenly changed. She looked straight into his eyes, somewhat imploring, and muttered, "Come on, Savvy, please. I promised Lucius I'd bring you along."

"But _why_? Honestly, Narcissa, I'm no good company tonight, you'll have a much nicer evening without me."

"I've seen so little of you in the past six weeks. How is it possible? Lucius has seen more of you, and he's not even in College any longer. I want to hear how you're doing."

"I'm _fine_! Seriously, I could have told you so much through the closed door."

"Now will you come or not? I've ordered a fabulous dinner, and Lucius mentioned he wants to kill a vat of Abraxas' favourite Bordeaux. There'll be no living next to him tomorrow if you let him drink it all on his own."

"I take it you won't take 'no' for an answer?"

Of course she wouldn't. Severus doubted that Narcissa Malfoy had ever been denied anything she had taken into her head. He wasn't stupid, he had an idea why she insisted so badly, and this was also the very reason why he didn't want to go. He wouldn't endure it to have his two friends belittle him because Lily had married that goddamned pain in the arse Potter. He didn't want to talk about it, he didn't want to think about it, and most of all, he really, _really_ didn't want any pity.

He couldn't decline, naturally. Well, technically he _could_, but it would have been very improper. Lucius and Narcissa were financing his College education, they paid for the room, the fees, the books. That was another thing she had prevailed upon despite his fiercest resistance. He hadn't _wanted_ to go on living at his friends' expense and graces, it was a question of pride and self-esteem. Hadn't Narcissa preached him for years he'd have to stock up on self-esteem?! Now he had it, but he was still depending on her and her husband.

He had no money of his own, so he had applied for every bursary, grant and scholarship in the book. He still wondered how he could have been that naïve, all right. Albeit his fabulous marks, his eleven outstanding NEWTs, the fact that he had more brains than any of his fellow students, he – _of course_ – hadn't won a single one of them. These bloody bigots awarding grants cared more for his Muggle father than his IQ. He couldn't _help_ it, idiots! Nobody would have been more grateful than Severus himself if he had _not_ got this father!

The Malfoys had offered at once to step into the breach, but he had refused. He'd rather work a few years, and if it was in some bloody Muggle job, to earn the money, than depend on his friends. Not that they didn't have it. His entire education could possibly be paid for by one of Narcissa's earrings, or a single one of the combs she used to tie up her hair. The Queen of Sheba hadn't had more exquisite jewellery. Actually, Narcissa possessed half of the Queen's gems already, they had been a gift for her twenty-first birthday from her doting husband. Severus smirked whenever he thought of it; in his mind, the fortunes of the Malfoys bordered on obscenity. Narcissa's wedding ring was wielded of platinum and gold, a golden dragon and a platinum snake entwining on the background of opals, and topped by a ridiculously large solitaire. One day, she'd be bludgeoned to death only because some thief wanted to get the darned ring – well, it'd be the last thing that thief would ever do, except for begging Lucius to please, please kill him at last, probably.

However – Severus had said no and stood his ground. Not a week later, he had received a letter from one of the foundations that had rejected him. Some Madam Knightley had informed him that they would be able to do something for him after all – there was a full scholarship that he appeared to be cut out for, he should kindly show up for another interview, with the necessary papers, because this one scholarship could only be granted to someone with at least one Muggle parent, at least ten outstanding NEWTs and verified extracurricular achievements. He should have been suspicious, admittedly, but in that moment, he had been so overwhelmed by joy and relief, he hadn't wondered for a _minute_ where the hell they had unearthed that unheard-of grant.

The interview had been successful, and twenty-four hours after receiving the owl, he was the proud owner of a full scholarship, a modest room on campus, and the papyrus certificate proving him to be a Junior of Artemis College. He had rushed to write to his friends, reporting the unforeseen stroke of luck, and only when receiving their too-quick reply with an invitation for dinner to celebrate the joyous event, he had smelled the truth. In a flush of defiance, he had accepted the invitation and told Lucius straightaway that he would give back the grant first thing next morning. This one had shrugged, shaken his head and said, "Have it your way, then!"

Narcissa though had _not_ put up with his refuse. "Listen, Savvy, you _would_ have accepted everybody else's money, right? Simply look at it this way – it's a scholarship supposed to correct the insufferable injustice of the usual allocation process –"

"Why are you doing this? Lucius detests people of my birth!"

"You don't seriously believe that Lucius detests you?!"

"Narcissa, let's not deceive ourselves here. Lucius might not detest _me_, but that's only because he's come to appreciate me because _you_ chose to befriend me in school! And he'd have put up with a manticore if _you_ had chosen to keep it as your pet!"

"You're not going to be sulking now, are you!"

"I'm not _sulking_, just saying how it is!"

"Whatever his initial reason might have been, Lucius regards you as his _friend_, Severus!"

He had felt ashamed and lowered his angry gaze. "Yes, I suppose he does…"

"And it's not like this was some _gift_ in the original sense of the idea either! Lucius _did_ found that grant, but not exclusively for you, even if you are the first one to benefit from it. I already know the next beneficiary, he happens to be my brother-in-law! You _deserve_ this money, Savvy! You'd have deserved any of the bursaries you applied for, much more than the cretins eventually getting them! If a bright kid like yourself cannot attend College, they can shut down the cursed place just as well!"

"But I –"

"You'll be great one day, Savvy! I mean, you're great already, but there'll come the time when you'll truly outshine us all. If you think it's necessary, you can pay back the money once you've patented your first potion, all right? And that is _really_ the last thing I _ever_ want to hear or say on this subject!"

So, he owed them, once again, he owed his two great friends. It didn't sit well with him, but from a more rational point of view – the other students depended on the money that their parents gave them. Severus would _never _have taken a single penny from his old man (not that Tobias had a single penny to spare), he could accustom to take a loan from people he truly respected, and who'd spent just as much money only to acquire some exclusive bottle of wine.

Or an entire vat of it, like tonight. Narcissa hadn't been joking; Lucius had one of his habitual fall-outs with his father, and decided to annoy the old warlock in the best way he could. Abraxas loved his wine cellar, more than his only child probably, so tonight, there was a French Bordeaux on the menu, the last vat from the famous 1793 vintage. A good deal was served along with the excellent dinner, they drank more in the parlour until Narcissa went to bed, and they made a pass to the poolroom next.

"Drink, pal," Lucius muttered in a slightly slurred voice. "I've told the elves to use the rests for cleaning the brass cauldrons tomorrow."

"He'll murder you, I hope you bear that in mind."

Lucius laughed out loud. "He'd love to, but he won't, at least not before I haven't propagated!"

"So that's the reason why you haven't already? You're keeping a life insurance?" Severus grinned.

Lucius grinned, too. "Yep, that, and the fact that it'd be such a deplorable waste if Cissa didn't finish her senior degrees. I like my woman sharp, y'know."

"She already is, and you're drunk."

"Yes, I am." He tried to aim the cue, but missed the ball by five inches at least. "Merlin, I am… You know… I – I think I… I reckon I'd be an appalling father…"

"What makes you say _that_?" Severus asked, awkward and slightly astonished. As long as he had known him, Lucius had never shown the _remotest_ trace of self-doubt!

"Don't know… I'm just not up for that sort of thing, I guess…" Lucius lifted his shoulders and shot the goblet in his hand a contemplative glance. "I know I'll have to – eventually – but for now I'm glad that Cissa wants to get her Senior WASPs and all that. I'll be such a total failure."

"Rubbish," Severus muttered more enthusiastically than he truly was. He, too, couldn't imagine Lucius as a father.

"Look at my old man. Or yours, in that instance. I hate the idea of such a little tyke looking at me and loathing me as much as I loathe Abraxas, or as you hate old Tobias."

Severus felt highly uncomfortable, and murmured, "Doesn't have to be like that, right?"

Lucius swayed the wine in his goblet. "No… I reckon not… Cissa's father isn't like that. But I'm not cut out for the old, respectable patriarch type either, I'm afraid. Not in my blood."

"How come…?"

"Ah, well… Abraxas keeps on bugging me… He was all over the place when he heard that Cissa won't drop out of college after her Junior degrees. Thinks he must see to me producing the heir before it's too late, the bastard." Lucius' grey eyes sparkled with subdued anger. "He'd never pick up a fight with her, but that doesn't keep him from patronising and belittling her, does it, and frighten her, telling her I might be dead tomorrow… And as for _me_… Oh well." He leant back and swallowed a good deal of wine with one big sip.

"What?"

"The bottom line? – It's all _my_ fault, of course. Can't bring my wife to do as she ought to and all that shit. As if I'd even _want _to bring her to do anything. He wouldn't _dare_ to say that to her face, naturally! Always going on how smart she is – but behind her back, he wants her to throw it all away, and let herself be reduced to a breeding cow, that filthy shithead! You should have _heard_ him!"

"What did he say then?"

"Oh, you don't really want to know! _I_ don't want to talk about it either… – You reckon they'd suspect me if Abraxas was found murdered?"

"You'd be the number one on their list of suspects, mate."

"And if I had an alibi or something?"

"You. Are. _Not_. Going. To. Murder. Your. Father. Get real, man!"

"What about this? I do your dad, and you'll finish off mine in turn? It'd be perfect, it'd be –"

Severus giggled and wrenched his last ball. "If someone's killing off old Toby, that's going to be me and no one else, buddy. No jesting. _I_ want to be the last one seeing the prick writhing in agony."

"And I'll keep watch. Get some inspiration for dealing with Abraxas." Lucius snorted with laughter. "Come, Savvy, let's have a couple more goblets so we can plead non compos mentis, and then we'll handle _all_ these idiots with one big stroke. Starting with Abraxas, your dad next, not to forget Potter and Cissa's bloody cousin, and while we're at it, we could finish off Dumbledore, too, and this wonk Filch; oh, and Yaxley – I _hate_ this guy – he's _still_ trying to give Cissa the come-on, can you imagine?! – _and_ the guy from the Leaky Cauldron who refused to serve us more drinks last week –"

"No offence, Lucius, but you don't even score a hit with the cue anymore. You'd accidentally kill _me_ while pointing your wand at the barman!"

"Oh, all right. We could try and have some fun with Potter though."

Severus stiffened and looked away. "Potter… Ph! I won't go to Azkaban only because of some jerk who gave me a hard time in school."

"And who happened to marry your sweetheart yesterday."

"Oh, bugger off, Lucius, will you!" He swallowed a whole goblet of wine with one big sip. "I couldn't care less."

"I _would_ care if I were you."

"But you're not. _You_ married your _sweetheart_, and incidentally, Lily _Potter_ –" He spat the name. "– never _was_ my sweetheart anyhow! You don't think I'd pine for a chick who throws herself into the arms of the world's biggest wanker! Did Cissa instruct you to give me that speech?"

"She didn't tell me to give you any speech, pal. She mentioned en passant that you might not be in too good a mood, and she was talking all the time that she wanted to invite you and see how you like College and all. Stop being so bloody suspicious."

Severus left it at that, only acknowledging that he, indeed, wasn't in the highest of spirits. He didn't need bloody Lily Evans – oh, _pardon_, Lily _Potter_ – to dampen his mood. His mum was ill, his father had gambled away half of their house in only one night, and his fellow students in College made sure he didn't forget 'his place' for just five minutes. So did his professors, although they were a bit more subtle than his next door neighbour, who had seized the opportunity when Severus was in the library in his first week, to fill his room half-full with mud. '_Half_-mud,' Carl Robards had cackled.

Lucius woke him up from his gloomy brooding and asked, "How's your mum, anyway?"

"Bad…" His face darkened and he drank more, on the verge of being sick.

"Is there anything I could do for her?"

"Thanks for asking, Lucius, seriously, but… No money in the world could help her in the end…"

"I could deal with your old man. I _was_ serious about that."

"And so was I."

"No, I mean… Not like _killing_ him… Just get him out of the way. Sick – or in jail – or Imperiused."

Severus strained hard to look his friend straight in the eyes. "Thank you. Honestly. You're a real friend."

"Sure thing… So what do you want me to go for? A nice little case of dragon pox?"

"If you want to do something for me – or her – just show me how to do that and I'll do it myself," Severus said, half serious.

He knew that his friend was a senior member of the Dark Order – people who were dedicated to the Dark Arts, and so good about them that the Ministry of Magic waged war on them. Or the other way round, perhaps. He really needed to sober up… Severus had wanted to join up, too – it had been his dearest ambition, in fact. But unlike every other member of the Sepulture Septuplet, and many other guys from school after their graduation, he had never been invited for the interview. He had asked Lucius a few times – but Lucius had always shaken his head. Sure. The Death Eaters wouldn't have a half-blood either, no matter how good he was!

"I… I can't," Lucius murmured vaguely, shrugging and shooting him a sympathetic look.

"Yeah. I know. They'll accept no half-bloods like myself. But perhaps you could just –" He stopped, irritated because Lucius had broken out in merry giggles.

"Not _accept_ you?! Boy, forget that! For a start – they so don't care who your father is as long as you prove your worth!"

"Correct me, but aren't they on a crusade to kill off people like me?"

He could be mistaken, but Severus thought he saw a strange expression on his friend's face. It didn't last, and more sober than he had been in the past two hours, he gazed firmly at him. "On a crusade to kill off the unworthy, Sev. That's quite a difference. Sod your rotten father, he doesn't fucking _matter_ as long as you're as good as you are! I know for a bloody fact that the _Dark_ _Lord_ wouldn't mind…"

"So how come you never… I _want_ to join, Lucius! I'm ready! You know I am! I'm twice as good as Mulciber and Avery, I –"

"I know! Don't think I didn't know that, for goodness' sake!"

"But why don't you introduce me, then?"

"Because Cissa expressly told me so."

"_What?!_" His jaw dropped to his chest. Cissa?! _Cissa_ had prevented him from – all her talking, all her 'Oh, you'll be great once' and 'you're _so_ worthy, Savvy' – well, not worthy enough, right?! _Cissa_ knifing him?! After all that time? Damned females! All of them! Pretending to be all nice and benevolent, only to ram a dagger into your back when you least expected it!

Lucius smiled lopsidedly. "She cares for you, mate."

"Oh, I can see that!" he exclaimed, scandalised. "By stabbing me in the back?! By keeping me down?! By –"

"By wanting to make sure you _live_, silly! This is _war_ – you kids come from school and think it's a bit of playing around, but it isn't. The Aurors got permission to kill now –"

"I can deal with that!"

"Can you? Can you really?" Lucius tried to get his act together, but his eyes were still blurred. "Didn't you hear? Not six months ago, they got old Robinius Lestrange. My brother-in-law escaped, hair's breadth, had to leave behind his own uncle. And mark my words, he was a mighty wizard, Robinius, he really was. Knew his stuff."

"I can handle that!" Severus cried, but Lucius merely shrugged and emptied his goblet. Severus changed his tactics, giving his voice an imploring tone. "Please, Lucius! Give me one chance to prove myself! _Please!_ I'm good, I'm really good! Everybody keeps on telling me I'm worthless, but I know I'm not, I –"

"I _know_, all right? I know that you – you've got what it takes, Severus. I mean it. But –"

"Okay, I see you are afraid of messing with your wife." Severus sneered, but quickly composed his features. Seemingly though, Lucius was too drunk to notice, the tone as well as the sneer. "So just give me the name of your superior, so I can ask _them_ instead. Please, Lucius. Come on!"

Lucius giggled. "My superior? I can't give you _his_ name, boy! I'm forbidden to speak it!"

Severus was dumbfounded. In his wine-sodden haze, he tried to figure out just how many names were unspeakable among the Death Eaters. "Uh –"

Lucius cackled still, a tad hysterical now. "Don't you know? Did none of the guys ever let it slip? Good for them… – I _have _no superior but the master himself! I'm the sodding second-in-command of the lot! Hand-picked by the Dark Lord himself! I'm his frigging crown prince!"

All right, Severus hadn't figured _that_ out. He hadn't thought that his mate'd be _so_ high up in charge. And he had positively _never_ been more awed by his friend. "You – are… _Wow!_ I mean – just – not that I had ever doubted your – but this is really –"

Lucius smirked and freshened up their drinks. "Yeah. Well."

Severus looked over, impressed beyond words. In his eyes, Lucius Malfoy had always been everything. _Everything_. Everything that Severus was not and would never ever be. Lucius had been born to an ancient name and lived up to it, while Severus hardly dared owning up to his own Muggle name. Lucius was exceedingly handsome, so charismatic, so popular, so smart and cunning, so talented as a player, so charming if he had wanted, so dominant and intimidating if he hadn't; not even damned Sirius Black had dared to insult Lucius Malfoy to his face. Severus on the other hand looked like a cross-breeding between an over-large gnome and a crow, skinny, scrawny, shabby and beak-nosed as he was, no one ever listening to him, no one ever caring. And the Dark Arts had propelled Lucius even further up; _second-in-command_ of the Order which was about to overthrow the Ministry itself. _Of course_. And _he_ had married his _sweetheart_, too. Severus had a bitter taste in his mouth and sipped some more wine. It had taken someone like Lucius to win someone like Narcissa. _Of course_.

"Cissa must be so proud of you."

Lucius turned his head, apparently astonished. "Excuse me? Didn't catch that."

"Cissa… She must be _delighted_," he repeated, louder.

"Oh…" Lucius frowned and half shook his head before thinking twice. He twisted his face into an apologetic smile. "Well, you know her. She's not fond of clubs, is she… She's scared, and I can't say she's being unreasonable. I guess she can live with it because she knows that my position is the only thing keeping her brother-in-law safe in the long run, but for the rest… It's… It's really dangerous, keep that in mind. One wrong move, and you can lose _everything_. Your family, your freedom, your life."

"I don't have a _family_, all I have is a mother who's allowing a complete jerk to torment her, and if I can do anything to make her better, if I… I'm sick of it all, so sick, my old man, how he's treating her, how she allows him to treat her, I'm sick of these dastardly guys in College, students and staff alike, I'm sick of being treated like vermin, I'm sick of giving in. What are my freedom, my life worth, the way it's now?!"

Lucius hesitated to answer. For a start, he spilled the content of his goblet into the next best succulent, and conjured a carafe of water. "You must be a hundred percent sure, because there's no way back. Once you've joined, you're in, body and soul. The power though… I can't explain it to you, you'd have to see for yourself. It's incredible what the Dark Lord can do. It's incredible what he can show you, teach you to do… It's absolutely awesome!"

Severus listened with interest, intrigued by the exalted gleam in Lucius' otherwise so cold, grey eyes. This one rhapsodised more and more; the _power_, the abilities, the sheer resistless magnificence of the mighty, ancient incantations. Lucius had always been an admirable wizard, however lazy and listless. But the way he was talking now, he emanated exactly that kind of power he was enthusing about. Severus believed it at once that he was looking at the second-in-command of the Dark Order, despite Lucius' youth.

"Show me," Severus muttered. "Teach me."

Lucius shot him a sharp glance. "You are serious?"

"I am. I've got nothing to lose, and this is what I always wanted. Please, Lucius!"

Lucius hesitated for a second before he got to his feet. "Come on then! Let's get out of here."


	41. Genesis

How it became what it was

* * *

**- 2.6. -**

Genesis

* * *

_The gates of Hell are open night and day; smooth the descent, and easy is the way: but, to return, and view the cheerful skies; in this, the task and mighty labour lies._

_VIRGIL_

_

* * *

_

Narcissa had been out of herself when her husband had told her where and how his jag with Severus had ended. Honestly, she hadn't believed that either of the two could be so downright _stupid_! Wasn't it bad enough that Lucius was trapped? Did he have to get the kid into the same kind of trouble, too?! She had immediately called on Severus, trying to talk him out of it, but he wouldn't listen – for the first time in their acquaintance, he had openly refused to oblige her.

Lucius' warning had been justified, too. There was no way back. After being examined by the Dark Lord himself – sadly enough, Severus had no idea just how utterly satisfied the warlock had been with him and his state of mind – he had almost instantly been accepted and initiated. Lucius had been right in another respect, too – he was recognised for his talent here. Even though the other Death Eaters treated him with growing dislike, this was for once rooted in _envy_, not contempt for his father. And Salazar, he earned this envy, for he was truly good in this. More than just _good_. He was a natural.

Narcissa had realised that she couldn't turn back time, but instead, she had done what she could for her old charge still. She had taught him Occlumency – another thing for which he had ample of talent, and before long, she had been compelled to acknowledge that her scholar was better than even his teacher was. Lucius kept his hand over him, too, and the Dark Lord himself – well, this one could hardly have been more pleased with his latest entrant. Skilled the boy was, oh yes. He had a Muggle father, too, and a mother that excelled only in her weakness. He had been jilted by a little Mudblood, and was eaten up by speechless rage and disappointment about his life and the world in general. What was most – the kid was shrewd and crafty, talented beyond the possibilities of much older wizards, with a special knack for potions and curses, and willing to do whatever it would take. How excellent young Severus could have been already if he hadn't fallen into the hands of Albus Dumbledore, the old buffoon! Lord Voldemort was determined to make up for this lack of proper education. This boy would be his masterpiece, his skills would be secondary only to his own when he was through with him!

He taught him personally, like Lucius Malfoy, like Bellatrix Lestrange, and not only did the boy fulfil all expectations put in him – his talent as a potioneer turned out to be a true blessing. He would have made a marvellous Healer as well, curing scores of Death Eaters who had been injured when battling the Aurors. He also invented a couple of draughts that allowed his master to secure his grip on the werewolves and the giants. Otherwise, he kept him out of combat – he had other, more sustainable plans for the young man.

He _still_ desired to get a foot into Hogwarts, and Severus Snape seemed like a ready-made choice. Dumbledore had a weakness for the underprivileged; Snape Sr. was a Muggle and his son had suffered from this for all his life, in every possible way. Apart from his long-standing friendship with Malfoy Junior, he had no traceable connection to the Dark Order, and even Lucius himself wasn't known to be a Death Eater, although the old crackpot Dumbledore might have guessed his true allegiances already. However, he was unlikely to take Snape's friendship to Malfoy amiss – it just wasn't in Dumbledore's nature to blame someone for their friends, especially when, like in this case, the boy in question had no other real friends to start with.

'Get in touch with Dumbledore, no matter how', the boy's order had been, but despite his manifold gifts, he hadn't succeeded yet. He was supposed to be subtle about it, of course, but it seemed that other difficulties had occurred; there were certain members among Dumbledore's own order that Snape simply couldn't deal with, no matter how dearly he would have liked to please his master.

Well, one ought to be gentle with such an uncut diamond, even Lord Voldemort – usually not fussy in 'convincing' his disciples – understood so much. When he thought that Malfoy Junior could do better, it was enough to hint that his young, beautiful wife might be – erm – _displeased_ if his performance didn't better. The same worked for almost all of them. With young Severus though, he chose to take a different path. The boy dearly loved his mother, and it would have been easy to use this one as a lever to heighten his motivation. However, Voldemort didn't wish to upset his most promising hope. Instead, he decided to do something about the hateful father.

He sent out Bellatrix Lestrange, ever so effective, to carry out a plan that Lucius had already had years ago, too. She put the Imperius Curse on Tobias Snape, let him go on a drunken rant, followed by a couple of robberies, leading him and his loot straight into the arms of a group of Muggle policemen. Old Toby earned himself a night in the drunk tank and the promise of one or two years in a Muggle prison, and both the Dark Lord and his self-declared most loyal follower were very satisfied with themselves, and thought they had given Mrs Snape some room to manoeuvre for the next time.

Mrs Snape however did not think herself so lucky, once she learnt that her husband was in custody. From what he told her, she guessed that at least the robberies hadn't been his own doing – he was no pilgrim, but no thief either. Basically, she thought Tobias was both too lazy and a little too dumb for these things. Her first suspect was her own son, and deeply dismayed, she contacted this one and confronted him with her reproaches, but Severus had no idea what the heck she was talking about. Or he didn't have a clue at first, because as soon as he understood what had happened, he too had a couple of suspects on the true culprits.

"How could you do such a thing, Severus," Eileen wailed bitterly. "He's your _father_!"

"I wish he wasn't, and I wish I _had_ got his wretched arse in jail, but it wasn't me!"

She believed him. When someone has placed their bets in life like Eileen Snape had, there must be some thing or person to believe in. For her, this person was her son, her incredibly bright, talented son. Watching him now, she believed what he said. But Eileen was no dimwit either – after all, Severus must have got his brains from somewhere, and that surely wasn't Tobias. She could guess easily who had landed her husband in prison.

"Tell your friends to leave him alone, Severus! Why are they doing this to us? Why are they doing this to _you_?"

"I suppose they wanted to do both you and me a favour and –"

"But they didn't!"

"Oh, come on, Mum, let's give it a week until you've accustomed to the new situation. Good riddance! You're so much better off without him!"

But his mum simply didn't see it like this. Perhaps it was the port wine – he could smell it under her peppermint pastille infused breath – or perhaps arguing was the air that she breathed, and she couldn't do without her husband around. He had no nerve to contemplate her unexpected displeasure; he had managed to track down Dumbledore himself – months of practise, months of thorough searching and researching… They had paid off after all. He had found his trail, meaning that he could follow all of his steps unless Dumbledore was extra-disguising them.

This meant a whole lot of more night shifts for a start. As the old wizard's invisible shadow, Severus came to lurk in front of the Hog's Head four nights in a row, eavesdropping on trivial conversations between the wizened barman and the even older Headmaster. Two more nights in front of the Three Broomsticks, three dinners at the Leaky Cauldron, one meeting with Bathilda Bagshot, two meetings with Alastor Moody (during which Severus had nearly been discovered), one evening in a Muggle bowling centre, and a quick cup of tea in Madam Ling's Tea Room with Sirius Black of all people.

"…lost track of them in Buckinghamshire."

Dumbledore sighed and closed his eyes for a minute. "Let's not fool ourselves, Sirius. The Bones' are dead. He wouldn't have left them alive."

"Maybe he's converted them?"

"Convert Edgar Bones? Just as well he could try and convert _you_. No, no, I'm afraid that if we'll ever see anything of the Bones again, it'll be their corpses."

"We arrived not five minutes after the Death Eaters had gone… James is inconsolable…"

Severus went rigid with the mention of that mere name, a wave of anger rushed through his entire boy and he nearly lost the grip on his Disguising Spell. _James!_ He would have spit on the floor if his hiding place had allowed him. Soon after this, both wizards got up and said goodbye. Severus crawled out of his cover, and on the spur of the moment, he followed Black instead of Dumbledore.

For some minutes, he indulged the hope that Black was going to meet up with his old pal Potter and this one's _wife_, but he was let down. In fact, Black winded up with some witch that Severus didn't instantly recognise, and disappeared with her in her house. Old habits die hard, Severus thought with a certain amount of glee. Black was lucky when he knew the full name of the witches he screwed with, that poor, deluded bastard.

Fact was, out of personal weakness, he had lost track of Dumbledore, and he knew he'd take some time to detect him again. Just as well he could take half a day off and look after his other weakness. To his greatest surprise he found his old man quite unchanged, standing in the kitchen of their house, brandishing a fork at Severus' mum.

"You've asked for my opinion and I've given it to you, Eileen!"

"I've asked for a decent husband twenty-five years ago, too, why don't you deal with your older debts before criticising me for the roast beef?!"

"Oh, so _that's_ what it was? You call this _roast beef_?" he taunted, tilting his head and squinting at the roast on the table between them.

"If you started to earn some money so I could buy proper food, you wouldn't have to eat what the butcher sells half-priced!"

"And seeing how it tastes, I'll say he ripped ya off still!"

"Get a job, Toby!"

"Oh, that's what it always boils down to, innit?! _Getta job, getta job!_ And what d'ya think I'm doing, day in an' out?"

"A real job!"

"I've got a real job, you silly cow!"

"That is no _job_ – it's fraud at its best, and fraud that doesn't even pay off well!"

"I wouldn't expect _you_ to grasp the Ponzi scheme – it's a pyramid investment –"

"A pyramid investment _scam_, you deluded idiot!"

"_You_ won't call me idiot, woman!"

"You prefer 'donkey', then?" Eileen shot him a gleeful grin and patted her pocket. "I could give you a nice pair of donkey ears to go along with that name, you know?"

"You dare pointing that thing at me again, Eileen, and I swear I'll knock the living daylights outta you!"

Severus could no longer take it and hammered his fist on the door frame. His parents hadn't even noticed him standing in the open kitchen door. When they were like that, they scarcely noticed _anything_, not even the Muggle police officers trying to separate them – which had happened so often that in the 6th District Police Station, responsible for the Spinner's End area, there were three whole folders full with reports of Tobias and Eileen Snape once again trying to kill each other with hands, teeth, knives, pieces of furniture, wooden planks, snow shovels, gas pipe pliers, a waffle iron and 'a huge pot of boiling hot chicken soup', according to file note No. 371/B.

Both of his parents gave a start and swivelled around; Tobias pointed the fork at the sudden intruder, Eileen clearly grabbed for her wand in the pocket of her apron. Severus raised his hands to show he was unarmed, his mother relaxed and let go off her wand, but his dad didn't lower the cutlery.

"Look who's coming for dinner," he snarled, "it's the lost son! I'd say you've found yourself someone for the roast, Eileen, but I'm afraid the young gent has grown out of our modest ways!"

"Shut up, idiot," Severus snapped back and turned to his mother, miming expressively, but of course, Tobias wouldn't have it.

"You dare talking to your own father under his own roof like that?!"

"Half of the roof and the house below belong to Jeff 'Joker' Edwards, I heard. If you want me to talk respectfully to the real house owner, I'll give old Jeff a call. And if you want me to talk respectfully to _you_ – get out of the house, I think between the garbage cans might still be a proper place for you – or maybe not!"

His father opened his mouth for a retort, but Severus had enough and stunned him without further ceremony. Tobias turned stiff in an instant, swaying for a moment before keeling over and getting wedged between the fridge and the broom cupboard. Eileen shot her son an exhortatory glance and put her hands in her waist.

"Was this necessary?!"

"What's he _doing_ here, Mum?!"

"Now what do you fathom! Vituperating as usually!"

"Yes, so much I've grasped myself, thank you! What's he doing _here_? Or in other words, to make it quite clear – why is the blithering arse _here_ and not in _prison_?!"

"Well, I Imperiused both eye-witnesses and the judge, confounded two police officers, the Crown Prosecutor _and _I managed to – persuade – one of your father's useless sidekicks that it was really _him_ in that night." She looked very satisfied with herself, just like exhausted and defiant, and Severus could merely shake his head.

Yes, his mum could have been an admirable witch. She could have made it so far, if only she had never met her vile husband, if she hadn't got married to him, or at least if she had left him before the damage was complete. Her son had seen her fade away before time; he knew from some old photos that she had been a more brightly looking girl once, if never a true beauty. But the woman he could remember had already lost that shine, and in record time, she had withered. Nowadays, she looked rather like a sixty-year-old, if that was enough.

"You'll never get it into your head, do you, Mum? You're better off without him!"

"Oh, what do _you_ know! Only because _you_ couldn't get away from here quickly enough, it doesn't follow we're _all_ so unsatisfied with out lot!"

"You're satisfied, Mum? You're happy? Here? Like this? With him?" He gave his father his most disdainful smirk, before glaring back at her. "If that is truly so, you don't deserve better!"

Eileen grinned cruelly. "Oh, I know why you're in a snit! I met Mrs Taylor last week – you know, the sister-in-law of Mr Barnes, who works in the same company like that Evans woman…"

"How interesting. But please, keep your gossip for yourself, I really don't want to hear about it," he said tensely.

"And _Mrs Evans_," she went on relentlessly, "has shown around the photos of her younger daughter's wedding last year. You didn't tell me the little Mudblood got married."

"I have no idea who you could be talking about," he gnarled through gritted teeth. "And, by the way, Mum – you've got appalling opinions for a woman who managed to marry the uncrowned king of useless Muggles!"

"Why, here I was thinking you'd like my renewed opinions on the matter. How do you sell it to your buddies, Rus? Your own Muggle father? The fact that your oldest friend is a little Mudblood hers-"

"Don't you dare talking of her like that!" Severus thundered and pointed his wand at her. He swallowed, lowered his arm again and added far more coolly, "Lily and I stopped being friends long ago."

She leered cattish. "All the better, innit? One less predicament for you. Now you only have to explain away your father, and you'll soon be the new – now what's his name – ah, Malfoy!"

"Get off it, Mum! Just stop this shit, will ya! Aren't you glad that I got that grant? Aren't you proud that I can go to College? That I'm the first one bearing the sodding name of _Snape_ who _ever_ managed to get a degree –"

"You haven't got that degree yet!"

"It's rather likely that I'll get it though, and if I do, I haven't got my father to thank, but Lucius Malfoy, yes, so stop bitching about him, please!"

"You don't belong there, Rusty," she said almost softly, using an old pet name that he hadn't heard in fifteen years.

"If I don't, I've got him to blame!" He beckoned at his father.

She looked as if she hadn't heard him; her eyes were blurred and she crossed her arms as if she was embracing herself. "You don't belong to these people, those rich, arrogant people… They'll never stop looking down on you, don't you understand that?"

"I – _of course_ I don't belong there, Mum. I _know_ that. And I don't care! You know I didn't go away because of _that_… But I… I found something, Mum, and I'm really, really good at it, and for the first time ever, people don't look at me and think of who my father is!"

"And to _those_ people you belong even _less_," she hissed.

"So what do you reckon where I do belong? _Here?_ With you and old Toby?! Mum, you hardly noticed me when I was still living here! Why are you so bloody offended that I left!"

She opened her mouth and shut it again after a long moment, not uttering a word. Her shoulders slacked, and now she truly looked as if she was embracing herself for comfort. Severus didn't know what to do; he couldn't bear to see her like this so he lowered his gaze, and the next time he looked, she was fumbling for her wand to undo the spell immobilising his father.

"I guess I need to go then," he muttered, realising that he was still standing at exactly the same spot. Even now, he didn't dare to go in any further, to hug his mother goodbye. He merely raised his shoulders and tried something like a smile.

She nodded and turned away. "Yes. Will you come for Christmas?"

"That's still five weeks, Mum!"

"Yes, _I_ know, but I thought between all your new obligations, you might need to note it in your calendar in advance. And also – I don't know if we'll meet again before that, do I?"

"Stop being so bloody ridiculous, Mum," he groaned and Disapparated straightaway. The first thing he had thought of was that he needed a drink, so maybe this was the reason why his spontaneous Apparition brought him to the front door of the Hog's Head. Oh well, all the better, one could impossibly embarrass oneself in the Hog's Head, no matter how loaded. There was always another customer doing even worse, or if nothing else, the barman himself.

He slouched down at the bar and weakly waved his hand. "Two double, please –"

Another thing _really_ great about the Hog's Head – which must be the shabbiest pub in all Britain in every other respect – was that unlike many, many other barmen, old Aberforth _disliked_ talking to his customers, instead of trying to involve them in some silly, nonsensical chit-chat. One couldn't drink oneself into oblivion more peacefully, Severus knew from long-standing experience.

All the more he was surprised when he now realised that said barman _was_ talking, and rather animatedly. "…complete rubbish, as always!"

"I think it's a question of _courtesy_ to give her a chance at least," another familiar voice replied, and Severus froze, recognising that voice.

"You're a bloody hypocrite, that's what you are, Albus! _Courtesy_, ph! You don't mean to give her the job no matter what! Why do you have to make her _hope_ first when you already know that you'll let her down in the end!"

"Maybe she is better than expected?"

Aberforth made a retching sound as if he had spat on the floor, and other noises indicated that Dumbledore had got up. Severus didn't dare to turn around, scared to make his prey aware of his presence. A job, his brother had said – a job for Dumbledore's order? The Dark Lord would want to know who Dumbledore's recruiting… He suppressed the urge to follow the old Headmaster at once, but clang to his glass and pretended to be in the same dull, depressed mood like before when Aberforth returned behind the bar.

He checked his watch lazily, asked if it could possibly be true that if was half past eleven already, and staggered out of the pub when his neighbour confirmed that. He wasn't actually drunk; and not a minute later, he had managed to climb onto the roof without making a sound. On hands and knees, he crawled along, trying to peek down into the rooms, until finally spotting what he had been looking for.

For a second, he had seen Dumbledore sweep past one of the windows; he couldn't hear a thing though, and carefully fumbled for the sheath in his inner pocket. He found the right vial and dripped a sticky, light blue liquid onto the tip of his wand. He aimed well, moved the wand like a whip, and one drop of the liquid indeed found its goal – the grimy window pane. In the next second, he could hear some strange, snoring sound, and Albus Dumbledore's voice, too.

"Sibyll? Can you –"

'Sibyll' was making more wheezing noises, before spluttering with unforeseen vigour, "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…And the Dark Lord will mark him –"

In this second, Severus received a hard blow on his right ear, lost his grip on the eaves gutter and fell off the roof. He couldn't say if he swiftly passed out because of the fall, or because of the heavy blow, but fact was, when he regained his senses, he had been petrified, and Aberforth, the austere barman, was dragging him along.


	42. Marked For Death

Severus is devastated when understanding that Lily's unborn son is going to be killed

* * *

– **2.7. –**

Marked For Death

* * *

_Ein weißer Stern singt ein Totenlied in der Julinacht,_

_Wie Sterbegeläut in der Julinacht._

_Und auf dem Dach die Wolkenhand,_

_Die streifende, feuchte Schattenhand_

_Sucht nach meiner Mutter._

_ELSE LASKER-SCHÜLER_

_

* * *

_

Lord Voldemort had got unsettling news. He had got word of a prophecy, not quite knowing what to do with the knowledge. Young Snape had overheard it, while on a mission to trail old Dumbledore – Voldemort was still determined to get a foot into Hogwarts, and he would introduce a spy there, some way or other. However, Dumbledore had met with some witch arrogating to be a seer, and this seer had fallen into a trance, in which she had proclaimed that a child would be born, with the power to vanquish him. He was inclined to mistrust both the skills of that woman and her prophecy, but he had never been one to take risks, not in _such_ matters, anyway. He needn't consider his chances for long – he'd see to kill the child in question and that'd be the end of it. Simple enough.

He made enquiries about the possible candidates. The child would be born at the end of July, to parents that had fought the Dark Lord three times without losing their lives. That narrowed the suspects down to two couples in the following months – Frank and Alice Longbottom, both Aurors, and James and Lily Potter, all members of Dumbledore's order. The more obvious guess would have been the Longbottom boy, of course, a pureblood from an honourable family, bound to achieve greatness one day. Somehow, he tended to think though that the other boy would be the true menace. He didn't recognise his own bias here, because it was the fact that the child's mother was a Muggle-born witch which made him believe that _this_ was the announced threat. Like Voldemort himself and young Snape, this boy came from a shady background, that would kindle his hunger to prove himself, to show that he was as good as all the others…

He communicated his decision to his faithful Death Eaters – as soon as the child had seen the light of day, he would be murdered together with its parents, and _their_ task was to find out the whereabouts of the young family and keep track on them. He told his inner circle _why_ he was so interested in the child – a mistake, all along the line, although he didn't know that.

Severus Snape, who had made a comet-like rise since forwarding the message, was utterly devastated, and if anyone had bothered to take a closer look at him that night, they would have noticed instantly how wrought up the young man was. That Lily Potter… He knew her, knew her better than he would have acknowledged to anyone. If someone had asked him, he would have sworn how much he despised her, for what she was, for the man she had married – James Potter had been the bane of his existence, ever since their time in school. That jerk! That arrogant, cocky, complacent _jerk_! And Lily – _his_ Lily! – had married this total prick! Because Lily Evans, as she had been called then, had been – _was_ still, on a second thought – the only girl he had ever loved. He quickly excused himself and left the Death Eater gathering, claiming he wanted to continue his pursuit of Dumbledore. In fact though, he did nothing of the kind. He simply had to be alone.

Oh god! Oh lord! Oh Lily! How on earth could _that_ have happened?! _Lily!_ Marked for death! And _he_ was the one to blame, _he_ had brought Lily into that deadly peril – for nobody survived once the Dark Lord had marked them to die. What was he supposed to do, for Christ's sake?!

How well he had nurtured his grudge of old. How she had ended their old friendship on the spur of a moment, on the cue of one wrong word. How furious he had been – and how miserable – but he had rather focused on his anger instead, because the sadness was just too hard to endure. And then, she had started going out with _Potter_ – Potter of all people! Severus thought he could have lived with everyone else at her side, if only she hadn't chosen Potter, that arrogant, cruel prick, if only she hadn't chosen the one guy who had gone out of his way to make Severus' life as miserable as he possibly could, who had scorned, humiliated, injured him whenever he had seen the slightest chance…

Severus had thought that he had never forgiven her, and had consequently wallowed in his self-righteous anger. He had taken his fury and built an altar for it, had put all his indignation and disappointment with her betrayal of him and their friendship on a pedestal. Only in the night of hearing her death sentence, he understood that it wasn't his rage on that pedestal there after all. It was just her. A way to keep _her_ in his life after she had long walked out of it.

Sitting in the dark behind a Muggle church in his old home town, with a bottle of cheap schnapps that he had absent-mindedly purchased in a Muggle shop around the corner, he realised that he had never stopped loving Lily just the tiniest bit. And that realisation hit him like the impact of a mighty curse. The anguish to have lost her, the bittersweet memories, the extent of how much he missed her, all these pictures in his head, real and imagined alike… And tomorrow, she could be dead already…? That must not happen! This was just – just – _wrong_!

He tried to be rational; the alcohol soothed him slightly, made him calmer, calm enough anyway to reflect on the situation. No, she wouldn't die _tomorrow_. The child had not been born yet. It was scheduled for the end of July to be born. That were still more than three months. Much could happen in three months. The master wanted to wait for so long. Maybe he could be persuaded that he had erred?

He quashed that idea at once again. Hinting that the master had _erred_ equalled a sentence of death with his own name on it. But it wasn't impossible to voice mild scepticism, as long as it was done properly and – subtle. Severus could stress the point of the Longbottoms being possible candidates, maybe he'd manage to push the vote – three months was a long time – or maybe there was someone they hadn't even yet considered because the mother's pregnancy wasn't known yet… But the Dark Lord was nothing if not thorough. He was bound to have triple-checked his facts there. Still – the Longbottom child _could_ be that miraculous threat, and it was _not_ impossible to make the master see this, was it…

He chuckled mirthlessly. A _prophecy_! Pah! Prophecies were murky at their best. Most of them were false to begin with. Their correct interpretation was a science of its own, and failed the point in 999 out of a thousand cases. To counteract them was even more futile. God, Severus had even got an 'Outstanding' OWL in that ridiculous subject – and he had learnt from a master sceptic to get that far. He had learnt from Narcissa. Who didn't believe in the concept as such, but had still mastered an Outstanding both in her OWLs and her NEWTs, sly thing that she was.

"It's all about superstition, Savvy," she had used to say. "About anticipating what your opponent wants to hear, fears to be told… Know the ropes, learn about the signs and details – the rest is sheer psychology and manipulation."

Too right she had been. 'People _want_ to be fooled!' Oh yes. What a shame that she hadn't imparted her wisdom to the Dark Lord! But maybe it wasn't too late yet, maybe… There must be something he could _do_. He – he just _couldn't_ stand by and watch – not this time! Not when it was Lily's life at stake! She mustn't die! She mustn't be as much as injured! And neither her child! _Lily's_ child, regardless that the father was an ass! What should he do, what _could_ he do – he must prevent this, he must, he _must_…

The husband of Severus' primary Divination teacher had listened to his master with increasing interest, too. A child would be born with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord…? What did that mean? Certainly, a mere _child_ couldn't do anything, but that child would grow, and so would his powers… In twenty years, this boy could turn out to be a great wizard, right? He had learnt to close his mind, so the Dark Lord didn't find out about his musings. He would have guessed Lucius' other notions on the subject too easily.

Admittedly, when joining up, he had enthused about his master, the Dark Order, the power he had achieved. He had been proud that the Dark Lord himself had trained him, that he had quickly risen within the order – but long before he had been made the master's right hand man, he had begun to have his doubts. This was the reason why he had put so much effort into learning Occlumency in the first place. The older he had got, the clearer he had seen that he had given the Dark Lord far too much power over himself, and what was worse, his entire family. He had put Narcissa in danger, and he would never forgive himself for _that_.

Nobody resigned from the Dark Lord's service and lived to tell the tale. That was not an option. He had kept still and given his master no reason to reprove him, to take it out on Narcissa in order to punish him for something. But things had changed – for better and worse. Now Narcissa was pregnant with his son. In less than six weeks, there'd be two people in his charge, and one of them perfectly helpless.

Lucius had never pictured himself as a father. Not really. Aware that he _would_ have a son sooner or later, he had never managed to get a clearer idea of this. In his head, he had foreseen disaster and that was about it; he had found the thought too depressing to ponder. Cissa had been far more positive. _She_ had believed in him and his potential to be a good father when he hadn't managed to believe it himself. She had pointed out that he _wasn't_ like Abraxas, just like _she_ wasn't like Elisabeth, and that the line 'history will repeat itself' was a mere phrase, and not a very original one either.

Abraxas had been nagging for years that it was about time, and kept on uttering his Kassandra warnings, how Lucius was likely to be killed in the war, until Narcissa, ever so polite and obliging when dealing with her father-in-law, had been at the end of her tether, and sniped at him how appalling she found it that he seemed to be more scared for the continuation of his bloodline than the life of his only child. _That_ had silenced Abraxas for a while, but ultimately, _Lucius_ himself didn't want the dynasty to end with him either, and he had suggested to his wife that they could give it a try, and that having a good mother might make up for a not-so-good father.

"You will be a fantastic father, mon amour. Take my word for it," she had assured him with her most radiant smile.

"You mean you would…?"

"I'll be proud and happy to bear our child, Lucius. In fact, I'll be the happiest creature in the world, I believe."

So they had spoken the incantation that would counter the ancient curse controlling the continued existence of the Malfoy family – one child in one generation, always a boy – and had literally celebrated the conception of their baby in that night. Lucius could pinpoint the second in which his son had come into existence, the expression in his wife's wide-open eyes, all the hope and faith and trust, and most of all – the _love_. She loved him as much as he loved her, and their child was a child of this love, and everything would be _fine_, they would come through _because_ they loved each other and they _would_ be great parents and his son would _not_ despise him. In that very second of conceiving the boy, Lucius had _known _that all would be well.

He was looking forward to the little fellow's birth, while it also scared him witless, if for other reasons than before. The jobs he had to do for the Dark Lord became more and more dangerous. There was a _war_ out there, damn it! The Dark Lord was determined to overthrow the Ministry and wreak havoc over the entire wizarding population, anyone standing in his way. He got the help of whole legions of dark creatures, werewolves, vampires, giants, trolls, a swarm of Dementors… And most of them weren't fussy. But the crucial point was that he, Lucius, was demanded to fight in this war. This was a risk in itself – the Aurors killed at sight, and they weren't fussy either. It also bore the risk that he was discovered to be a Death Eater, meaning that he'd spend the rest of his life in Azkaban. This must never happen, not only for his own sake – he had a wife to take care of, and soon, he'd have a son, too, totally dependent on his father, and he had sworn many times that he'd be a _good_ father. He wouldn't be like Abraxas – he would be there for his son, and he couldn't do that if he was dead, or locked away in that stinking dump of a prison!

As always, Narcissa was still awake when he got home that night. She was lying in bed, cuddled up in a thick blanket and reading some book, but put it away as soon as he opened the door and tiptoed in. "You ought to sleep in your state," he muttered fondly and kissed the tip of her nose first and her swollen belly next. "You need to sleep for two."

"How can I sleep when you're not here!" She tried to smile, and overwhelmed, he wrapped his arms around her. He knew just how scared she was every single time when he left on the Dark Lord's orders, and the pregnancy had made her skin even thinner.

She made a brave face now, took his hand and pulled him down. "You know I can't sleep without you. I don't know where to put my hands… My head… What to do with my legs…"

She caressed his shoulders, but in that moment, she noticed the pensive look on his face and asked tensely, "What is it?"

"Nothing, chérie. Nothing you want to know."

Narcissa scrutinised him, stopping to fumble with his clothes. Yes, they had a deal. Narcissa didn't want to know a lot of things – practically everything connected with the Dark Order. She found it barbaric, she couldn't stand the idea what that awful butcher was forcing her beloved husband to do, into what peril he constantly brought him. But the precariousness wasn't to be born with either.

They snuggled up, Narcissa found her usual position – their legs entwined, one hand on his belly, her head on his chest – and murmured flatly, "Is it something that'll make the Daily Prophet tomorrow?"

"No, nothing like that…" he whispered, gently stroking her belly.

"Come on, Lucius, I can see that you're worried. Do I need to be worried, too? I've got to know that, don't you think?"

"It's – it's nothing that directly affects you, Cissa, honestly. Not indirectly either…"

"If it doesn't concern me, it will make no difference whether you tell me or not in the first place!"

The baby inside her was kicking, or at least the becoming father believed it did, and shrank with the notion how much it must hurt her. She claimed it didn't hurt, and that she found it all rather exciting, but he thought she only meant to spare him the horridness. His free hand tightened his embrace on her.

"My angel, you must not be excited in your state –"

"In my state! I am not _ill_, mon amour, just pregnant, and speaking of it – you think this state of ignorance does _not_ upset me? Every time you leave, I fret when, or if, I'll see you again!"

"This is different... It isn't – it's just..." He pulled himself together. Never lie to her, he'd sworn that, to himself, to her and to all the world at their wedding day. She'd asked him a direct question, and as his wife and soon-to-be mother of his son, she deserved a direct, honest answer. He cleared his throat. "I'm prohibited to even mention this, all right, so you must never give as much as a _hint_ that I've spoken about it – least to Bella…"

Narcissa groaned. "What's she done?"

"Nothing! Nothing – well, yet. At least in this regard... It doesn't refer to anyone close to you, don't worry." He felt her tension waning, and proceeded to tell her about that prophecy – that there would be a little boy that was supposed to be capable of overthrowing the Dark Lord… She listened in silence, and waiting a whole minute after he had finished, before tentatively whispering, "That could be as good as it could be bad, right?"

"What do you mean?" he asked eagerly, hoping she'd confirm his own notions.

"Well… _If_ the Dark Lord was overthrown, his supporters might be in quite some trouble, am I right?"

"That could happen, I s'pose…"

"If he was _not_ overthrown, you might eventually be in trouble, too –"

"Yeah…"

"But our chances would be much, much better _if_ he was vanquished, and we could properly react, right?"

"That's what I was thinking, too, yes…"

"Who are the parents?"

"The Potters."

She raised her head in surprise. "Lily Potter?"

"Yes. That's the one…"

"And V-… – excuse me, honey – _he_ wants to kill her? And her little boy?"

"And the kid's father. They've defied him three times already, he wants to get rid of the lot of them."

She goggled at him in incredulous shock, silent for a while, before murmuring at last, "There's no sanctity in the whole idea!"

"What'd you mean?"

"Everything, starting with the mere idea of a _prophecy_ prompting him to kill a _baby_… I don't believe in any prophecy that I haven't forged myself. I'm astonished that _he _does."

"You think it's a fake?"

"You don't?"

He shrugged. "I don't know… _He_ believes in it, and that's the end of the Potters."

"Not only does he believe in that prophecy, he also believes that this boy could be a threat for him?!"

"So it seems."

"_How?_"

"I have absolutely no idea."

* * *

_Ein weißer Stern..._ A white star sings a song for the dead in a night in July – like a peal of bells for the dying in a night in July. And on the roof, the cloudy hand, the groping, clam, shadowy hand, searches for my mother.


	43. Motherhood

Narcissa, after having become a mother, is ready for desperate measures to secure her family's safety

* * *

**- 2.8. -**

Motherhood

* * *

_Animosa nullos mater admittit metus._

_SENECA – Troades_

_

* * *

_

The pregnancy had been unproblematic; Madam Rosenberg had been satisfied with her patient, and this one was thoroughly satisfied, too. Glowingly happy, more like. Only the father wasn't well; in fact, Lucius was so nervous with the forthcoming birth of his son, he had stopped going to his office in April already to be with his wife all the time. He had read books about pregnancy, about birth classes, he had set up many rolls of parchment with possible names. He had even tried to drag Narcissa to one of those birth classes and accompanied her, but they had agreed that they wouldn't go a second time, with Narcissa commenting dryly, "I know I'm no professional breather, but I get by for a living."

The birth itself was almost as stressful for him, as for the becoming mother. Madam Rosenberg had thrown him out of the hallway before the bedroom, stating that he drove her mad by his pacing up and down, so he had to wait downstairs with his own father, who urged him to drink one whiskey after the other. He had never felt so helpless. Upstairs, the light of his life was in labour – in _pains_; he had read everything about it, and about everything that could go wrong – and what about his son? The poor little lad, what if the umbilical cord strangled him, if he hadn't turned around like he ought to, maybe he'd need a forceps delivery… He shuddered with the mere _term_!

"They don't call it the _pangs_ for nothing!"

"Sit _down_, or I'll throw you out too, and you've got to wait in the dungeons," Abraxas growled, pushing his son back into his armchair.

"It's taking awfully long, isn't it? What if –"

"Your mother's been in labour for thirty hours –"

"_What?!_"

"Thirty hours. You were lazy and tardy even when coming out of the womb, sonny –"

"Stop calling me _sonny_, Father! I'm going to be a father myself any minute now!"

"Any minute, my arse," the old man taunted and shook his head. "You fool! She's up there for no more than six hours. It'll take a while still. Just as well we could play a game of snooker in the interim."

Lucius goggled at him stupidly, before realising that Abraxas had tried to make a joke. "You're no good with the cue, Father. You're far too arthritic."

"Yeah, but you're shaking so badly, you couldn't even _hold_ the cue. Now calm down. Madam Rosenberg is in the business for – what – a century or so –"

"When you think you can relax me by telling me that our midwife is so old that she's blind, deaf and arthritic, too, you're on the wrong track!"

"I give you credit for your concerns, boy. I just hope your care extends to more than the mere birth."

"_You_ ought not to be talking!"

"_I_ never put myself into deliberate danger either, sonny! We'll see of how much use you'll be to your son when you've landed your bum in a prison cell, or the family crypt!"

"Stop being so melodramatic! My nerves are strained enough as it is, tonight!"

Lucius was drunk as hell when one of the elves finally arrived, panting, not even bothering to knock – but this wasn't the time for quarrelling about manners. "Sir," he wheezed, "it's – My Lady –"

He jumped up and sprinted upstairs, badly hitting his elbow on the bedroom door frame, but not even registering this now. All he perceived was this – his wife, as pale as the linen she was lying on, smiled at him and in her arm, she held a tiny bundle. He fell to his knees beside her, covering her free hand with kisses, before daring to take a look at the child. He was so small, his face almost purple, his eyes squeezed shut… Little wonder, after nine months in the dark, the dimly lit room must be as bright as hellfire for him.

"Isn't he beautiful?" Narcissa breathed, ruffling her husband's hair.

"He is! Takes after his mother –"

She patted at the mattress, urging him to lie down next to her. He did, swirling one arm around her, lightly stroking over his son's head with the other. Narcissa snuggled up to him. "Say hello to your daddy, Draco…"

The child moved his tiny fists. This was more of a reflex, but Lucius was inclined to take it as waving, and muttered, "Hello Draco…"

Their bliss was complete. Lucius purchased a whole page in the Daily Prophet and a couple of other newspapers to announce the birth of little Draco Apollonius Alboin David Artemis Immanuel Cygnus Abraxas Phaeton Malfoy – dilectis pueris varia nomina damus –, 20 inches, 7 pounds. Even Abraxas was for once content. His son couldn't be that useless if he had fathered such a marvellous baby, though he gave the mother most of the credit.

Little Draco was an angel. Both his parents couldn't grow tired of watching him, even watching over his sleep for hours, entirely enraptured. The little curls of blond silk, the tiny fists fidgeting, the eeny weeny button nose, his ears not bigger than one of Narcissa's fingernails. Lucius had never held anything so fragile – his son. His _son_ – the child of the woman he loved more than his life, and himself… In this tiny bundle, everything was embodied that Lucius treasured in life, and he solemnly pledged that he'd always put Draco first, that this boy should miss _nothing_, that he'd lay down his life at once if his son needed it…

Narcissa couldn't have been prouder; like her husband, she wouldn't have believed that she could ever have partaken in bringing something so wonderful about, if the living proof hadn't smiled at her whenever she looked. For the first – and ultimately last – time in her life, she even endured visitors, some more welcome, but most not. Still, she wanted them all to see her son, see the utter miracle that he was. Not everyone had a share of her knack to deal with babies though.

Severus, for example, couldn't handle the child, smiling insecurely and handing it back to the mother at once. "Quite the father, isn't he?"

"Oh, yes! Lucius won't hear of it, but it's true. Don't plan anything for next Sunday; we'll finally have the naming ceremony." He smiled and nodded, and she tentatively changed the subject. "I'd like to ask you something, Severus…"

"Yes?"

"Do you – do you know anything about –"

"What?"

"That thing with the Potters…"

She pretended to look the other way, but closely kept her eye on him. His face blanched, but he shook his head. "Nothing, Narcissa. Not more than you, anyway."

"You know you can be open with me, yes?"

"Yes, I know." He gave a little smile.

"I won't tell Lucius, and the Dark Lord doesn't bother to interview me personally. I can keep a secret, Savvy."

"I know you can. But there is really nothing to say, is there?"

His manner signalled finality, but Narcissa wasn't one to give up easily. "You can't tell me you're not bothered because of Lily."

His muscles got tense with that name and he averted his face. "Don't talk about that, Narcissa. Strictly seen, you mustn't even _know_ about it!"

"I guess Lucius finds it important enough to tell me when one of the few people I've ever regarded as a friend has been marked for death."

He hesitated. "When you say Lily had been your _friend_, what's that saying about the state of _our_ friendship?"

"Oh, don't do that. You know what I mean. You are my _friend_, and Lily was someone I just _liked_, all right. But you know that's a lot for me – really _liking_ somebody… I remember that _you_ liked her, too."

He gave a start and shot her a very sharp look. "If I ever was your friend, Narcissa, you must not repeat that. Please!"

"Repeat it among the two of us, or repeat it to someone else?"

"Both!"

"Come on, Savvy. I won't give you away, but between you and me – I knew you had a crush on her before you knew it yourself."

She had been deliberately blunt, closely watching his reaction. For a split second, he looked furious, but recomposed at rapid speed. "That's all in the past."

"Yes, sure… But does it sit well with you that she's going to die?"

He sneered. "Now what do you think?"

"I think it drives you mad," she replied slyly. She had sensed that Lily Evans was the way to go with him, and she wasn't going to abandon her prey.

"No, not _mad_. Mad's certainly not the word."

"So what is the word?"

He gave no reply, but got up and poured two glasses of wine, offering one to Narcissa. She declined because of the baby, so he conjured her a glass of lemonade, they toasted, and he said flatly, "She's safe. It appears that the Dark Lord won't kill her eventually."

Even if this piece of news went against everything she had in mind in this moment, Narcissa couldn't but sigh and smile in relief. "Oh, thank goodness! The man's more reasonable than I had given him credit for. A _prophecy_! Oh please!"

"No, Cissa, you got that wrong. He does believe in the prophecy, and he wants to counteract it as good as he can."

"So he found another target?"

"No, he believes that it is the Potter child who the prophecy referred to."

She was genuinely confused. "I don't think I understand, Savvy… How does he think he can get to the child without getting past its parents for a start?"

"He said he'll kill Potter and the child, but leave Lily alone."

She tilted her head and snorted. "Yeah, right. As if _that_ was going to work!"

Severus clearly forgot his reserve for a second, because he goggled at her. "What d'you mean?"

"No mother – _not one_ – will step aside if someone threatens her child, Savvy!"Subconsciously, she pressed Draco closer to her bosom, almost waking him up by her vigour. "What a goddamned fool that man is!"

"I – you mean – what _do_ you mean?" he gasped.

"I mean what I just said. Not even the lowest animals would give up their offspring, let alone a human mother. Lily Evans won't make an exception of _that_ rule. Why's he being so clement anyway? That doesn't sound like him at all."

But Severus gave no answer, his face twisted in a mask of shock and horror, staring alternately at the baby and her.

"Oh! I see," she murmured at last, on the one hand gratified that she had pecked him right, on the other truly commiserating the poor sod. "So you... He means to do you a favour, then? That's it, isn't it? He means to spare her because of you?"

He nodded very, very slowly, his mind clearly occupied. She felt severe pangs of remorse when proceeding mercilessly, "It won't work like that, Savvy. Beg for her life as much as you please, she'll not thank you for it."

"I know that!" he cried impatiently and made a gesture as if to shirk away an irksome fly. "That's not why I – that wasn't my reason!"

"No, you don't know what I'm talking about, clearly. I don't mean to say she'll not throw herself into your arms with gratitude. I mean to say she won't have it. If the Dark Lord wants to get to her child, he'll have to get past Lily for a start, and as the child's mother, she'll fight until her dying breath. Your plea for mercy was utterly wasted. _That's_ what I mean, plain and simple."

"But – but..." His face was hidden by his hair, but even though he clearly tried to control his voice, she could still hear a kind of hysteria in it when he went on, "But what else could I have done than plead for her life, Cissa? I – I cannot – I cannot let her be murdered!"

He looked up, his eyes wide with eloquent despair, and she said softly, "It was good you did that."

"For what though?! _For what?_ They'll all die, no one survives if the Dark Lord wants to see them dead, they're going to be murdered, and it'll be _my_ fault!" He sounded decidedly hysterical. "I'll be the one with the blood of Lily Evans on my hands, Cissa, me, _me!_ And her baby's!"

He avoided looking at Draco. Narcissa slowly reached out to touch her old friend's arm, but he shrank away. "Savvy," she murmured fondly, "You cannot save _them_. It's good that you tried, but the way things are _now_, you've got to –"

"Accept it?" His voice was acerbic. "Yes, I suppose that'd be the _rational_ thing to do, wouldn't it!"

Narcissa closed her eyes for a minute, taking a deep breath and summoning all her courage, all her will, all her capacity for cruelty. She loathed to pry on him in his despair, but told herself she was doing the only possible thing. "There might be another way, Savvy."

He gave a start, hope flaring up in his black eyes. "Yes? What is it?"

"Slowly, slowly. First I need to know how far you're willing to go."

"Plus significas, quam loqueris," he said softly, giving her a weak, defeated smile.

"Taceat, qui magna molitur!"

"You must know you can rely on me, Cissa. What's more – I'd do anything not to be the one that betrayed Lily!"

Excellent. She hadn't dared to hope he'd be as compliant as this! Ruffling Draco's silky baby curls, she decided to finally own up. He wasn't stupid; he was bound to have seen through her already. "Severus, I know that you are a great Occlumens, possibly the best I know, so I trust I can be honest with you. We both know that ignorance hasn't saved anyone in the history of the world. If the Dark Lord believed I had a secret from him, he'd torture me, if it was true or not. He'd kill me at last, just to make sure that I took my non-existent secret to my grave. So it really doesn't make a difference." She chuckled dryly. "He'll get us _all_ killed, sooner or later."

"What does Lucius say to that philosophy?"

"He thinks the same." She made a little pause. "You do know what's the only thing that'd help us all on the long term?"

He raised a brow and stared at her for a minute until his lips curled into a soft smirk. He chuckled incredulously. "You don't mean that!"

"Trust me, boy, I do! The world's better off without him!"

"And since when do _you_ give a damn about the _world_?"

"The world!" she scoffed. "Take a look at my _son_, Severus! _Look at him!_ He'll need a father, don't you think? Lucius and Draco are everything to me, and I will fight like a lioness to keep them both safe. This war – _everything_ really – it freaks me out! For six damned years, I go to bed at night and never know if I'll be a widow by the morning! And now I've additionally got to fret if my son's made an orphan! They can kill each other for all I care, but that they hazard my husband, and indirectly me and my son, is not to be suffered. Not by me. They won't take Lucius away from me, I will not stand for it! Neither jail nor death will claim him as long as I have a say in it!"

"But you don't have a say in it," he said softly, not daring to look at her glowing eyes. She resembled her oldest sister in this moment, the same fierceness, the same determination, as if Bellatrix Lestrange had put on a blond wig and charmed her eyes blue. One did not light-heartedly talk back to that one either.

"You better start believing that I have, boy! Only because I prefer to stay at home with my hands in my lap, it doesn't mean that I am weak, or powerless. Mark my words, neither of us will go down without putting up a good fight! The only power that your _lordship_ has over me is that he can threaten my family, and I will not allow him to do so!"

"Narcissa! Be sensible!" he cried. "You can try and see to it that Lucius stays at home as much as possible. Be careful though that the Dark Lord doesn't feel slighted."

"And how long does that keep him at bay?! Until the next time when he gets to hear some nonsense, and decides that he better disposes of Lucius, too? Or Draco? I know he's powerful – but he's not invincible. Think of Lily Evans, Savvy! _You_ are ready to defy him anyway! And you're not alone. I will help you as good as I can!"

"A minute ago, you told me that your child needs a father, and now _you_, his _mother_, wants to fight the Dark Lord?!"

"There are far more subtle ways of combat than hurling curses at each other," she said dangerously quietly and rocked the baby in her arms that had begun to flutter when his mother had raised her voice.

"Get real, Narcissa! I know what youare playing at and I understand your fear, but that won't do! You cannot fight someone who's immortal!"

"Immortal!" She spat the word. "_You _get real, Savvy! Nobody, _nobody_ is _immortal_! The high gods of Babylon and Egypt went down because they weren't _immortal_! They were nothing but very gifted sorcerers with Animagic powers, and most of all, a fantastic publicity department! And that's all your Lord Voldemort – oh, _stop it!_ – that's all he is! I _know_ what he is! I've known for a long time! In fact, he is just like _you_, the son of a witch and a Muggle, and so embarrassed of his lineage that he'd rather make up a new name, and make everyone believe he was oh-so-special, but he really isn't!"

He shook his head, slowly, seemingly defeated. "He _is_. Trust me, he _is_. His powers are unrivalled, and I know for a fact that he is immortal, too. He's taken the right steps. Why do you believe that we are called _Death Eaters_, Narcissa? Not everyone serving him bears that name, not everyone serving him bears the Dark Mark. We are Death Eaters because each one of us has swallowed a little part of his mortality."

"That is _rubbish_, Savvy! He puts up a good show, I got to give him that, because he wants you to be cowed and believe this utter nonsense. How could you, with all your cleverness, fall for this rubbish? You drank his blood, so what? I'm not superstitious. _Blood_ doesn't matter half as much as people believe, the purebloods believe it because it makes them special, and the others believe it out of some silly inferiority complex. The only way in which blood counts is that of _family_, and that's all it is good for! You know what he did, don't you? He's taken the glamorous part of vampirism – and mind you, _they're_ not immortal either, they simply do not age, but one good stab at their heart, one well-aimed stroke of an axe, and they crumble to dust! That, some flashy incantations, and the mere fact that he hasn't died yet, _et voilà_, there goes his _immortality_!"

She was right in some aspects of her passionate speech – she needed two nights of deepest thoughtfulness to understand just _how_ right she might be. Concerning other aspects though, she had never been so woefully wrong. Indeed, Lord Voldemort had only made his favourite supporters drink his blood to make them believe the stories he told them, and yes, he had been inspired by some vampire myths, and a couple of other legends he had heard during his travels. This had been a safety measure – he didn't want them to know the true steps he had taken, always aware of the danger that one day, they might want to revolt against him. He secretly relished his own euphemism when addressing them as his 'faithful Death Eaters', because he knew that they were just anything, but certainly not loyal.

In a way, Narcissa's problem was that she was a little too clever, not too ignorant. Her views were thoroughly mundane, she had read all the right authors, and all her reading had brought her to believe that _belief_ was the wrong approach. She didn't buy in anything supernatural, and immortality was just that, inconceivable with the laws of nature. Of course, from her point of view, magic in itself wasn't supernatural either; it followed certain rules, invisible for Muggles, but nonetheless existent and real, like gravity, like the laws of thermodynamics. Immortality was against those laws, and in a way, she was right – because Lord Voldemort wasn't truly _immortal_ in the original meaning of the word, and his undoing for the time being was going to come about _exactly _like she was expecting. Her crucial mistake was that she was so convinced of her own argumentation, she had simply forgotten that he could have taken some other additional steps to make it simply more difficult to kill him.

* * *

_Animosa..._ A dauntless mother has no fear.

_Dilectis..._ Beloved children are given many names.

_Plus significas... _You're hinting at more than you lead on.

_Taceat... _Be silent if you have great plans.


	44. Peter Ratting

Peter Pettigrew decides it's time for a life insurance

* * *

_**- 2.9. -**_

Peter Ratting

* * *

_Cedere maiori non est pudor inferiori._

_WALTHER – Proverbia Sententiaeque_

_

* * *

_

All his life, he hasn't been blessed by fortune, in no whatsoever respect. Neither handsome nor overly smart, nor more than average as a wizard, he comes from a family of little importance, pure-blooded in the sixth generation, and without enough money to make up for this flaw. And this has only been the beginning of his bad luck, it has come much worse yet.

In Hogwarts, he got sorted to Gryffindor House, for reasons absolutely unintelligible to himself, or anyone who has ever met him. He isn't brave, but perhaps the Sorting Hat realised that he's even less brainy, or cunning, and that _loyalty_ really isn't his forte either. Yes, Peter Pettigrew thinks, he ended up in Gryffindor by default, like always. His new dorm mates there found him out in no time, and he would have been their jackass, if it hadn't been for another boy already occupying the title of the official loser, and relieving Peter from his usual suffering.

James and Sirius – oh, just how poised they fancy themselves, how superior and infallible! They 'allowed' him to be their pet, as Sirius often pointed out, being so much more talented and popular than him, so much cooler. Sirius was oh-so-excellent in everything he ever did, and so darn good-looking. All the girls were crazy in love with him, too, making him even more arrogant. James on the other hand was equally well-off, equally skilled, and a Quidditch ace, every girl that didn't already fancy Sirius was infatuated with him instead. But being similarly stuck-up like his best mate, he didn't contemplate any, and instead only had eyes for the petty little Mudblood. The third one of the merry bunch is a _werewolf_, in Merlin's name, as Peter was forced to hear in his third year in school, but the others didn't mind, and Peter didn't dare to voice his repulsion against their vote. A _werewolf_! It only adds up to show how full of themselves Sirius and James are, but Peter has always regarded himself lucky not to be in their bad books still.

Said other boy to carry that burden in their school time was Severus Snape, the object of Peter's pure and unadulterated glee and scorn. Snape outsmarted him in everything; the bloody jerk's clever, but it didn't help him nevertheless. Ugly, poor, unpopular, he was the ideal target for James' jibes and Sirius' curses, and the national laughing stock for everybody else. He had only few friends of his own, most of them much older and therefore long gone from Hogwarts to back him up. Scruffy as he was, the only people really standing up for him then were, ironically, two girls.

First of all, Sirius' cousin Narcissa Black. Boy, she was another one of the high and mighty, fancying herself far too superior to talk to anyone else, with the exception of Snivellus. God knows what she has been thinking to favour him of all persons, but she did. The other girl was Lily Evans, Snape's friend of childhood days and James' everlasting flame and later wife. She must have thought Snipelius was a kindred spirit, keen on potion-making like her, and another Mudblood to boot. She was a favourite with all the teachers for being so talented, and so friendly… But Peter has seen her for what she really is – nothing but an unworthy Muggle-born, just good enough to go to a wizard's school, but surely not to capture someone like James Potter. But this one wouldn't listen to reason, he has tried to get off with her ever since their fourth year, and finally, in their seventh, she yielded to his wooing. Peter has never openly commented on this, but he staunchly believes that James has thrown himself away.

No, he doesn't love his so-called friends. He admires them, but that's not the same. And given the circumstances they're living through, the war and all that, all the missing or dead, he found he may have to change his tune. The other night... Gosh, that was close. No, not just _close_ – hitting the bull's eye it was! Sirius deliberately got into a brush with a couple of Death Eaters and while Peter still wondered how on earth he had gotten here – into such an awful scrape – and what the hell he could do to survive it – a muting spell hit him, he was suddenly grabbed, and dragged into a dark doorway.

"Pettigrew," an unfamiliar voice muttered into his ear. "You dumb ass! Think you can gamble with the big kids? Tell you what – you can't. Ava-"

Shitting himself, Peter did, thinking his last second on earth had come, and from the corner of his eyes seeing the wand trimmed at his head. But then another voice, just as unfamiliar, spoke up, "Stop it! Pettigrew, you say? That's one of Dumbledore's!"

"Yeah. What d'ya think I'm doing here, cos?"

"Hold it I say!" The wand got pressed against Peter's cheek, and the other masked, hooded figure came very close. "You value your life, Pettigrew?"

Peter couldn't speak, but hoped humming the affirmative would do the job.

"Of course you do," the voice proceeded, sounding smugly satisfied. "Listen, Pettigrew. Your boss Dumbledore – he's always giving that speech about choices. Well, here's one for you – you can live, or you can die. Today, we'll let you live. Our choice, our pleasure. But the next time we meet, you might not be that lucky. Dangerous times, for such close friends of Dumbledore... Well, for anybody, really, unless they've got mighty friends to protect them. Do you have mighty friends to protect you, Pettigrew?"

"Mmm-mmm," Peter whined. No, he hasn't! He's got talented, quick-witted friends – but where were they now, eh? And could they protect him from real Death Eaters? Surely not!

"I didn't think so," the voice rasped almost pleasantly. "Methinks you should hurry up making some. Don't you agree with me?"

"Ye-es...?"

"Yes, indeed... Now run along, kid, and think about it. Think really hard about it. Think how much you value your life. Think how much your poor mother values it. A poor, lonely widow. What'd become of her if her only son was killed... And when you've made up your mind, you'll come and tell me."

"But – but I don't know you..."

"No?" The man laughed. "I'm sure you'll figure out a way to meet me all the same. Regarding how much depends upon it..."

With a sudden, heavy push, he was hurled into the street, and the two Death Eaters stepped over him, unconcerned, and joined the battle again. Sirius had been joined by a handful of other Order members and they weren't doing all that bad, but Peter thought it was safer to just keep lying here playing dead man. So he sort of missed the heat of the fight, and was only picked up when it was all over. Turned out one of the Death Eaters got killed – and when his mask was pulled off, Peter realised to his greatest astonishment that he actually knew the guy. Well, kind of. They'd been in school together, the dead Death Eater was only one year his junior (and he was ashamed to have been overwhelmed by a nineteen-year-old!). Lestrange, his name was. Rodney – Robert – something starting with an 'R'...

Lying in his bed that night, he realised something else. Why had that Death Eater instantly known who he was? _Because_ they'd been in school together! That guy dragging him into that hallway had been no other than that Lestrange guy! And he'd addressed the other one as 'cos' – which was short for cousin, right? Now Peter actually happened to know someone called Lestrange. The Law Wizard who'd taken care of Peter's late father's testament was a bloke called Rabastan Lestrange. And hadn't the stranger talked of Peter's mother? And hadn't he implied they knew each other, that Peter would figure it out?

The following day, he tries wiping it all away like a ghastly nightmare. He doesn't have many friends in the world, how could he even think of betraying the few he's got? His determination is shaken when bumping into Frank Longbottom who reports more or less in passing, that the Death Eaters raided a Muggle gathering and killed no less than twelve people and one of the Aurors coming to their rescue, a young bloke called Emerson. Also, they severely wounded two others. "We think this might be retribution for yesterday."

Peters squeezes his eyes shut with the mere recollection. He sees the mask, the raised wand, hears the guy's menacing voice. Good heavens, he isn't made for this sort of thing! How did a guy like he even get into such a tight spot, eh? Because of his idiotic friends, that's how! On his own, the most dangerous thing that could possibly happen would be falling off a ladder when trying to lift his suitcase of the wardrobe!

A sleepless night later, he's come to a desperate decision. He's got no chance but to go with the time, meaning – he'll have to turn to the only person he suspects to be a Death Eater with some certainty: that Rabastan Lestrange guy. That one greets him with a mock innocent face and asks how he could help him, whether there was something wrong with poor Mrs. Pettigrew...?

Peter doesn't dare to be outspoken, so he murmurs, his eyes glued to the floor, "N-no... And I want to make sure it'll stay that way..."

"Are you sure?"

Slowly, he nods. "I am."

"Very well. I'll forward your application."

He gets his answer even sooner than expected; that evening, an owl pecks on his window, delivering a message to show up in some impossibly remote shack in the furthest outskirts of London, and as if that wasn't spooky enough, it's not that Lestrange guy showing up for the interview, but his sister-in-law, who can make a man's blood curl with one single look out of those vicious pitch black eyes!

"Why do you want to join our ranks?" Bellatrix Lestrange asks him suspiciously. "I know who you are, you've been hanging around with my cousin Sirius and his buddy Potter all the time, and they're Dumbledore's men."

Peter is able to give an honest, convincing answer on this head. "They are, but that could be a great advantage for your cause, couldn't it?" She sneers, but signals him to go on. "You see, no one has ever paid attention to me, nobody bothers for what I do, or where I'm going. In the same moment, they're all convinced that I'm best mate with Black and Potter, and therefore a hundred percent loyal to Dumbledore and the other Mudblood lovers. I hear things that might interest the Dark Lord, I come to meet people that none of you could accidentally encounter –"

"And why do you want to turn on your companions in the first place?"

"Because I don't want to be killed for a cause that I don't even believe in."

"Why should _we_ believe _you_? Perhaps you're a double spy?"

"If you seriously believed that, why would you have met me tonight? If I was a spy, I could give you away at once, and you wouldn't want to risk that, would you?"

If he had truly believed he could intimidate _Bellatrix_ _Lestrange_, he has been utterly wrong, as he sees at once. She roars with laughter, and draws her wand so quickly that Peter hasn't got a chance to do anything at all. Still chuckling and pressing her wand against Peter's throat, she gives him a long, challenging look.

"I've met you because my master has asked me to. My order is to see what you're up to, and if I find you to be dishonest, or otherwise unpromising, I am to – _dispose_ – of you at once. Do you understand me, Ratface?"

Peter swallows and nods anxiously, frozen by Bellatrix' fierce gaze. That woman isn't joking, and seeing her reputation otherwise, Peter has no doubt that his own death will be efficient and well-conceived, but certainly not quick and painless, if he can't satisfy her expectations. She inquires about his knowledge in the Dark Arts next – none whatsoever, deplorably – or other qualifications, and eagerly, Peter points out that he can turn himself into a rat. Bellatrix doesn't believe him until he proves it, and to appear a bit more impressive, he omits to mention that he has only succeeded so far because his old mates have become Animagi, too, and helped him with his own transformation.

At least, he has caught her attention; she continues the interview in the same conceited manner, but fractionally less hostile. Peter has never understood why all the great ones would always be so haughty beyond expression, even Bellatrix Lestrange with her famous bloodline and all her power, money and connections is just a human being like Peter himself. Why does everyone always treat him so contemptuously? She must have read that question in his gaze; whatever, she answers it with a disdainful smirk.

"You wonder why I should treat you like dirt, do you? That's because you _are_ dirt, Pettigrew. You've contacted my brother-in-law, in order to betray your old friends after all. While I'm not saying that this might not be useful for our cause – I reserve my judgement in this case – you should know still how thoroughly despicable I find you, personally. You are a coward, a traitor, and excuse me, a _rat_ – how could I treat you otherwise than like vermin?"

Fortunately, Peter is used to such an attitude, and even if she was right with some of the things she said, Peter has yet another quality, one that has always been helpful – showing a mixture of submission, admiration and contrition. It has worked with all of them, with Sirius, with James, with Rabastan Lestrange, and it doesn't fail Bellatrix Lestrange's vanity either.

"Very well," she says eventually, after a swift glimpse at her golden pocket watch. "This must suffice. I will forward your application to my master, expect our notice soon."

"You mean you will send me an owl?"

Admittedly, the question was plain stupid, and he receives an adequate scowl for it. "I'm afraid not, Pettigrew. The Dark Lord doesn't rely on _owls_. You will notice our effort if we are to contact you, this way or – _that_."

She emphasises the last bit, and Peter can't suppress a shudder with the obvious implications. If he hasn't appealed to her, he simply won't wake up again, tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, they'll simply kill him to eliminate an unwanted witness. To make up for his blunder, and reconcile Madam Lestrange's good graces, he hurries to say, "Of course, Ma'am! Thank you for your time and attention, and please forward my admiration to your husband, and Mr and Mrs Malfoy. And my best wishes for the new heir –"

She gives him her most contemptuous glance yet. "Oh _please_! Well, I hope your intelligence for the Dark Lord is going to be a bit more exclusive than what you've read in the Daily Prophet. Off you go, Pettigrew, don't try my patience!"

* * *

_Cedere maiori…_ It isn't dishonourable for the inferior to submit to the more great.


	45. The Last Straw

Severus turns to the only person that can help him now

* * *

**- 2.10. -**

The Last Straw

* * *

_Life is, in fact, a battle. Evil is insolent and strong: beauty enchanting but rare; goodness very apt to be weak; folly very apt to be defiant; wickedness to carry the day; imbeciles to be in great places, people of sense in small, and mankind generally unhappy. But the world as it stands is no illusion, no phantasm, no evil dream of a night; we wake up to it again for ever and ever; we can neither forget it nor deny it nor dispense with it._

_HENRY JAMES_

_

* * *

_

He had managed to slip a message into his pursuit's pocket, but he didn't know if this one had found and read it, or if he had, whether he would follow the call. It wasn't just that. He was even less sure if he hadn't been followed by someone, or if he had got himself into a neat trap set up by Dumbledore, or if the old man wouldn't solve the problem by killing his observer straight away. He knew which wizard Severus Snape had called his master for more than two years now.

But it all didn't matter, nothing of this really mattered, if only… Yes, if only he'd let Severus live long enough to say what he had come for. He was almost mad with fear, but it wasn't for his own life – if he had had a nerve to think about it, he would have come to wonder if he had _ever_ feared for his life… He had been in lethal danger a number of times, but in the moments itself, he hadn't felt anything. All the close moments when escaping from the Aurors, seeing the green jet of light fly past him only inches away, fleeing from Dumbledore himself… All these moments had been like the very first time when he had glimpsed around a corner, only to see that he was facing his own end there. He had instantly known that it was over, every time he had firmly believed that, and he had accepted it every time, too, only going on for the firm will to not go down without a good fight. Only later, the fury would come, the shock… But it was good that he had this time delay in his solar plexus – it helped him keep his cold blood – perhaps it was this lack of fear in crucial moments that had repeatedly saved his ass in the end.

This time was different. He had to talk to Dumbledore before it was over – no matter what was to come, Dumbledore _must_ hear him out – he dreaded to think what would happen if he didn't last long enough to say it all. He was eaten up with breathless horror that he might fail, shaking as much on the inside as the tempest that was tossing and turning him along on that hilltop.

Suddenly, a blinding ray of light flashed over the dark, stormy sky, pushing him down and forcing his wand away. "Don't kill me!" he shouted.

"That was not my intention. Well? Severus? What message does Lord Voldemort have for me?"

Severus got to his knees showing his empty hands, and cried against the gust, "No – no message – I'm here on my own account!"

Anxiously, he looked up into the little he could see of the Headmaster's face. He was clenching his hands, scared that he would say the wrong thing, that Dumbledore would not believe, or not care, or…

"What request could a Death Eater make of me?"

"The – the prophecy – the prediction… Trelawney –" His panic put out his last bit of sense; the more he panicked, the less he could speak, and the less he could properly communicate to Dumbledore, the more his panic grew.

"Ah, yes… How much did you relay to Lord Voldemort?"

"Everything… Everything I heard," he panted, almost glad that this point was out in the open. "That is why… It is for that reason…" Dumbledore raised a brow, and Severus almost choked on the words. "He thinks it means Lily Evans!"

"The prophecy did not refer to a woman. It spoke of a boy born at the end of July," Dumbledore said coldly, and Severus thought he had only got one chance left.

"You _know_ what I mean! He thinks it means her son! He is going to hunt her down – kill them all –"

Again, a cold sneer marred the wizened face. "If she means so much to you, surely Lord Voldemort will spare her? Could you not ask for mercy for the mother, in exchange for the son?"

The man didn't _understand_ – why wouldn't he _understand_… "I have – I _have_ asked him –"

"You disgust me. You do not care then about the deaths of her husband and child? They can die as long as you have what you want?"

Severus looked up to him, incapable to put any of the things rushing through his head in words… As if Lily would have him under _any_ circumstances! As if Lily would step aside, watching her kid being murdered! Everyone kept on saying oh-how-great Dumbledore was, what a delightful human being – but even the Dark Lord had reacted with more sympathy when Severus had scraped together all the courage he could ever possess and begged for Lily's life. What did the old crackpot think that Severus had come here for?! Had he even understood him?

"Hide them all, then! Keep her – them – safe! _Please!_"

"And what will you give me in return, Severus?"

He thought that it was now he who didn't understand. "In – in return…" he muttered blankly. Maybe it was the realisation that Albus Dumbledore was just a man after all that preoccupied Severus most in this moment. Do ut des, it was the way of the world, and also Dumbledore's, clearly. Not even the famous, benign old warlock would want to save a life for the mere sake of it. Swallowing with the bitter taste in his mouth, he realised that he still hadn't given an answer. "_Anything._"

Of course. If he could save them – if he could _somehow_ keep the blood of these people off his hands – he didn't care how much other blood he'd have to shed to achieve that. It was obvious, wasn't it, what the old man wanted. He'd demand Severus to kill the Dark Lord, right? He had spent many a night in the last two months, ever since talking to Narcissa about the same topic, contemplating her suggestion. He did not doubt that she was serious, he knew her well enough for that. But unlike _her_, he did believe in the Dark Lord's immortality, and therefore considered her plan to be impotent. Perhaps Dumbledore would have an idea how to bypass that snag. And if not – well, if he could elicit that promise from Dumbledore – that the old wizard would personally see to Lily's safety – in that case Severus didn't mind dying during the attempt to fulfil his part of the bargain.

Dumbledore slowly pointed his wand at the young man on the ground, blinding him with the light beam from the tip. Severus thought he knew what he was doing, but he let him, feeling an odd sort of peace. Yes, if the Dark Lord and Dumbledore were at their merry feud, and Severus, the other Death Eaters, Dumbledore's own order folks were mere mercenaries, Severus would always give his allegiance to the highest bidder. And this was whoever guaranteed the life and well-being of Lily Evans. He'd die – no doubt, Dumbledore _was_ going to ask him for the same like Narcissa had – and he'd die in the pursuit of it. Well, it didn't matter. It really didn't matter, as long as Lily was safe.

"Sir, I'm a great Occlumens, though I say it myself. Please, I ask you to use Veritase-"

"I have seen all I need to see," was the curt reply and the glaring light turned softer. "I take it Lord Voldemort still craves for a spy in Hogwarts, does he?"

Severus nodded. "Yes, Sir. He wants me to take that position if I can."

"Send me an application, Severus. I think it's time your master gets his wish fulfilled. Oh, and it wouldn't hurt if you hinted that you had infected my Arithmancy teacher with the Morose Measles. You will return to your master and spin him a tale. You know better what might work than I do – tell him how you had persuaded me of your changing allegiance, and being the old crackpot that I am, I believed you. Something like that."

Severus nodded once again. "You – you'll keep her safe. Them safe. You'll look after Lily and her kid, yes?"

Dumbledore nodded, too. "I'll do what I can, yes. Tell me… Do you know the name? Do you know how Lily Potter's child is called?"

"Harry," he whispered, "he is called Harry."

"And do you believe in what the prophecy said?"

He couldn't but give a beaten chuckle. "No," he said with emphasis, "I certainly don't. But it doesn't matter what _I_ believe. _He_ thinks it's true."

"Then he's less high-handed after all than I had come to believe."

"So – you believe it's true, too?"

"I believe that Lord Voldemort cannot be killed like that, regardless how mighty the wizard, or how Dark the spell, and _you_ should better believe that, too, and forward this message to whomever it may concern." Dumbledore shot him a poignant glance. "But I also _believe_ that little Harry Potter may well be the only chance we've got."

"I thought – I take it… You don't want me to kill him, then?" Severus asked in genuine bafflement.

"I don't want you to kill anybody and tear your soul apart. Most of all, I don't want you to do anything that could make him doubt you. Lord Voldemort desired a spy in my ranks – I am delighted to have one in his. You can do so much more for your old friend by providing us with information, than in an useless act of ill-conceived heroics, that won't lead anywhere, anyway. He _cannot_ be undone like that."

"I… I see…" he murmured, though truth was that he didn't comprehend anything at all.

"It's getting late. Send me your papers as soon as you can, and wait for my answer. Oh – and one more thing… Welcome, Severus. I believe that everyone deserves a second chance, and you have chosen the right way after all. Don't prove me wrong."

Not eight hours after this meeting, and absolutely unwitting that this one had taken place to begin with, Lily Potter was once more the object of a conversation between two other, and just as unlikely people. Old Tobias Snape had woken up with a bad hangover, and while still trying to get his act together and his body off the couch, he remembered two or three things. Firstly – his wife had died the previous Wednesday. Secondly – he'd have to remember to somehow get hold of his wretched son to tell him that his mother was dead. Thirdly – last night in the pub, an idea had darted through his head how he could bring that about. What had he been thinking though…? He remembered after his third cup of coffee, and after the sixth he set out to pursue his plan.

He sought and found the house of the Evans people. He was _fairly_ sure that _their_ kid had been in the same school like _his_ kid, meaning that she was a witch, too, meaning she had other means of communication than Tobias had himself. _His_ son didn't deign to have a telephone, or a postal address than one could actually send a letter to by the Royal Mail! Disgruntled by the mere thought of all his son did _not_ have, he rang at the door and explained the rather bewildered Mrs Evans that he hoped she could be of help in conveying his son the urgent message.

Of course, Rosy Evans agreed at once – not for the sake of the terrible man before her, but because of the fond memories she had of this one's son. She instantly contacted her daughter, and this one… This one became very still for a moment. Mrs Snape was dead… She couldn't have accounted for it, but she was overcome with unaccountable grief. She had lost so many people in the last year alone, friends, acquaintances, her parents-in-law, fellow order members – but Mrs Snape she hadn't even seen in four of five years. Neither had she been very fond of that woman back then. Still, she was awfully upset.

When her own dad had died then, shortly before the start of their fifth year, Sev had been there for her… And now she couldn't return the favour. She _couldn't_. He… He had long burnt _that_ bridge. But what she could do, and what she _would_ do was inform him, of course. She looked after Harry in his cradle, told her puzzled husband that she'd be gone for half an hour, soothed his concerns about her looking so pale, and was gone.

She had never been in Haddon House, where most of the male junior years lived. On the way, she tried to breathe calmly and get her head clear. She'd tell him and that was it. She would _not_ argue with him. She would _not_ be sentimental or melancholic either. Just the plain facts and off she'd go –

But she didn't come any further than into the entrance hall anyway, because there she was stopped by the stately-looking Matron. "And where do you think you're going, Missy?"

"I'm looking for Severus Snape." The Matron pointed at a sign forbidding 'young ladies' all entrance, and Lily wrought her hands. "Please, Ma'am, it's really _urgent_. Can you please call for him?"

"No, I cannot."

"Madam, _please_, it's – his family – he ought to –"

"I can't call for the young gentleman because he isn't _here_, Missy!"

"Oh! And where is he?"

"He is presently sitting his Transfiguration exam, so if you don't mean to wait for another four or five hours, I suggest you leave that _urgent_ message with me instead."

Lily felt numb, and meekly nodded. "Yes… Please, tell him that he ought to get in touch with his father _at once_ – his mother, she – she died…"

The old witch mustered a mildly pitiful face. "Perhaps it is better if I merely say that Mr Snape is supposed to go home, and let his father explain –"

Lily was on the verge of saying that Sev would never listen to a single thing his father said, but she also realised that he would know what had happened as soon as hearing that he wasn't supposed to get back to his mother, but to 'old Toby' instead. It couldn't mean anything else, could it… She felt tears welling in her eyes, shrugged, pressed a 'thank you' through her tight lips and turned on her heels.

"And your name was…?" the Matron cried after her.

"He'll know," she cried back and stormed out.

So this was the chain of communication finally delivering the dreadful news. Four days after her death, Eileen Snape's son was literally the last one to hear of it. The official investigations announced that her death had been a tragic accident; in a crowd on a subway platform, she had stumbled and fallen onto the track bed seconds before the Circle Line had arrived. But Severus didn't believe that. Either she had jumped deliberately that morning. Or she had stumbled, and decided on the spur of the moment that getting up again, saving herself, wasn't worth the trouble. More and more things hadn't been worth the trouble in Eileen Snape's life.

At first, she had stopped taking care of herself. Severus knew only from old photos how much she had changed in fact. Of course, there had never been enough money for her to go to the hairdresser, or buy herself some new clothes, but she had made ends meet for a long time. She had cut her hair herself; not very artfully, but still. She had sewn her blouses and everything else, out of cheap rags that she had found somewhere. But one day when coming home from primary school, Severus had pointed out to her that her coat was missing two buttons, and she had merely shrugged. A few days later, she still hadn't fixed it, and the seam of her church skirt had been falling apart, but she hadn't done anything about it either. In less than one year, most of her wardrobe had looked like this. She had worn her hair lank, indifferently tied up in an untidy tail, she had had dirt under her fingernails, and her reading glasses had been mended with a piece of Sellotape.

To be capable of buying her son the necessary school equipment for Hogwarts, she had sold all the books she had inherited from her parents. He had grown and needed new robes, so she had sold her mother's modest wedding ring. With every bit he had grown, another item had disappeared from their house, always the magic ones only – Tobias would have gone berserk if anything of _his_ property had gone missing, no matter how useless. And along with the books, the silver picture frames, the magic camera, the chandelier that had been in the Prince family for more than 150 years, the light had gone out of Eileen Snape. As long as Severus had constantly lived at home, she had tried still, but from the moment on when he had gone to Hogwarts, her decay had accelerated. Severus was going to be twenty-two in a few months. She had probably thought that her child was truly old enough to look after himself, and he was.

Yes, he thought grimly, he was ready. What did he still have to lose? Exactly… He had lost her once, and completely, but she was still _there_, and he had never fathomed how much this could mean to him. She had come to tell him – Lily herself – _Lily_! Despite everything, she had come in that desperate moment – some hours later, and she might have come no more. Once Dumbledore had told her that she was marked for death because of a nonsensical prophecy that he, Severus, had overheard and passed on…

He'd do it for her. He'd make it all up to her. Lily was going to live, and so was her son, and even her bloody jerk of a husband. They would _live_. Dumbledore had promised. But there was one more thing he had to do yet.

That night, he waited in a dark backyard, behind Tobias' residential pub, for this one to come out. He thought he knew how to use an _Avada_ _Kedavra_, but this one didn't seem remotely appropriate. _Avada_ _Kedavra_ was instant, painless death. Tobias didn't deserve 'painless', or quickness – his death ought to be as agonising and slow as his wife's undoing had been. Severus had conferred with Lucius and Mulciber what curses might do instead, and the mourning about his mum's death had been mitigated by his ferocious determination to finally pay back for everything.

When he was younger, Severus had often fantasised in painful detail how it would be to just kill his father. As a small boy, he had often resolved to simply jump at him with a knife, the next time he harassed Severus' mum. One time he had even tried it, but Tobias hadn't paid much attention – hadn't even _realised_ what his own son had been prepared to do. He had simply hurled the boy across the room and continued to beat up Eileen and scream at her that she'd 'deserve to be burnt at the stakes'. Then the boy had come to Hogwarts, and additional to the curses he had already learnt from his mum, he had happily employed his time by mastering every single nasty jinx he had come across, and by inventing new ones, too. Every now and then, he had tried these on Tobias, but his mother wouldn't have it, making her a bit of a hypocrite, because Eileen herself had often enough cursed her husband secretly. Had jinxed his briefs to shrink while he was wearing them, until he had to run out of the pub because of the pain. Had poisoned his booze, making him cringe with stomach aches. Had turned the tobacco in his cigarettes into dried horse dung. Severus smiled fondly with these memories. 'You couldn't part with him in life, Mum, I hope you're glad to be joined in death, too!'

But Tobias didn't show up this night, and his son was compelled to satiate his rage by hexing the obnoxious barman instead, who had never wavered in serving his old buddy Toby as many drinks as he liked and put them on the slate, just like had never shown any scruples to send a gang of thugs to their house and threaten his customer's wife to pay the debts, or dare their retribution.

Maybe his moment for revenge would have come at last, but not three days later, he received an owl announcing that he'd be more than welcome to join the staff of Hogwarts School as soon as possible. He finished his last College Junior exams three weeks later, half a half year earlier than his peers, summa cum laude, and started as a teacher for Arithmancy in Hogwarts, for the time being. In his spare time, he tried to shadow the Potters as well as some of his fellow order members, to find out what they were going to do, to find out who the cursed traitor among Dumbledore's men might be. He slept no more than four hours per night, and Tobias lost the last bit of significance he had ever had for his son. He was too unworthy even to be killed.

* * *

_Do ut des…_ This for that.


	46. Regulus' Remorse

Regulus, too, finds he bit off more than he can chew

* * *

**- 2.11. -**

Regulus' Remorse

* * *

_Cave tibi a cane muto et aqua silenti._

_WALTHER – Proverbia Sententiaeque_

_

* * *

_

There was another other young Death Eater who felt thoroughly dissatisfied with the situation he was in. What had he been _thinking_? He couldn't say. Yes, he had been fascinated with the Dark Arts. Yes, he had dreamt of joining the Dark Order and prove himself – prove that he wasn't the little, soft fool that everyone was taking him for. He had wanted to step out of the shadow of his elder brother, be truly respected by his cousins… But the prize had been too high.

It hadn't taken him long to realise that he wasn't cut out to be a killer. He really, really wasn't. He wasn't like Bellatrix – he didn't find any pleasure at all in tormenting helpless victims. He wasn't like his cousin-in-law Lucius either – he couldn't be indifferent, so coldly efficient and single-minded. _He_ winced back every time when he witnessed torture and death; in fact, it got only worse the more often he saw it. Those poor people, Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers or not! When they were begging for mercy – pleaded for their lives – for their loved ones… It was terrible! It gave him nightmares, made him nauseated and sympathetic in a way that he hadn't believed to have in himself.

Regulus Black was underestimated by anyone but his own mother. Nobody had ever seen him for real. He _was_ immensely talented, but also suffered from a sort of stage-fright. He was clever and sly, but with a face like his – good-humoured, cheerful, harmless – nobody would believe it. For almost twenty years, he had cursed his bad luck, but lately, he had come to appreciate those apparent drawbacks. Nobody kept an eye on you when they thought you were an idiot.

He had found out some things… The Dark Lord was said to be immortal, and he had always wondered if that could be true, and if it was true – how the hell had he brought it about? Well, he thought he had got a clue now. In the extensive College library, he had come across an ancient tome, mentioning in passing what a Horcrux was… And Regulus had counted two and two together when he had heard from Kreacher… Poor, poor Kreacher… And _he_, Regulus, had given him to the Dark Lord like a lamb for slaughter!

He had found the spot that the elf had described, and managed to enter that cave, but after many attempts, he had to give up. This was no task that could be mastered by a single person. He had to give up and return home, racking his brains for two days and nights. Whom could he let into the secret? He had no true friends outside of the Dark Order, and if he had, he wouldn't want to endanger them. The same was true for his parents. Where to find someone he could trust enough, and whose life he could bring in such peril? Kreacher had merely survived because he _was_ a house-elf… But asking him was out of the question. The poor sod had suffered enough.

The Dark Lord… How could he have been so – so _stupid_ to fall for his shit?! To disprove his wretched brother?! Well, maybe Sirius had been right all along, because he _was_ a goddamned idiot! The first Muggle he had killed to show that he was capable of it, the second one he had killed to silence the sceptics, but number three had already been killed merely because he had been too frigging cowardly _not_ to do it! That man – perhaps he had had a family? A wife? A kid? A whole lot of kids? Undoubtedly, he had had a _mother_, and Regulus knew about _mothers_. His own might rage and rumble because of Sirius, still she was totally heartbroken since he had left. How bad would she feel if he was _murdered_?! By some bastard who was just too much of a chicken, like Regulus?! For absolutely _nothing_?!

He had murdered three human beings, and he couldn't forgive himself for it. They had been Muggles, all right, but that didn't make them any less human! And he had slain them, one little incantation and _woosh_, they had dropped dead, like flies in autumn, like dead leaves from a tree –

He wasn't yet twenty, and already he had messed up his entire life. Had ruined it beyond repair – he couldn't make those Muggles alive again. But there was something he _could_ do… He… – But this was too big for him. Everything anyone had ever said about him was totally true. He was a coward, he was weak and foolish, and silly, and an utter and complete failure!

But after a while, he calmed down again, enough anyway to contemplate the mess he was in. Fact number one was: he had reached the end of the line. He couldn't do this any more. Fact number two: this meant _his_ end. He'd be killed like a rabid dog. Fact number three: he alone knew where the Dark Lord had hidden this certain something, which must be so terribly important that he had taken a dozen security measures. Fact number four: apart from all the other atrocities, a child had been sought out to be murdered, and the parents considered to be just collateral damages – and that child was said to have the power of vanquishing the Dark Lord…

And then there was the wide field of guesswork. Firstly – the likeliest cause for the master's alleged immortality was that he had crafted a Horcrux. It was the only thing Regulus had ever heard of that could make someone 'immortal'. Or had Snape, the ingenious potioneer, invented some potion with the same effect? Snape had risen high in the Dark Lord's favour, and very quickly so – could the reason be… No. No, Snape might be the best potion-maker he had ever seen, but it was nigh impossible that he should have invented _such_ a thing, before the age of twenty-two. No…

Secondly – if his life was forfeited anyway, he could just as well use the rest of it for something useful, something _good_. He could help to save that little boy, perhaps… He could help saving the lives of many people. Without the Dark Lord, the others wouldn't dare to act like they did now…

Thirdly, and in this context possibly most important – if that item that Kreacher had helped to hide was so important, it might well be that Horcrux, and if it was that Horcrux, it could be destroyed, and if it was destroyed, the Dark Lord was a mere mortal again and could be killed. He'd be careless, because he'd think nothing could happen to him anyway, he'd be injured, and killed – and for once in his life, Regulus Armando Black would finally have achieved something good.

* * *

_Cave tibi..._ Beware of still waters and silent dogs.


	47. Letters From Old Friends

Severus has started to work as a teacher in Hogwarts

* * *

**- 2.12. -**

Letters From Old Friends

* * *

_Just give me a reason, some kind of sign. I need a miracle to help me this time. I heard what you said and I feel the same, I know in my heart that I'll have to change. How did we get to be this far apart…I want to be with you, have something to share. I want to be here. I'm not there. Even the stars shine brighter tonight – nothing's impossible. I still believe in love at first sight. Nothing's impossible._

_DEPECHE MODE_

_

* * *

_

"I'll expect your treatises on the Malchut Friday at the latest." He looked down in the blank faces of the children, wondering if they had listened to a single word he had said. So far, he didn't get that impression, really. "Two foot. And before any of you thinks he can be smarter than me – if you write less than eight words per line, I'll make it six foot."

He heard a couple of groans and sighs, confirming that at least _now_, they were listening. Or some of them. He squinted at his list, looking for the name of this jackass in the last row. "Please, could you repeat what you are supposed to do, Mr Brent?"

The kid next to the one he had meant, stirred and said in a meagre, but eager voice, "Sir, two foot on the Malchut, each line eight words or more, until Friday, Sir!"

Severus goggled at the weird kid for a second. He saw the matchbox haircut, the unnaturally straight posture, the hollow zeal, and he knew without taking another look that young Brent – the real one – had a Muggle father in the Muggle forces, and how he was the first in his family ever showing traces of magic, and how his Muggle mother never knew what to answer when someone asked her to which school she had sent her son…

"Yes, that's right," Severus gnarled, shooting Mr Brent's neighbour a filthy glance, but this one was too busy staring out of the window to take much notice. "You can go now."

_That_ they had heard, the little buggers. They were out in less than thirty seconds, even the dreamy neighbour of the eager Mr Brent. Severus slouched down in his chair and massaged the bridge of his nose. This had been his fourth performance as a _teacher_ now, and if there was one profession he could safely rule out from his eligible-jobs-list, it must surely be this. He couldn't remember to have _ever_ sucked so big time, at anything. He was no teacher, absolutely not, and he couldn't imagine for the life of his what Professor Sprout had tried to tell him, at his first evening in the staff room, when stating with glowing eyes that teaching was 'the most rewarding profession in the whole wide world!'

He tried to remember if his own classmates had been only half as witless and cumbersome as the lot he saw dawdling through _this_ classroom now. Yeah, all right, they had been. Most people were dunderheads, it was as simple as that. But Arithmancy wasn't mandatory! The students actually _chose_ to have it. Was it too much to ask that they showed a minimum of enthusiasm, or interest, in a subject they had personally selected?!

This was a _fascinating_ subject, and in his very first lesson, he had held a passionate speech on the amazing possibilities of well-conceived Arithmancy, in front of a bunch of supremely disinterested Sixth Years. In his second lesson, he had tried it with a sprinkle of humour here and there. Exactly _one_ student had laughed – and that one was a terrible sycophant – none of the others had even _heard_ him. Yesterday, he had given 'strict' a shot, but nobody appeared to have taken him any seriously. And today? Today he felt as if he had already given up.

"You don't look too happy, Severus," old Sluggy welcomed him with a genial giggle and a pat on the shoulder when he sat down next to him for lunch.

"Is it really that obvious," he snarled.

"Why on earth did _you_ become a teacher, boy? Could have told you that this isn't for you… But if it was your good mother's last wish…"

Severus goggled at him. "Pardon?"

Slughorn's cheeks coloured. "Oh, you know, Dumbledore told me. He said you don't like to talk about it, and I – couldn't hold my tongue, could I…"

"That's all right," Severus croaked, relieved, and shoved a load of potatoes into his mouth. _His mother's last wish?!_ What the hell had Dumbledore been thinking?! And wouldn't it have been better to inform him, Severus, of such things?! Well, he could ask him that tonight! And for something else… For that he'd have to ask him, too.

He had spent the whole last night sitting at his desk in complete darkness. He had gnawed on his quill and deliberated every single word, knowing that he couldn't scratch out anything, to write this one letter that Dumbledore would have to pass on for him. Hopefully. He couldn't have written and _looked_ at it, too great was his fear that the Dark Lord would manage to overcome his defences, see, _read_ Severus' begging for forgiveness, his excuses, his animate gratefulness for Lily's help after his mother's death, and his vow to set things right again. 'When you have seen me do all in my power, and more, to make up to you, I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me at last,' he had scribbled on the parchment, feeling his way in the dark with his fingertips.

At first, he had merely wanted to say thanks for her kindness, for delivering the message. Then he had realised that by then, she must know that the Dark Lord had singled out her son to be murdered, had singled _her_ out to die, too, because of something he, her friend of childhood days, had said. So he had begun his letter by addressing this point. What could he say? What excuses could he possibly make? How was he supposed to reason that his fancy for the Dark Arts, the fact that the Death Eaters had accepted, even respected him in their rows just like he was, how these trivialities had led to her death sentence? He couldn't, but he had tried nevertheless.

"Please, Sir, give this to her," he muttered when pushing the parchment roll into Dumbledore's hand that evening; he looked at his feet in embarrassment. "To Lily."

"What is this, Severus?" the Headmaster asked, his voice honed with suspicion.

"An apology, and thanks."

He still didn't dare to look over, feeling Dumbledore's eyes lingering on him. This one nodded at last and put the parchment away. "I have heard that Regulus Black disappeared. Did your master have your hands in this?"

"I don't know, Sir. Lucius mentioned that Narcissa is quite worried for her cousin, and his parents appear to be out of themselves."

"Does Regulus have a reason to escape from his master?"

Severus shrugged. "No specific reason I had heard of… But – if you'd want me to make a guess, I'd say that Regulus has been given a mission that he couldn't fulfil, and therefore ran away."

"What makes you say so?"

"He… Regulus… He – he doesn't fit in there. I've never understood why he joined in the first place."

Dumbledore sneered. "So what do you fathom why so many young wizards join the Death Eaters after all?"

Severus looked blankly, wondering if the question was meant seriously. "Sir?"

"More concretely – why did _you_ join them, Severus? You see, I _was_ astonished when realising that you were one of Lord Voldemort's men. In my opinion then, you didn't – fit in, you say – there, either."

"I've got to find the place yet where I _fit in_, Headmaster," he said sarcastically and curled his lip.

"Why, I had hoped you might feel at home here in Hogwarts. How was your first week?"

"Disastrous."

Dumbledore grinned. "That's what I imagine, oh yes. It takes a while to settle in – find one's personal style of teaching – accustom to the students…"

"Sir, I am grateful that you gave me this chance to seemingly continue serving the Dark Lord, but if there is one thing for sure – I'm not going to _accustom_ to the students, not in a thousand years."

"Severus, Severus… Not everyone – no, as a matter of fact only very, very few students – can boast such talents as you showed in your youth already. Or Lily Potter. Or Narcissa Malfoy. I am convinced though that you'll come to like the job in the end. Just think of it, Severus – you can teach these young minds, it is in your hands to make them see the true beauty of your subject, you can infect them –"

"With the Morose Measles?" Severus suggested dryly.

Dumbledore raised a disapproving brow. "With the enthusiasm that you had yourself."

The enthusiasm he had had himself, ph! His enthusiasm hadn't been incited by some teacher! The only thing old Horace Slughorn had ever _incited_ in him was a fleeting fondness for butter fudge toffees! _If_ anyone had had some impact on his scholarly fever, that would have been Damocles Belby, Narcissa and Lucius. But neither of _them_ would have born with fools! And _fools_ were these kids that he was supposed to teach! Some might be gifted but didn't give a damn and childishly wasted their natural skills, others might have merited a certain degree of mediocrity if they had strained just a _little_ bit, and most of them were simply, plainly and irredeemably stupid.

That conclusion seemed all the more justified when he sat down to assess the Seventh Years' essays. These students were just two or three years younger than he, but they had less of a clue of Arithmancy than he had had in his second year! Here – Jake Thruston wrote 'so it is fair to claim that the number 12 receives its magical properties mainly because of the zodiac'. Severus had never heard such nonsense! Or Jessica Smythe – 'the importance of the number twelve is derived from it being the product of the first four prime numbers'. One student had multiplied 12 and 93 and got 1111…?! What the – how had these students _ever_ made it to NEWT level?!

He had just scribbled the forth 'D' in a row when he heard a peck on the window. He recognised the majestic eagle owl at once; it was Freia, Narcissa's favourite, carrying a middle-sized package and a letter. The package turned out to be a slender book with an engraved snake-skin cover, entitled 'Rhetoric and Didactic – from Δράκων to Machiavelli'. He smiled and unfolded the letter.

'Dear Savvy,' she wrote in her elegant, even hand. 'The first week in Hogwarts is, as I recall, always the worst. I hope you are doing well nonetheless, and that your marvellous talent isn't entirely wasted after all. Lucius sends you, I may quote, 'the best wishes and thumbscrews for the truculent'. And both of us send you the book, trusting that it might be of some use for you in your new position.

I was very sorry that we didn't get the chance to celebrate your fantastic graduation – I am so proud to call you my friend, Severus, and so is Lucius. I can only hope that we'll have an opportunity to make up for this later, at a better time, all of us together, that you're not going to forget your friends now that you've found yourself this fabulous position. No, seriously – I hope nothing but the best for you. And that you'll seize your first free weekend for a visit to Malfoy Manor.

Our little angel Draco has started to crawl last week, and he is already a true expert on the field. I do practically nothing else but scamper after my sweet darling, and try to prevent him from bumping against the furniture. He has come to be very attached to the cat, but so far, it is an unrequited love, because poor Emma clearly isn't half as keen on him as he is on her. He'll grow on her eventually, I know, because he is just too adorable. You should see (and you will, I put some photos into the book, as you might already have noticed) Lucius looking at his son. He is in awe, and I'm not exaggerating here, sometimes I think he's more awed than even I am.

My dearest, dearest Savvy, I can only imagine that you have more urgent business to attend than reading this letter, so I'll finish for now. Think of us, as we think of you – all the best and all our love – Narcissa '

His lips had twisted into a smile while reading. Yes, he didn't doubt Narcissa's sincerity in her well-wishing, but he also saw how slyly she had woven in all the invocations of their old friendship. She didn't believe in the Dark Lord's immortality, she believed he could be beaten, and she was the only person except Dumbledore and Lily who did have an inkling what Severus truly had had in mind when accepting this job. Would she have told Lucius? Possibly not. Narcissa was a very careful creature, and she knew for a fact that Lucius' capacity for Occlumency was limited. Did she want the Dark Lord gone? Oh yes, certainly. Did she want him gone, without seeing her husband go to Azkaban? _That_ was even more certain.

He opened the book and found the photos. The first one depicted an angelic baby crawling towards the camera with a wild grin on the tiny face. On the second picture, Lucius was playing gee-gees with the child, and Narcissa indeed hadn't exaggerated. Severus had _never_ seen his friend with such an enraptured expression. He smirked fondly; Lucius' worries appeared to have been unfounded after all. For all the picture showed, Lucius made a patent father, and the kid in turn seemed to be exceedingly fond of his dad. The last photo showed the whole little family, but it was clearly a snap shot. Narcissa and Lucius wore magnificent robes, the little boy was clad in an expensive-looking romper suit, everyone was groomed at their best, and in the background there was the leather armchair that could be seen on every painted family portrait of the respective Malfoys since 1645. Someone, perhaps Abraxas, had taken the photo in the break of a painting session, probably, and belying their dignified apparel, Lucius and Narcissa were tussling on the shiny parquet floor, little Draco between them clearly having the time of his life. All three were laughing and gasping.

Severus thought he knew what was going through Narcissa's head, sending him these pictures, and such subtle entreaties. 'Forget us not – think of us, all of us together in better times…' He also believed that she was serious – she wanted him to succeed in protecting Lily, for once because she wasn't wholly indifferent about Lily either, and then because Lucius, like many other Death Eaters, did believe that it might be true that Lily Evans' child could somehow be the means of the Dark Lord's undoing. Both Narcissa and Lucius wanted their freedom back – but they were also aware that without the Dark Lord, Lucius might be in trouble, too.

He had been racking his brains what he could do, for Lily just like for the Malfoys. It seemed impossible that Lucius _and_ Lily came through this unscathed… Dumbledore had asked him the same, at the evening of the alleged 'job interview'. 'Are you truly ready to betray your friends, Severus?'

No, he wasn't. He had answered that knowing Narcissa and Lucius, the latter would be prepared in any case; Lucius had always been more than capable to look after himself, and when the Dark Lord was defeated tomorrow, Lucius would know what to do. Dumbledore hadn't commented on this statement, but he probably thought the same like Severus himself – that this was mainly wishful thinking. Lucius was far too high up in the Death Eater chain of command to go unnoticed in the so far unlikely case that it all came down. So far, he had been careful; Severus wasn't aware that Lucius could directly be connected to anything, simply because his great value for the Dark Lord consisted, among other advantages, in the fact that Lucius Malfoy was irreproachably respectable, a young gentleman from a family of good standing – the best one could have – and everyone was fairly wild to have him as an addition for their dinner parties.

'Forget us not…' He was slightly angry with Narcissa. What did she expect from him, eh? What did she think he could do for her husband? Who _was_ the Dark Lord's right hand after all?! But he also remembered that he had given her his word – their ways would not part, he wouldn't allow it. So what could he _do_?

He returned to mark the papers on his desk, after putting the happy-family photo at his chest of drawers, next to a very old picture of his mother. – Another 'D', a 'T' – actually, there was no letter appropriate for _this_ heap of dragon dung – and when he had already lost his last bits of hope in them, two 'As', at last. He checked his watch, finding that it was already pushing three o'clock in the morning, and conjuring a glass, he poured himself a scotch soda to go to sleep.

There was a knock on the door, making him give a start. "Yes?" he asked suspiciously.

Dumbledore entered with a strange expression. "I'm not waking you up? Good, good… I have delivered your note, Severus –"

He thought his heart would just stop beating, and he forced himself to mouth, "Thanks…"

"And I was asked to deliver the reply as well."

Severus stared at him, feeling utterly torn. The greater half of him wanted to have that reply at once, read it, devour it. Another part of him was scared of the contents though, and his caution warned him that he must _not_ read it by all means, it was too dangerous, it might endanger his entire mission, it –

Dumbledore read his thoughts on the subjects, no Legilimency needed. "I told her that a written answer would not do, Severus. There you go, and good night." He handed him a tiny, folded note, and left with a curt nod.

He didn't dare looking at the piece of paper in his hand. What had Dumbledore meant, what… But the note began to move in his hand, turning warmer, and shooting it a bewildered gaze after all, he saw the parchment unfold itself magically. It was empty – his stomach was curling – and in the next second, he heard her – _Lily's_ – warm, wonderful voice.

"Sev," it began, quavering gently, and his pulse quickened with hearing that name he hadn't heard her say for so long. "I got your letter, and I – I – what do you expect me to say now, Sev? For a start – I am very happy that you seem to have realised at last what you are doing. Honestly, I am very, very happy – grateful – relieved, thinking that we're back on the same side. I wish you all luck, I truly do, you know that. But as for my forgiveness, that you demanded so urgently… I don't know, Sev. There's been so much… I hope we'll have an opportunity to talk, about all this, about the past. Let us see about forgiveness then, all right? I'm not saying this to hurt you, or because I doubted your sincerity. But we've always been honest with each other, were we not, Sev, and to be very honest with you now as well – I have laid my baby down to sleep tonight, knowing he is supposed to die, knowing he is supposed to die because you wanted to distinguish yourself. I _can't_ say I forgive you in this moment and mean it with all my heart. Can you understand that? But I want you to know one thing – if I ever feel differently, I _will_ tell you at once, and I _will_ mean every word of it then. God speed you, Sev, I'll be thinking of you."

The tiny piece of parchment in his hand went up in a single blue flame. He felt his knees going weak and he staggered to grab the desk for support, slowly sinking to the floor. Her voice still ringing in his ears, his fists clenched, he made no effort to keep the tears at bay, tears of relief, tears of movement, tears of hurt, of fear, of disappointment. But most of all, it were tears of hope. He would manage this, he would, and he would earn Lily's forgiveness after all these years. They'd be friends again once all this was over.


	48. Liberation

If anything, Lord Voldemort certainly doesn't leave the scene quietly

* * *

**- 2.13. -**

Liberation

* * *

_All is not lost – the unconquerable will,_

_And study of revenge, immortal hate,_

_And courage never to submit or yield –_

_And what is else not to be overcome._

_That glory never shall his wrath or might_

_Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace_

_With suppliant knee, and deify his power_

_Who, from terror of this arm, so late_

_Doubted his empire – that were low indeed;_

_That were an ignominy and shame beneath_

_This downfall. –_

_JOHN MILTON – Paradise Lost_

_

* * *

_

She jumped up and fell down to her knees beside her husband, who was cringing in pain. He had grabbed his left underarm and collapsed on the floor, his face contorted, gasping for breath, moaning heartbreakingly.

"What is it, Lucius? What –"

He couldn't answer, and for a minute, Narcissa was deadly scared that he was having a heart attack – but the only heart attack she had ever witnessed had looked differently. She comprehended that it was something with his arm, but he wouldn't let go, turning blue in the face with the lack of oxygen. She produced her wand and cast a relaxing charm on him, muttering soothing words and making sure he started to breathe again properly before doing anything else.

She then took a closer look at his arm, rolling up his sleeve and seeing the possible cause for his pain at once. The Dark Mark – god, what _was_ this – it was kind of flashing, from black to red to black again, practically pulsating, as if there was a snake underneath his skin trying to burst out. She knew a couple of healing charms, but she had no idea what could help here, and besides, both her mind and her pulse were racing. What could it mean? This was no calling, definitely – no use calling someone by sending him to the floor in agony –

She screeched on top of her lungs for the servants, sending one of them to fetch Abraxas. She bedded Lucius' head in her lap and stroked his forehead. "My love – _Lucius_ – what – what – is there anything I can do –"

"Burning – tearing – _scourging_ –"

"Breathe, hon, you must breathe!"

She was panicking – they couldn't call for a Healer; this was the Dark Mark after all! Or they'd send for a Healer and Obliviate him afterwards, or… Abraxas stormed in, for the first time in his life looking as if he truly cared for his son. As soon as spotting the origin of this one's pain however, he put on his familiar sneer.

"There you go! That's what you get for meddling with this bastard!"

"Please, Father, not _now_!" Narcissa cried, shooting him an imploring look. "What can we _do_? He needs help!"

"He needs a sound thrashing, as soon as _this_ is over!"

"Father! If you don't want to help your own son, do it for my sake, at least! For Draco! I really, really need your support now, he –"

"Lucius!" From downstairs, a familiar voice was crying, and Narcissa shouted back, "In the Golden Parlour, Savvy! Quick! You've got to –"

She was so agitated, she didn't even wonder what Severus was doing here, or why he would yell all through the house. Important was that he was here. The kid – he'd always remain a kid for her, even after graduating from college – knew his way with all sorts of Healing Charms, potions and other medicine. There might have been a time when she was his superior, but nowadays, he was one of the greatest wizards that she knew, particularly when one regarded his youthfulness.

He came sprinting into the room, his face ashen and – sooty? – and taking in the situation with one glance, he whipped out his wand, waved it and muttered something under his breath. Lucius instantly slackened, his spasms loosened, his face relaxed. Severus knelt down next to his friends and Abraxas, uttering in a hollow voice, "Make haste, Lucius! He's gone. Dead. I've seen it. He's – just _gone_."

"What?!" Narcissa gaped at him, incredulous.

"You'll see – later. The Dark Lord is vanquished, that's all you need to know for now. Go and turn yourself in, Lucius. There'll be investigations, heads will roll – go and turn yourself in _now_ in the very moment when he's gone, so you can claim he had Imperiused you. It'll make your testimony more credible when you go at once! If all goes downhill still, say my name."

"What?" Lucius croaked.

"Say that you believe I was the first one Imperiusing you." Narcissa opened her mouth for a reply, but he shook his head and went on, "It's all right, Cissa. It's going to be all right. I know what I'm doing."

It didn't happen too often, but in these minutes, even Abraxas was pretty speechless. Narcissa's main sentiment was nervous anxiety – Severus was right, time was of the essence, though she was terrified by the idea of Lucius in the hand of some Aurors. She tried to get her head clear. Voldemort was gone – she wanted to assume for now that this was true. Everyone connected to him would be called to account for their doings. Just in how much danger was Lucius? Could he be incriminated? Yes, she decided without hesitating. Knowing these rabid dogs from the Dark Order, they wouldn't falter for a second dragging anyone with them! Even if there were no _innocent_ eye witnesses, his buddies would snitch on him if they could gain anything by it.

"Severus – is it _really_ sure? Are you _dead_ sure that it's true?"

He nodded with a strangely beaten move. They quickly consulted what to do; Severus produced some tiny pills with an antidote for Veritaserum and gave it to Lucius. "Take one in the moment when you enter the Ministry. Keep an eye on your watch, the effect lasts for three hours, no more. Take another if you're not out yet."

She marvelled at him. "You – you're sure they work?"

"Absolutely sure. I developed and tested them myself." She smiled and embraced him quickly, and in utter embarrassment, he murmured, "Please, don't make such a fuss, Cissa."

"You're – you're the best, Savvy! – Lucius, are you all right? – Abraxas – please, be so good and don your most impressive robes. And your Order of Merlin. You'll accompany Lucius – please!"

Abraxas obeyed and vanished to get dressed, and so did Lucius. They were ready in less than five minutes and after one last, fierce embrace, Narcissa let her husband go and swore she'd follow in a few minutes, after fixing Draco, and then they were gone already. She was paralysed with confusion. On the one hand – _he_ was _vanquished_?! This was too good to be true! On the other hand – what if they didn't buy in Lucius' ad lib story? What if – could they imprison him?! What sorts of crime could he possibly be linked to, and what punishment was in store for these?

She gazed at Severus, realising that he was still there. "What are you doing here – shouldn't you go to the Ministry, too? What if –"

"It doesn't matter, Cissa."

She was too distressed to wonder why he looked so strange, and cried, "Of course, you must! These bastards will give you away, and the Ministry –"

"I needn't do that, Cissa…"

"So – so you did it?" she cried, overwhelmed. He'd killed him! Her little Savvy – had managed to kill the mightiest Dark wizard of their time! "Oh, I knew you'd make it!"

"No, Cissa, you've got that wrong. I had nothing to do with it."

That admission didn't stop her from jubilating. "He's gone… He's gone! We're – we're free, Savvy! God! Now if Lucius can go free, this will go down in history as Liberation Day, it'll – how could that happen, anyway? Oh, and I _told_ you guys that he was _not_ immortal!"

He turned away with a weak shrug.

Narcissa followed him. "But what _happened_?"

"I have no idea _how_ it happened. Or perhaps I do, he – he tried to kill the kid, you know, and… and…"

Again, he turned his head away, and very jerkily so; Narcissa got a sudden notion what was bothering him so much. If Voldemort had managed to get to the Potter boy, he must have got past the boy's parents for a start… Little Lily Evans –

"Is she – has something happened to Lily?"

"She is dead, of course," he said bitterly, jerking his head around to scowl at her, looking defiant. "Figure out why she is dead, and _He_ is dead, and only the boy lives, Cissa!"

She didn't know what to say, although she thought she understood. If Lily Potter had – had sacrificed herself for the child, the boy was untouchable. This was Ancient Magic, she had indeed thought of this possibility back then when learning that Voldemort meant to spare the mother but murder the child. But in all truth – she hadn't expected that the most sodding powerful wizard in the world could fall because of such an error. How could someone become so powerful, and forget the most basic magic in between?! "Bless her," she whispered, reaching out for her friend's hand and pressing it briefly. "She's saved us all!"

"Yes… I reckon she's saved everyone but herself…"

His hair covered his face, only his nose stuck out. Narcissa squeezed his hand once more, but now he twitched back.

"What about the boy?"

"He's alive… Dumbledore will take care of him. I… I –" He shuddered and Narcissa was terrified looking into this face, it was like looking at a complete stranger. His face was mask-like, only his eyes looked like brimming over. He held her gaze for a second, then broke away and headed for the door. "I – I think I've got to leave, and so have you, Narcissa. Especially today, a young mother with her baby in her arms will work miracles. Lucius needs you now."

She got up. "Yes! Yes… And you?"

"We'll see… Good bye, Cissa." And he marched out without further ado. She watched after him for a moment, composed herself and went over to Draco's room. He was sound asleep; she stood in front of his cot and looked at him. A silky strand was curling in the middle of his forehead; one of his chubby fists before his tiny nose, the epitome of peacefulness and innocence… Had Lily Evans truly given her life for her son? Possibly. Yes. Every mother would do the same if she got the chance. Narcissa would have given her life at once if that meant that she could save Draco's.

She summoned a white romper suit and carefully lifted the child out of the cot, trying not to wake him up while changing his clothes. She wrapped him up in a woollen blanket, pressed him to her chest and left for the Ministry, too. She made a little detour though, Apparating to the house of the Goyle family. She had to ring three times before Norma Goyle would finally open, shaky and pale. Graham had sustained the same fit like Lucius – Merlin, Narcissa should have asked Savvy what he had done to stop Lucius' pain. She swiftly related to Norma what she had heard, and urged her to find some soothing potion and to take Graham to the Ministry, too.

Her next way lead her to Magna Timor, Rodolphus' and Bella's house. Bella had managed to master the searing pain in their wrists already, but was a nervous wreck otherwise. Narcissa didn't have the time to fuss; she produced her wand and aimed it at her sister's back. "_Imperio!_ – Goodness! Now, Rodolphus, get your act together and turn yourself in, all three of you. He – _he_ – is gone. I can't explain it now, all right? Just go, before Bella manages to throw off the curse. I've got to see after Lucius."

Not fifteen minutes later, she had found Abraxas, sitting and waiting in one of the Ministry's long corridors. Lucius was interviewed by some exhausted Auror doing the night shift; Narcissa and his father adjusted their own testimonies, just in case. Suddenly, two Ministry wizards jogged along the corridor, shooting them some perplexed glances and crying in passing, "It's over! The war's over!"

They were followed by others; in less than half an hour, the entire Ministry staff appeared to have shown up, exhilarated with the happy news. Someone came over to them, an elderly gentleman in purple robes, who had forgotten to take off his night cap. "How can I help you on this joyous day, Ma'am?"

Narcissa had adapted an expression of anxiety mixed with happiness. "My husband – but your colleague is already helping him, I guess – he's had some sort of shock – my father-in-law and I figured he might have been under the influence of an Imperius Curse, so when he awoke, we thought it safest to bring him here… But is it true? Is it really over? We have nothing to fear?"

The old wizard gave her a radiant smile, "Yes, little lady, there is nothing more to fear! But tell me – you're one of Cygnus Black's daughters, aren't you?"

She feigned modest surprise. "You know my father?"

"Indeed I do! Which one are you? I always mixed up the names of you three… Narcissa, right? I am Mr Withers, perhaps you'll remember me?"

No, she hadn't got a clue, but that didn't matter. "Mr Withers! Of course! Now that you – please, Sir – would you be so kind and look after my husband?" She rocked the sleeping baby in her arms, bringing him to the attention of the old wizard. "We were so – so shocked! I'd like to make sure he is all right, you see…"

"Of course, my dear! Cygnus' daughter, look at that… Come, we'll have a look together. He'll be pleased to know that his wife and – son or daughter?"

"Son, Mr Withers, Sir. This is our little Draco!" She presented him the child with a proud smile; knowing how irresistible he was, and counting on it. He looked like a cherub.

"Lovely! Just like his mother! Just come with me, dear, we'll sort out whatever it is with your husband in no time at all. The paperwork can be finished later. The little one here needs his cradle – and you ought to return home and celebrate!"


	49. Spinner's End

As far as Severus is concerned, it's all over

* * *

**- 2.14. -**

Spinner's End

* * *

_In darkness let me dwell, _

_The ground shall Sorrow be; _

_The roof Despair to bar _

_All cheerful light from me, _

_The walls of marble black _

_That moisten'd still shall weep; _

_My music hellish jarring sounds _

_To banish friendly sleep. _

_Thus wedded to my woes _

_And bedded to my tomb, _

_O let me living die, _

_Till death do come._

_STING_

_

* * *

_

As soon as he had left the Apparition-proof boundaries of Malfoy Manor, he stopped and Disapparated to his parents' house. If his father was going to be at home, Severus would simply stun him, he thought – but luckily, Tobias was out – in the pub, probably. To prevent him from returning home prematurely, his son blocked both doors, and sat down in the narrow living room next. He glanced at a half-empty bottle of gin on the sideboard, but for some reason, he didn't feel like taking a drink. He hadn't felt the urge to stay sober in – well, years, really.

He got up again and looked for paper and a pen, settled down again, but couldn't endure to stay seated for more than half a minute. He went to the kitchen and fetched a glass of water, putting it on the living room table next to the paper, fumbled with his robes and produced a little flask. He shot the flask a long, longing glance, but put it down, too, and finally sat down. The first letter he wanted to write was easy. Just a short note really, in which he confessed to have joined the Dark Lord straight after leaving Hogwarts, how he had put Lucius Malfoy under the Imperius Curse, and controlled him ever since, until lately the Dark Lord had taken over. He claimed to have been the Dark Lord's most devoted follower, and that his life wasn't going to make any sense with this one gone. Blah blah.

He re-read he letter and smirked. 'This is going to cover _your_ arse, Lucius,' he thought with grim satisfaction. His own life was worthless anyway, but Lucius had everything before him still, a great wife and an enchanting child. And even if he had been an idiot – Cissa and their boy mustn't be the ones to pay for Lucius' idiocy.

The second letter was much more difficult. He wanted to write to Dumbledore what had happened this night – he ought to know – the whole _world_ ought to know how admirably Lily had died, how she had sacrificed herself to save her child, and how this had killed the Dark Lord himself. Statues of her ought to be chiselled and songs written bearing her name and her story, and he, Severus, was the only one who could tell it.

He shot the gin a greedy glance. As soon as setting the pen on the paper and allowing himself to remember what had happened, his insides were churning up, his skull felt like bursting, his stomach revolted, and he could impossibly hold the pen still. Just one sip of gin might calm him – might give him the strength to remember and write it down – just a little one…

He shook himself and hit his head against the tabletop with all his might. No. He wouldn't drink this – he wouldn't allow himself to alleviate this pain just the tiniest bit – he deserved this pain – every last ounce of it. And he wasn't going to suffer much more of it anyway, so he really, _really_ ought to feel every bit of misery and despair now, when he still could. He wrote down the first two sentences – how he had seen two figures, the Dark Lord and Black, approach the house in Godric's Hollow… This was as far as he would get. He heard Lily's voice in his head, screaming, begging, her despair and fear were booming in his skull, echoing, 'not Harry'…

He scarcely managed to get to the kitchen before he started to vomit. She was dead. The Dark Lord had murdered her – just like that. Like an irksome fly… _He_ had killed her, _he_, Severus! He was to blame! He was the one that had reduced her to be that fly in the Dark Lord's way, not mattering herself, just an obstacle between the man and his prey… She could have lived. She could have. But she had refused to let her baby son be killed. Of course she had. Every mother would have done the same. She needn't have died, still! If only – if only –

'Not Harry – have _mercy_!'

He vomited again, and with the nausea and the gagging reflex, another dam inside him broke, too. Spitting and gasping for breath, a deep, hollow sob battled its way up – tears streamed down his face – he could hardly breathe – he could just stop fighting and suffocate right here and now – but this was wrong, he _must_ tell what had happened first – must report how great, how brave, how selfless she had been – he mustn't die before paying her this one last service.

He must rally himself and do this for her, she must not have died unnoticed, just another collateral victim, _she_ had vanquished the Dark Lord, _Lily Evans_ was a heroine and the world must know and he was the only one who could tell and he must see that the rotten traitor who had lead the Dark Lord to her hiding place that this rotten traitor was hunted down only Severus could still do this for her everyone else was dead and soon so would he must not break down before accomplishing this Dumbledore must know and catch Black and make him pay his death must be as slow and painful as Lily's had been quick and unnecessary he must die like she had how could Potter have trusted this bastard this wasn't the first time he had betrayed one of his best friends she could be alive still if only Black and Potter and Severus weren't such incredible bastards Potter was dead soon Severus would follow and Dumbledore must track down Black and kill him too he must he must do this for Lily

Everything in his head started spinning – his own thoughts mingled with Lily's voice, her dead body on the floor, her pleas, the impassive curse murdering her, the screaming baby, Lily, Lily – _LILY!_

He didn't know where he was – what – how – why – but what he knew was that Lily was dead – he reared up – but he couldn't – and slowly, he heard a voice, very distant, hardly permeating Lily's screams – he opened his eyes but he was blinded – light – the fire – was this the fire – and faintly he noticed some force working on his jaw – a sharp taste, stronger than the bitter one before – a voice – whiteness – was he already dead – oh God, he had failed her again – he had died before fulfilling his last task –

"Severus? Can you hear me?"

The whiteness dissolved into clearer pictures – a white beard – white hair – silvery robes – _Dumbledore_…

"Severus!" Dumbledore waved the flask with the poison before Severus' eyes. "Did you take this! Answer to me!"

"Must – Lily – dead – tell you how –"

"Did you drink this?"

"_No_ – mustn't die before –"

"Oh, thank goodness…" Dumbledore stooped and propped Severus up against the kitchen sink. "The boy is well, by the way. Hagrid looks after him."

Severus could only goggle at him; his mind was blank. "The _boy_…?"

"The _boy_, Severus! _Lily's son!_"

"Lily!" The name hurt him as if Dumbledore had just pushed a dagger into his side. "She – she's dead! I couldn't – I tried – too late – murdered her – just like that – he just _killed_ her!"

"I know… But what happened? How –"

Severus would have told him, but he could merely stammer, and the more he tried, the worse his state became. Dumbledore gave up for the time being and took him back to Hogwarts for a start. In the Headmaster's Office, he used his wand to extract that most painful memory from Severus, saving him from having to re-tell it all. He poured the memory into a stone basin on his desk. In another life, Severus would have been curious about this basin, how Dumbledore bent down and pushed his face into the swirling substance, half liquid, half gasen. As it was though, he couldn't think of anything else but Lily – her death – and not only the fact that she had been killed, but _why_ made him nauseous – more than nauseous – it tore him asunder.

After Dumbledore had forced three more potions down his throat and performed a good deal of soothing charms on him, Severus had recovered far enough to be capable of speech, but the old Headmaster had to give in; he saw that no magic could help the man, almost a boy still, before him.

"Black!" Severus growled and clenched his fists. "He must be there still – must get him – kill him –"

"Justice will be done, Severus, but not by you."

"_Justice_," he spat, livid. "_Justice!_ There cannot be _justice_ for _this!_ Neither of us has the right to live!"

"Severus… Calm yourself…"

"_You_ don't know nothing about _justice_," Severus croaked accusingly, his eyes brimming over with anger and despair. "Not _you_! How will you cover it up this time?! That Black has practically murdered her himself? This needn't have happened! If he had been brought to _justice_ when he tried to commit his _first_ murder! She need not have died! She must not have died! She –"

"Let's not forget that it wasn't Sirius Black's machinations alone that led Lord Voldemort to Godric's Hollow tonight, Severus," Dumbledore said calmly. He could just as well have screamed the words, for that's how they were ringing in Severus' ears. He nodded, beaten.

"Yes… Let me die, Dumbledore. You know everything now. Let me go. Let me –"

"I will _not_ let you hide away and lay yourself down to die like a wounded animal, Severus," Dumbledore said sternly. "I will _not_, so stop asking me!"

"You – you _promised_ – you said…" He tried to pull himself together, but hardly succeeded. "I thought – you were going – to keep her – _safe_ –"

"She and James put their faith in the wrong person… Rather like you, Severus. Weren't you hoping that Lord Voldemort would spare her?"

Severus could impossibly answer this, not now. Yes, he had hoped against hope, but he had so desperately tried to make _sure_ – that's why he had come to Dumbledore – that's why he had turned against the mightiest wizard of all times – had given Dumbledore every bit of information he could gather – had spent his nights guarding her house – had lingered around praying to find out who the traitor was among Dumbledore's men… Not for a second though had he suspected _Black_ – he ought to have known it – he _had_ known what Black was capable of – but he had let himself be deceived – had believed in Black's so often declared _friendship_ with Potter… Lily could be alive still if it wasn't for Severus and his _stupidity_…

"Her boy survives…" Severus felt Dumbledore's look, but still, there was nothing more to say. _Of course_ the boy had survived! After all, Lily had sacrificed herself for him! How could Dumbledore not grasp this?! "Her son lives. He has her eyes – precisely her eyes…" Severus closed _his_ eyes, trying to dispel the tormenting memory – Lily's beautiful green eyes, sparkling – _vivid_ – the images blended in with the kid's eyes – the memory took his breath. "You remember the shape and colour of Lily Evans's eyes, I am sure?"

"_Don't!_ Gone! Dead!"

But Dumbledore didn't stop torturing him. "Is this remorse, Severus?"

Was it? Certainly, _remorse_ was not nearly strong enough a word! If only he could trade places – if only it was _his_ body lying on that floor – _he_ was to blame – _he_ was responsible that it had come to this! "I wish – I wish _I_ were dead," he whispered, incapable to voice that speechless horror more eloquently.

"And what use would that be to anyone?"

Severus stared at him. _Use?_ What was the old man babbling there! This wasn't about _use_! It was about _justice_! – But then – Dumbledore had never grasped _that_ concept, had he! _Dumbledore_ was far too _practical_ to bother for such trifles!

Just as casually, the old man continued, "If you loved Lily Evans…" Severus squirmed, but Dumbledore didn't have mercy with his pains. "If you truly loved her, then your way forward is clear."

_What…?_ _Way…?_ There was only _one_ way, and it included a nice glass of arsenic! He didn't have the _right_ to live – no more – not after this night! Oh, if only he had already died back then – if only Lupin had torn him to shreds in that night! Then it wouldn't be _his_ hands stained by Lily's blood tonight! Then Lily's life wouldn't have been wasted tonight in the first place!

Dumbledore didn't draw his eyes away; his gaze was penetrating him, his face expectant, challenging almost. Severus goggled back, perfectly incapable to comprehend. "What – what do you mean?"

"You know how and why she died." Severus trembled, and if he hadn't been sick all over his father's kitchen sink already, he would have vomited now. Dumbledore continued insistently, "Make sure it was not in vain. Help me protect Lily's son."

If this was the old man's idea of an anti-suicide-programme, he was on the completely wrong track! Only because the kid's own _godfather_ was a rotten traitor of everything good and sacred, Severus wouldn't embrace life and take Black's place! "He does not need _protection_! The Dark Lord has gone!"

"The Dark Lord will return, and Harry Potter will be in terrible danger when he does."

It took a while for Severus to process that message. On the one hand – he had _seen_ the Dark Lord's demise. There could be no doubt – he was dead! He had seen it with his own two eyes! But on the other hand – he had believed in the Dark Lord's immortality for too long – he had never fully discarded his doubts about Narcissa's fiery proclamations of the factual _impossibility_ of such a thing. The Dark Lord was – had been – _was?_ Whatever – his powers had been greater than anything Severus had ever heard of. _That_ he had seen with his own eyes, too. Narcissa had _not_. _If_ anyone was capable of overcoming death – it must certainly be the Dark Lord then!

"Very well," he muttered helplessly. "Very well…" Another thought occurred to him, and he added hastily, "But – never – never tell, Dumbledore! This must be between us! _Swear it!_ I cannot bear… Especially – _Potter's son_ – I want your word!"

He looked at him imploringly, willing him to remember the time when he, Severus, had given him _his_ word. He had always stuck to it – had never given anything away – Dumbledore must pay back in coin, right? He couldn't deny him this one wish!

"My word, Severus, that I shall never reveal the best of you…? If you insist…"

"I do," Severus cried with emphasis. "_I do!_ Never – I never – _she_ never knew – and if _she_ didn't – _no one_ must – I couldn't endure the… I…"

"Of course, there _is_ a certain merit in keeping the secret…"

Severus wasn't surprised to see Dumbledore return to his pragmatic ways so quickly, but for once he wasn't scandalised, but relieved, and sighed, "Good."

"Heads will be rolling for a while… I'll vouchsafe for you – and excuse me for reading it, but I did find your – _note_ – incurring all of Mr Malfoy's guilt…"

Good Lord – Lucius! He had forgotten all about him! "Sir – I beg you – let _me_ go to Azkaban instead – I have nothing left to lose!"

"I don't need you in prison, but here, Severus."

"But – _if_ the Dark Lord returns, he'll surely –"

"Why do you want to spare him, Severus? I _know_ what he is – why do you want to spare the right hand of the man who killed Lily Evans?"

"Lucius has nothing to do with _that_!"

"But enough with everything else."

"He's got a wife and a child, too, Dumbledore. Don't – don't make me… I betrayed _one_ friend and destroyed her life – her family… Don't force me to destroy another friend's family, too!"

"Very well, Severus, very well. I don't mean to force you to anything. I rely on your free will – that's enough for me."


	50. The Inbetween Years

For the Malfoys, the years after Lord Voldemort's downfall mean going back to normal

* * *

**- Phineas' Narration -**

The Inbetween Years

* * *

_Truditur dies die novaeque pergunt interire lunae._

_HORAZ – Carmina_

_

* * *

_

So this is how young Severus here came to be a permanent staff member. Two years later, Horace Slughorn retired, and he became both the new Potions Master, and Head of Slytherin House – a noble position – I've had it for more than thirty years myself –

– _Yes, Phineas, we_ know. _Could you please continue now with the aftermath of Lord Voldemort's disappearance?_ –

Indeed. My great-grandson Sirius Black, generally believed to have been the Potter's Secret Keeper, was suspected to have betrayed them, persecuted, captured, charged and sentenced to life-long imprisonment in Azkaban. He was the first – and most publicised – convict after Lord Voldemort's downfall; Bartemius Crouch didn't even bother for something like a real trial, and at the time, nobody found that any odd at all. In fact, there were only four people who had slight doubts in the case, though none of them voiced them either, for various reasons.

Andromeda Tonks was _very_ shocked – and incredulous – that her favourite cousin should have betrayed his best friends, leading to James and Lily Potter's death and personally killing Peter Pettigrew even. But like every other witch and wizard in England, she had no whatsoever doubt in Albus Dumbledore's testimony –

– _Oh, now it's all my fault again, is it?_ –

~ You didn't hear _me_ complaining, do you! ~

Oh, be quiet! _Albus Dumbledore's testimony_, according to which Sirius Black had been the Potters' Secret Keeper. Andromeda hadn't seen much of her cousin in the previous years anyway, so she simply assumed that he must have changed _very_ much for the worse, and left it at that.

My dear child Narcissa was likewise surprised. Unlike Andromeda, she had the most unfavourable opinion of her cousin, still – if there was one thing she had _not_ thought him capable of, it was betrayal of his closest friends. Indeed, she had believed that _loyalty_ was her cousin's only virtue, and the fact that The Idiot and her impossible sister Bellatrix were perfectly ignorant of Sirius' unexpected allegiances only heightened her doubtfulness. In the end though, she, too, saw no reason to mistrust Dumbledore, and thought that once in her life, her aunt Walburga might have been right after all. The wretched boy had had no qualms to leave his family behind – why should he be more fussy about people he wasn't even related to? The good girl was a family person herself – so Sirius' running away at the age of sixteen was absolutely unacceptable from her point of view, no matter how insufferable her aunt and uncle might ever be. After _this_, she thought him capable of betraying anything.

This went along with her wretched husband's, and that disastrous girl Bellatrix' perception of the case. Both had never heard of Sirius Black being a Death Eater – and both of them ought to have known, technically. But Lucius did not really care; like everybody else, he was satisfied with Dumbledore's explanation; from Severus Snape and my sweet great-granddaughter, he had heard enough of Sirius Black to deem him capable of every crime under the sun, and what was most – he had indeed known that the Dark Lord had a spy close to the Potters, but had never disclosed this one's identity. So Lucius simply assumed that Sirius Black was the man.

And Bellatrix? Oh well. _She_ had other things on her mind afflicting her; she truly couldn't bother for her unloved cousin Sirius, even though _she_ knew that Peter Pettigrew, Sirius' supposed victim, had served her master. The only reason why she hadn't gone to prison directly after Lord Voldemort's downfall was that she hadn't been herself; her younger sister had controlled her with an Imperius Curse. Bellatrix herself was out of herself with grief and despondency. She truly worshipped her master, she would have gone to the end of the world for him, and that he should be no more was just too gruesome – unthinkable – for her to deal with. When Narcissa undid the Imperius Curse that got her through the Ministry's interrogations, Bellatrix found herself free, but inconsolable – she didn't need close relatives like Sirius to ponder on.

For my little girl, everything turned out well. The investigations against The Idiot were called off before they had truly begun, and the same was true for most of his closer friends. Graham Goyle, Marlon Crabbe, her sister and this one's husband and brother-in-law – they all went free. Most former Death Eaters did, only twenty-one were captured and sentenced to life-long imprisonment, alongside some minor members of the Dark Order. Both Narcissa and The Idiot carefully observed the proceedings, still anxious that one of the felons would try to make a deal with the Ministry, bargaining their own freedom by snitching.

Nothing of the kind happened. Instead, disaster struck in a very different quarter. Yes, they had been aware that Bellatrix appeared to be the only one still genuinely dismayed when the last investigations were ceased. She refused to believe that the Dark Lord was truly dead, and had actually tried to talk The Idiot – for once _not_ acting like an idiot – into a quest to find the master again – utterly unsuccessfully, of course, and to her youngest sister's incredulous outrage. In the end though, not even Narcissa had believed her sister to be _that_ mad. Fact was that Bellatrix, together with her husband, her brother-in-law Rabastan and some boy fairly fresh to the Dark Order, had assaulted the family of the Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom, Cruciating both of them into insanity. Neither my little girl nor her useless husband could _believe_ it. That she could be so imprudent – foolish – suicidal really – no, they hadn't reckoned with _that_.

My good great-granddaughter couldn't forgive her sister. Not a week after the trial, resulting in four life-long sentences – Barty Crouch had not even spared his own son, the forth culprit – my grandson Cygnus succumbed to a stroke and died. His wife was inconsolable and so was her good daughter, but at least they found some solace in the idea that he had led a very happy life for eighty long years.

Life went back to perfect normality rather soon. My dear girl was happy, happier than ever before. She no longer had to fear for her husband, that he might be injured, captured or – she still hardly dared to think of it – _killed_. Her little family was safe, and she could concentrate on life's pleasantries, only shortly interrupted by her mother's unexpected death some years later.

She saw her little son grow up; she was devotedly solicitous to his education, teaching him basic spells, reading, writing, playing the piano, of course. She taught him French and German, Latin and Gaelic, Arithmancy and Arithmetic, Herbology and Zoology. She introduced him to art and literature, everything in life that was beautiful and elegant. The only matter swiftly unsettling her was when little Draco got his first broom for Christmas. Otherwise, she enjoyed the comfortable homeliness that Malfoy Manor offered to her and never left it if she could help it. She only ever went out to do her silly husband a favour, either to impress some business partners of his, or to get him some amusement. She was aware that the idiotic fool –

~ I think it might be better if _I_ continue, hm? ~

It's _my_ family after all, Snape!

~ And _my_ friends, and I'm not going to replace Lucius' name with constant cusses. ~

– _He's got a point there, Phineas!_ –

~ Yes, I have. Lucius was slightly bored with the routine of his daytime work; for his thirtieth birthday in 1984, Abraxas had fully committed the family fortunes and enterprises to his son's hands. This one wasn't half as grateful as his father thought he ought to be, but alas! It was too late for him to become a Quidditch pro, and that was the only profession that he had ever seriously contemplated. The times in the Dark Order put on the patina of nostalgia in the course of time. Now that it was over, he forgot the risks and fears by and by, only remembering the thrills and kicks. Narcissa let him, she could see no harm in it.

Draco grew up to be his parents' sheer delight. Unsurprisingly, being his parents' son, he was very clever and resourceful. His wit sometimes bordered on cheek, but neither of his parents had it in them to find any fault with _that_, and in any case, Draco knew when and how he had to behave after all. He was capable of great enthusiasm and persistence, he knew how to get what he wanted, and above all, he was an easy-going, cheerful, charming was the sort of father that he had always wanted to be, and if possible, Narcissa loved him even more for it. Yes, they were spoiling their baby, but so what? Whenever Narcissa would raise that question – not meaning it quite earnest – Lucius would answer with a fond smile that she had been spoilt by her own parents, too, 'and just look what a marvellous person you've become!' ~

That's true! My dear great-granddaughter was a marvellous girl!

~ Indeed. In hindsight, I would venture to say that the greatest blunder in little Draco's upbringing was his parents' self-declared aim to be the world's best parents. They meant nothing but well, but Lucius in particular had only a very diffuse idea what constituted the perfect father. Taking his own as a daunting example, he chose to do everything oppositely of what Abraxas would have done, and as a result, treated the boy less like a son and rather like a friend. It's an admirable concept in theory, but it doesn't work. However, these shortcomings didn't show in these early years yet, and if anyone had wanted to write a book about thorough felicity, or the happiest family that could possibly exist – he should have written that book about the Malfoys then. Lucius' worship for his wife couldn't have been greater; Narcissa loved him just as much. And Draco? Draco grew up believing that his parents were The Best, The Coolest, The Most Powerful, Elegant, Intelligent and Overall-Flawless people in the whole wide world. This is a direct quote, you know! He always professed that he'd be like his dad once, oh yes, and he'd marry a witch _exactly_ like his mum, and he'd be a fabulous Quidditch player like his dad, a proficient pianist like his mum, an irresistibly mighty wizard like his dad, fluent in twenty-two languages like his mum, a business-genius like his dad, an universal genius like his mum – and so on, and so on. His parents encouraged him in whatever ambition he boasted that day with a benign smile, patting his shoulders and telling him that he was perfect just the way he was. ~

– _I believe_ this _was one of Narcissa Malfoy's most prominent flaws. She indulged her son far too much. She taught him everything but compassion, and Lucius gave him everything but good principles._ –

~ That's not true, Dumbledore. Yes, she did spoil the boy to the bone, but otherwise she raised him with all the love she grew up with herself. ~

– _But that _love_ never included anyone outside of their family, _that_ is the crux!_ –

~ Oh, could you stop pretending, at least in death?! Show me how many people truly _love_ all mankind. _You_ didn't, either! ~

Could you two stop quibbling?! Anyway – this is how young Snape here became a permanent member of the Hogwarts staff. Disgruntled, reluctant, decidedly unsympathetic to his students – who can blame him, kids are a meddlesome business. So noisy. And untidy. And disobedient. Downright filthy, some of them. And so wilful and self-important –

– _Yes, _thank you_, Phineas. I believe we all know that you're not very fond of children, either. Let us get back to the narration now, please!_ –

* * *

_Truditur__…_ One day supersedes the other and incessantly new moons sink.


	51. Time To Let Go

For Draco it is time to leave for Hogwarts soon

* * *

**- 3.1. -**

Time To Let Go

* * *

_If You Love Someone, Set Them Free._

_STING_

_

* * *

_

Narcissa felt restless and uneasy, and the closer the date came, the worse her mood got. He wasn't ready. No, he wasn't. Eleven years, what did that say, eh? He was so small still – Graham's son, or Marlon's, were much taller! And he was shy – in her opinion, anyway. And most of all – she hadn't taught him everything yet that he ought to know, that a mother ought to teach her son before allowing him out in the big, bad world. One more year, or two, and he could be an awesome pianist – his talent would be wasted in that wretched school, it'd melt away… His Latin and French were okay, but his German and Italian were only rudiments, and his –

"Stop worrying, mon ange," Lucius would say and kiss her, each and every time again. "He's going to be _fine_."

They had had a brief discussion which school Draco was supposed to attend. A _very_ brief one. After all, what were the options? Beauxbatons? Narcissa knew and detested her cousins who had gone there. And the hot climate wouldn't do her petal any good. He had such sensitive skin. Durmstrang? She had seen the glint of enthusiasm in Lucius' eyes when he had suggested it, but she wouldn't have it, and it didn't take much to convince her husband likewise – their beloved, only child – in _that_ awful place? With this complete bastard Karkaroff in charge of his education? Even Dumbledore was better than _that_. All right, so they did teach the Dark Arts, but –

"You didn't learn them in school either, mon amour, and look how far you've come still. _You_ can teach Draco much better than these cretins when the time is right. He's too young for that anyway."

"But you always said how much you've hated Hogwarts, blossom –"

"Indeed, and I would have loathed any other school just as much. Besides, Hogwarts isn't so far away – I don't want to be sending my baby a cake and have it delivered as a rock. And also, Savvy is there – he's still there, isn't he? I mean – he'll stay, yes?"

"Yep. He'll look after your _baby_ all right, Cissa," Lucius snarled with an arch grin. "And I'll have you all to myself… Thinking about it, I cannot wait until the little brat has left for school!"

"Lucius!"

He seized her close and brushed a big, wet kiss on her cheek. "Just kidding, angel, just kidding. Come, you mustn't trouble yourself so much!"

Draco himself was nothing but excited with the prospect of going to Hogwarts soon. He hardly talked of anything else; ignorant of his mother's pains, he made plans, wondered how it would be, and had already decided that his favourite subjects were going to be Potions (like his mum's), and Defence Against the Dark Arts (like his dad's). He had no doubt that he would be a Slytherin, or that was what he professed anyway, because deep down, he felt the nagging fear that by some crazy accident, he could be ending up in Hufflepuff. Would his father disown him if that happened…? He didn't want to go to Ravenclaw, or beware, Gryffindor either, but Hufflepuff was decidedly the worst option. Speaking of making plans – he was also contemplating what he could do in the worst case. He would run away then. Run away and hide, and his mum would be so anxious for his sake that she'd make his dad forgive him for his failure, and then his dad would use his many connections to get his son into Slytherin after all… Yes, he had worked it all out. It was bound to be _great_.

"You know who's going to be in his year?" Lucius asked, after returning from a board meeting of the school governors. He was grinning mischievously.

"Vincent and Gregory."

"Of course. But I'm talking about someone _way_ more interesting."

"I doubt that there are many students _less_ interesting than these two. You know I like Graham a lot, but his son is a dimwit."

"So is the kid's old man, but never mind now. Come on, make a guess, chérie! There's one student this year that _everyone_ is going to take the greatest interest in!"

"You know I don't read those celebrity magazines, honey. Give me a tip!"

He grinned even more. "A tip… That'd be a total give-away… Oh, hang on. I've got a tip for you – the kid I'm talking about is the child of someone that you would have considered a friend during school time!"

In her mind, she went through the short list of 'friends' she had had in Hogwarts. They had rather been Lucius' friends anyhow. Bertie had a daughter, but she was only four or five… Damocles had no children at all. Evan was dead, but had he fathered a child before dying? He hadn't been married though – and what about Gibbon? "Horatio has a child then?"

"None that I know of, and certainly none that's going to Hogwarts this year. You're slightly on the wrong track, sweeting."

"Those were the only people that come remotely close to the term _friend_, darling."

"Serious tip there – I'm talking about a _girl_friend."

She made big eyes. "Sure! Of course! Lily's boy! Good heavens! Sure, he was born in the same summer like Draco… Famous Harry Potter is coming to Hogwarts then? Oh my!"

Lily Evans Potter… She hadn't thought of her, or her son, for quite some time. Claiming that they had been _friends_ in school might be exaggerated, on the other hand, Narcissa had been so reluctant to become acquainted with anyone that someone like Lily could be counted still. Back then, when Lily had died, Narcissa had often thought of her, naturally. _Everyone_ had been wildly interested in the baby's fate then, and in the boy himself. It had remained a mystery how on earth he had survived the attack of Voldemort, but in time, Narcissa had forgotten about it. Voldemort was dead. The war was over. Lucius was in danger no more. And the boy had been taken to some Muggle relatives, far away from the magic world.

"Draco will be thrilled to hear who's going to be his classmate!"

"Even _I_ am thrilled, petal. Just imagine, we're finally going to learn what it is about him!"

"There's no way that he's going to be the next Dark Lord, Lucius. What do you bet?"

"He might be. _He_ thought he was going to be a serious threat for him!"

"But not because he's going to grow up to become a Dark wizard, dear. Just think who his parents were. I wager that he's not even going to Slytherin. He's got a hundred percent Gryffindor genes."

"We'll see! But I'm holding your bet. If you'll win, I'll get you that Vermeer painting that pleased you so much in Amsterdam. If I win, you'll go out with me, full blast. Diagon Alley, Avalon Alley, a dinner, a night at the opera and dancing then."

"Sure, no problem. I'll win anyway."

Draco was as delighted as his parents had imagined. "Harry Potter! _Wow!_ I got to tell Vince and Greg! Blimey!" And he insisted on hearing the tale about The Boy Who Lived again. There was no child in the magic world that didn't know the story by heart, but Draco, like every other child, couldn't get enough of it. Both Lucius and Narcissa suppressed a smirk with the inconsistency in their son's fancy. On the one hand, he did have a notion that his father had _somehow_ been involved with You Know Who. They hadn't actually _told_ him, but the boy wasn't stupid, and he had read between the lines that at least his father held that wizard in some esteem. On the other hand, he just loved the idea that a kid like himself could have the power to defeat the most powerful wizard of all times, and he was dying to meet this hero at last.

"You think he's going to be a Slytherin, Dad?"

Narcissa sniggered. "Oh yes, your father would wager a million galleons on _that_."

"The poor boy… Growing up with Muggles! You think he's ever been doing magic before?"

"Probably, dear."

"I can help him though! I can show him stuff! And I can introduce him to the right folks, like Greg and Vince!"

Narcissa did _not_ voice her opinion on that head and merely smiled. "Certainly, mon trésor. You can be of great help for the boy."

"Must be very bad for him… Having no Mum or Dad…"

"Yes, darling, but he's got his aunt and uncle. I'm positive that they've taken just as good care of him."

Draco put on a wise face. "But they are _Muggles_, Mum!"

"You think the Muggles don't care for their children?"

He tilted his head and contemplated that question very earnestly. "But the Muggles _hate_ us. They want to kill us if they can… And it's not as if Harry Potter was their own child, right?"

Lucius arched a brow and shot his wife a humouring look. "He does have a point there, chérie. I think I remember Lily saying that her sister wasn't very fond of her."

"But then they were children, honey. You think Bella _liked_ me when we were children?"

"And I wouldn't want our son to be raised by her as a grownup either!"

Draco's curiosity was kindled by that mention. He technically knew that his mother had an older sister named Bellatrix, because her name was on the family tree, but that was as far as his knowledge would go. "Why wouldn't you want that, Dad?" he asked hopefully.

"Because I believe that your mother and I are doing a fabulous job with you, junior!"

Draco supposed that his aunt Bellatrix' crime was marrying either a Squib, or a Muggle. His other aunt had got married to a Muggle-_born_, a fact that his father thoroughly disapproved of, still he had got to know that aunt and her family. Consequently, Aunt Bella's mistake must be worse, because his parents refused talking about her, or telling Draco just anything. Not even his dad, who was quite easy-going and frequently intimated little secrets to the boy, would say _anything _about her. His mum did keep a photograph of her sister though; but they didn't look much alike.

School would start in September, but Draco started packing by the end of July. He made the servants bring him the biggest trunk they could find and hurled in everything that was dear to him. His children's broom – the potions kit he had got for his birthday – his collection of trading cards – his marble chess board – four card decks, to make sure – a framed photo of his mum – a painting of both of his parents – one of his father's Quidditch Cups – a gigantic box of his favourite chocolate cookies – all of his favourite books – Emma the cat (that put up vicious resistance against this sign of affection) – his best pyjamas (a stroke of reason hitting him there) – his violin – a French dictionary – his favourite pillow – the Hengist of Woodcroft costume – two jars of quince jelly – he was stopped by his mother when he tried to take down a huge painting that depicted Malfoy Manor.

She inspected the contents of his trunk, chuckling and unpacking at least half of it. "Your dad would dearly miss his Quidditch Cup, darling – and I would dearly miss Emma." She undid the Petrification spell that he had cast on the cat, and this one bristled her fur and hissed at him before sprinting away.

"But we're allowed to bring a cat, Mum!"

"I know. But don't you think that an owl would be more useful? Besides – Emma's home is here. She wouldn't be well elsewhere."

"But you can't play with an owl! Or cuddle!"

"Trust me, darling, you wouldn't want to cuddle with your pet in front of your dorm-mates anyway."

Two days later, Lucius took a day off, Narcissa overcame her dislike, and they went to London altogether, to get the things that Draco would _really_ need. She rejected the Floo Network, so Lucius took Draco while Narcissa would Apparate. She felt highly uncomfortable in London; it was crowded, hot, and so many people on so little room didn't smell good either. To shorten their stay, they had agreed to split up. Draco was supposed to go to Madam Malkin's robes shop, Lucius took the book list and Narcissa used the pleasant coolness of Ollivanders to wait for her husband and son. Merlin, she hated the city!

Out of boredom, she tried out different new wands. There was nothing wrong with her old one, but she felt obliged to pretend interest, since the kind gentleman offered her shelter. She found a very beautiful one, rosewood and unicorn hair, with roses carved into the wood, that worked just as perfectly as her old one. Mr Ollivander was delighted. "A good choice, Madam Malfoy! I still remember your first one!"

In this moment, Draco entered the store, looking pensive, and asked how Harry Potter might look like. It turned out that he had met a strange boy in Madam Malkin's, who was an orphan and knew absolutely nothing about the magic world. "He didn't know what Quidditch is, Mum!"

She could see that he took that ignorance personal, but she couldn't help him either. "I don't know what he looks like, darling. You'll meet him soon enough."

Draco was eager to leave again straightaway and see if they'd come across that strange, dark-haired boy again. From his description, she'd say that he had indeed met the Potter boy – unruly, black hair, glasses, notably green eyes, yes, that sounded as if he could be Lily Evans' and James Potter's little boy. Narcissa insisted nonetheless that they'd stay. Lucius wouldn't know where else to find them, and Draco needed a proper wand. He was keen to get one, too, his old children's wand was worn-out and half-broken.

"Unicorn hair, like your good mother," Mr Ollivander remarked with some satisfaction after finding the right wand. Lucius had joined them by now together with their youngest servant balancing a huge pile of books, and by no means inclined to allow his son chasing after the boy that might or might not have been the famous Harry Potter.

"Pleeeeease, Dad," Draco begged for the twentieth time, if that was enough, and fidgeted around so much that he bumped into the elf carrying the books, who in turn dropped all of them.

Lucius rolled his eyes. "Merlin, give me patience," he groaned, glaring at the elf scrambling the books together again.

"_Please_, Dad, please, please, please, please –"

"Do you want a broom or not," he snarled, unnerved. "You should show a bit consideration for your mum, Draco!"

"We can get a broom and look for Harry Potter afterwards," Draco suggested with an imploring gaze at his mother.

She mischievously smiled at Lucius. "Far be it from be to withhold you, my dears. Please, go ahead if you like, I can go home already!"

"But aren't you curious, Mum?"

"_Raring_, precious. Not as much as your father, perhaps, but that doesn't say much."

"Dad?" Draco made big eyes.

"We will _not_ go on a wild-goose-chase after that kid! Merlin knows if that truly was Harry Potter to begin with!" Lucius shook his head and gave his son one look of the 'One-more-word-and-I'll-be-angry' sort. "I'm beginning to have second thoughts about your broom, son. You're not allowed one in the first year –"

_That_ remark returned Draco's common sense at once.


	52. Slytherin, Thank Salazar!

Draco is coming to Hogwarts, but it doesn't quite turn out as he expected

* * *

**- 3.2. -**

Slytherin, Thank Salazar!

* * *

_In the little world in which children have their existence whosoever brings them up, there is nothing so finely perceived and so finely felt, as injustice. It may be only small injustice that the child can be exposed to; but the child is small, and its world is small, and its rocking-horse stands as many hands high, according to scale, as a big-boned Irish hunter._

_CHARLES DICKENS – Great Expectations_

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* * *

_

The bottom line of it all was that Lucius had to spend three million galleons on some Muggle painting, and Draco was in for the first really bitter disappointment of his whole life, fortunately unwitting how many more would follow in the next years, always from the same source.

Harry Potter was made a Gryffindor, but at that point, Draco already didn't care anymore. How high his hopes had been! _Harry Potter!_ The Boy Who Lived! Pah! It turned out that this boy he had met in Diagon Alley in summer was indeed _The_ famous Harry Potter, but that was as far as Draco's satisfaction would go. Together with Greg and Vince, he went looking for the celebrity in the Hogwarts Express, finding him in an almost empty compartment together with another First Year. Draco needn't guess for long who that other boy was; he was lanky and red-haired, with loads of freckles and sleazy, hand-me-down robes, a mangy rat (how pathetic could a pet be, honestly!) and black soot on his podgy nose. A Weasley, if there ever was one – and there were scores of that lot, mind you!

And Weasley had wreaked the havoc with Potter already as well, he realised soon enough. Draco introduced his friends and himself, making Weasley giggle. That git! Draco retaliated with the same coin by making fun of Weasley, too, before turning back to Potter, his intentions sanguine and his hand outstretched, offering him help and support to meet the right people.

"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself. Thanks."

Draco had never been slapped in all his life – although his grandfather occasionally threatened to do so – but he was sure that a slap must feel _exactly_ like that. Potter ignored the outstretched hand, and Draco bore in mind what his mother always said – 'Magni animi est iniurias despicere' – and replied as coolly as he could, "I'd be careful if I were you, Potter. Unless you're a bit politer, you'll go the same way as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them either. You hang around with riffraff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid and it'll rub off on you."

They had a bit of a brawl next, ending with Greg being bitten by Redhead's pet rat, who was surely rabid as well. Well, what would you expect of a Weasley, right?! They escaped before the beast could bite Draco or Vince too, and bumped into some girl with buckteeth in the corridor, who shot them all a fierce scowl that was worthy of Mrs Crabbe.

Hogwarts as well turned out a little less fantastic than he had imagined. The castle was vast and old, but that was almost the best one could say about it. He was made a Slytherin – thank Merlin, he was glad that he needn't put his reserve plan in action – and moved into his _dorm_. The accounts his parents had given of these _dorms_ had been contradictory. His dad had sworn that he'd have the time of his life, surrounded by his mates. His mum had groaned that she'd rather not think of 'the worst years of my entire _life_, incarcerated underneath the surface of the earth without as much as a window to look out, but with a whole bunch of highly insipid strangers instead.'

Draco realised that the truth was somewhere in the middle. Yes, he'd have liked to have a window all right. This room was indeed rather depressing. On the bright side – he shared the place with Greg and Vince, which was like the prospect of a constant sleep-over at one of his buddy's houses and promised to be lots of fun. There was yet another boy that Draco already knew by sight; his name was Blaise Zabini and his father was dead, but that was as much sympathy as Draco could muster. Zabini, whose dead dad seemed to have been a famous musician sometime before Draco had even been born, was conceited and not very nice, but Draco thought it didn't matter, as long as he had Crabbe and Goyle there as well.

Right after unpacking his trunk, Draco sat down to write home and report with unveiled pride that he had honoured the family tradition and been made a Slytherin. He also mentioned that he had met famous Harry Potter, what an idiot this one was and that he had been sorted accordingly to Gryffindor. He even acknowledged that his attempt to befriend the useless git (for his mum's sake, he had chosen his words more articulate) had failed before it had properly begun, and professed that he couldn't care less.

He had meant to take their family cat Emma to school, but his parents hadn't let him, and he had got an owl instead – Muninn, he had named him – so he could send the letter home immediately. His mum's answer arrived directly in the next morning at breakfast, dear Mum!

'My precious,' she wrote, 'let me begin with congratulating you to have gone to Slytherin. Your father and I are excessively proud of you, and also relieved to know you in such good hands as Professor Snape's. Be a good boy and listen to him by all means – your father just asked me to add that, IF you're disobedient, you want to make sure that you're not found out at least. Oh well, I trust you to know how you must behave, my love.

I'm pleased to hear that you're together with Gregory and Vincent, and if they're snoring too badly, I hope you remember the spell I have shown to you – easy on the wrist, dear – to fade out their noises.

As for Harry Potter – don't aggravate yourself, my love. It's not worth it. You will find better friends. If he is as unbearable as you say, you should consider yourself glad that he has been made a Gryffindor so you see less of him. Your dad wants me to mention how very glad I am because Harry Potter has just got me the wonderful painting we've seen in Amsterdam last June and that the boy owes him already. Be that as it may, I'm very proud that you have given your best to be nice to the boy, even if your efforts were futile in the end. The same is true for your schoolwork. Don't be disappointed if something doesn't work out the way you want straightaway, trust me, it will be fine eventually if you always give your best. I know that for a fact, my precious darling, because I know how clever my son is, and that you can achieve anything you set your heart on. Study diligently for my sake, do not neglect your piano practise and your language exercises – ingenii dotes corporis adde bonis, litteratura omnium virtutum maxima est!

I love you, mon trésor, your father sends his love, too, and so does your grandfather. We think of you a lot, and cross fingers for your first day, may all your wishes come true. – All my love, your mum always –

PS: I miss you very much already, my little prince! '

He bothered for some morsels of her good advise more than for others, and ignored some bits altogether. His piano exercises, for example, were out of question, of course. Theodore Nott had brought his violin case and Blaise Zabini had brought a guitar, and Draco had heard how some older Slytherins had made fun of them for this, so he had well hidden his own violin, alongside all the music. He had also tried to put Theo on his guard, but this one had merely shrugged and claimed that he didn't mind what some other students might think of him or not. What a weirdo!

Neither did he put only half as much effort into his studies as his mother appeared to expect. In his first week, he had realised how simple this stuff was – he already knew all these spells and things – only to notice with slight uneasiness that he hardly knew what his teachers were talking about four weeks later, but since he was beating Vince and Greg in style still, he wasn't too worried.

As for Potter… Everybody was oh-so-delighted with Potter. The Boy Who Lived. Golden Boy. Holy Potter. He was a modern saint, even though Draco couldn't see what was supposed to be so special about him, honestly! _His_ achievements were far from excellent, too, he wasn't exceptionally bright, he wasn't exceptionally talented, the only thing singling him out was that stupid scar on his forehead! But the true affront was to come still.

Because this little fool Potter had been caught in the act – flying on his broomstick though Madam Hooch, their flight instructor, had strictly forbidden them – and Draco had chuckled with heartfelt glee, thinking that Potter would be expelled right in their first week, or severely punished, at least. And what had happened? The usual! Regardless what Potter would do, he always, _always_ got away with it! In this particular case, McGonagall hadn't dressed him down like she ought to, but assigned him to the House Team even and seen to it that he'd get a fabulous new broom! Draco turned green with indignation, envy and anger whenever he thought of it!

First Years weren't _allowed_ to possess a broom and play Quidditch! They were _not allowed_ – this was the only reason why Draco had given in to his mother after all and not taken his own broom to school! _His_ dad was a school governor, and not even _he_ had managed to make an exception of that adamant rule for his son, who was, incidentally, a _brilliant_ flyer and Quidditch player! No, _Draco_ wasn't permitted to do as much as try out for a place on the team – even though he would have deserved it! And _Potter_, who had never mounted a broomstick in his entire life until coming to Hogwarts – who hadn't known what Quidditch _was_ eight weeks ago, for goodness' sake! – _Potter_ was made a Seeker at once, because he was _Harry Potter_, and because everybody was just too happy to comply and make everything possible what The Boy Who Lived wanted!

And all the teachers favoured him blatantly, too! Well, not _all_ of them, because Professor Snape was everything that Draco had anticipated. He knew that his Head of House had been a close friend of his parents in school, and they had remained loosely acquainted after that time still. Professor Snape was a fantastic teacher, and he was the only one treating the Slytherins fairly. The other teachers could never really dispel that look of – well, reserve, perhaps – when dealing with Slytherin students, while warmly embracing complete dunderheads like Neville Longbottom, or Potter, or such terrible swots like that Hermione Granger, who tried to make up for her Muggle parents by memorising every single school book they had!

Or the incident with the dragon! Right! A _dragon_! A whelp, admittedly, but a real dragon nonetheless, and dragons weren't permitted anywhere in the school either, they weren't permitted _anywhere_. Draco's dad was a Law School graduate, no one could fool _him_ about laws! But that big oaf Hagrid had probably never heard of this law, or couldn't read it, or for some other reason, fact was that he had hatched a dragon egg, and Holy Potter was in league with him, as Draco had found out. He had even caught Potter, Longbottom and that Granger girl in the act, and provided the Deputy Headmistress with all necessary information, and what had happened?! Had Potter been sent to Azkaban for dealing with a dragon? Course not! Had he been expelled? No way! He had got _detentions_ – laughable! And guess who else had got detentions, apart from Granger and Longbottom? _Draco_ had! _Ph!_

This injustice was so scandalous, he didn't find the proper words to express his justified outrage. In the end, he had to do detentions with this idiot Hagrid, but what weighed much worse – in the Forbidden Forest! Were these people mad?! These woods weren't called '_Forbidden_ Forest' for no reason! Werewolves were supposed to live there… Draco shuddered. He had a faint memory… But maybe it was only a bad dream, like his parents said. In this memory, he was still very small, and a bunch of huge, howling dogs closed in on him. He could see the drool dripping from their flews – he could see their gleaming yellow eyes – he could still hear the ghastly sounds they had made – and also his dad's voice, loud, imperious, seething with hatred and rage, and the dogs had dropped dead, or vanished in panic.

This unsettling nightmare came back to him when stepping into the Forbidden Forest, but he drew comfort from the fact that he wasn't the only one scared. Next to him, Longbottom was badly quivering, and even Hagrid's large Great Dane was giving little whimpers, which reassured Draco that he was the only of the three of them who still had his wits together. It turned out, not quite unexpectedly, that Longbottom couldn't take a bit of fun, neither did Hagrid, and Draco ended up with Potter instead of Longbottom. This was getting better by the minute, wasn't it.

They were supposed to find some dead unicorn, but Draco didn't quite buy it. This was bound to be some made-up story to scare them and keep them busy all night, because they had broken the school rules. It was a widely known fact that unicorns were such powerful beasts that it was nigh impossible to harm them. In all probability, Hagrid himself had painted the shimmering traces of 'blood' here and there, but Potter in his incomparable naïveté believed every word, of course.

"Look," Potter whispered and held Draco back from going on.

He followed Potter's pointed finger – yuck. _This_ was _disgusting_! The sticky, silvery substance was dripping down on the ground, forming a crusty, glowing puddle; and then he saw where all the blood was coming from. Because it was blood indeed, running out of the gaping wound of a dead unicorn lying there sprawled… Draco tried to suspend the sickness mounting to his throat, and then – his sanity abandoned him completely. Some creature, he couldn't say what it was, even in retrospection, and neither did he care the slightest bit, some _creature_ closed in on the dead unicorn, bowed over the carrion and – his last scrap of common sense kicked in and made him run away, screaming.

Perhaps it should be mentioned that – once again – Potter got out of this tight spot without a bruise. They all did. After a couple of days, Draco began to think that he had only imagined things, that there hadn't been anyone, that the hooded thing he had seen had been nothing but a shadow, that he hadn't heard a slurping sound, but merely the wind rattling the trees… Still, he thought that this fidget of his imagination had got what it'd take to replace that other nightmare of his, or run for a very tight second place at least!

The school year ended like it had begun – in gross injustice. Even though Slytherin _would_ have won the House Cup, fair and square, Dumbledore manipulated the score until his own old house Gryffindor got it. Draco didn't care for the bloody Cup in itself too much, but this was a matter of _principle_! His dad had been right with everything he had ever said about 'the old crackpot'! He had always said that Dumbledore was an idiot, that he lacked the proper wizard pride, that he had lost it the older he got (and he was _very_ old already, even for magic standards!), that he was incredibly naïve and silly, and that he was a coward shrinking away from true greatness and favoured mediocrity and commonness instead. Draco had reserved his judgement on his Headmaster, because his mum claimed that Dumbledore was a magnificent wizard, and because Draco had found him rather funny, but now the matter was settled. His father was right – and Dumbledore was a wanker!

His mother blanched when hearing him profess this newly-gained assurance. In fact, she blanched with a whole lot of things she heard him say after going home for the holidays, because Draco had picked up a huge set of new words in school, and she didn't approve of the majority of them. 'Wanker', 'jerk', 'prick', 'ass hole', 'Mudblood', 'bitch', 'shithead', 'fuck' or 'motherfucker' – all were strictly banned from Malfoy Manor, as far as she was concerned. His dad took things a whole lot easier, but urged his son nevertheless to respect his mum's wishes.

There was a brief disruption of homely felicity when Draco's first record arrived by owl – he had never seen his father throw a similar tantrum before, but even though his mother was usually the one demanding scholarly brilliance, she intervened for his sake and spared him to be grounded for two weeks, like his father had threatened. He calmed down soon enough, disregarding occasional gibes, and even came round to grant Draco's greatest wish. Draco wanted to play for the House Team, like his father and both grandfathers before him, and had bugged Lucius to no end, until this one finally gave in.

"I've had lunch with Luther Flint today, son," he began with a grave expression, and Draco's heart would sink. Luther Flint was the father of Marcus Flint, who was in turn Captain of the Slytherin House Team, and judging his dad's face, prospects must be very bleak. "His son was there, too. You know him?"

Draco nodded weakly, bracing himself for the worst. "Yeah…"

"I volunteered to treat the team to a set of new Nimbus 2000s – needless to say that young Marcus was delighted. Still, we all agreed that it'd be a gross breach of customs to have anyone _buy_ a place on the House Team. It'd be indecent, and also very much imprudent. Can you imagine how the other players would look at you, knowing you were only on the pitch because your father purchased you a place on the team? How they'd tear you to pieces after a lost match?"

"Yeah," Draco moaned, unable to look his dad in the face.

"Second Years hardly _ever_ play anyway, because they're too small still. Usually, they're not even allowed to the try-outs, because it's no use. However – I did praise your talent very warmly, Second Year or not, you _are_ a very good flyer, and in certain positions, your _height_ wouldn't mater much either." Draco's heart made a leap; he plucked up courage and raised his eyes from the floor, seeing his dad grin slyly. "Young Marcus, his father and I also agreed that there's no harm to have you meet up with Marcus and the others next week to see what you can do, and if you're any good, he'll be happy to welcome you for the official try-outs as well."

Draco stormily hugged him, repeating over and over, "Thanks, Dad! You're the best! Thank you! Thank you! You're great! Thanks! Oh, I'll prove them! I'll show them how bloody good I am! You'll be proud of me, Dad! Thank you, thank you so much!"

Lucius chuckled, pushing him away at last. "Yes, yes, now hop along. Thelonius Nott will come for tea, we've got more important matters to discuss than your Quidditch career and I need to get some things sorted still…"

"Can we practise together after that?"

"Sure… Oh, and Draco? Don't tell your mum that I – hm – put in one or two good words for you… She won't be too happy with you flying about and risking your neck."

* * *

_Magni animi..._ It shows greatness to disregard offences.

_Ingenii dotes..._ Add cerebral to the physical gifts of nature, erudition is the highest virtue.


	53. Small But Powerful

Lucius debates the properties of Lord Voldemort's diary in the presence of a servant

* * *

**- 3.3. -**

Small But Powerful

* * *

_What counts is not necessarily the size of the dog in the fight; it's the size of the fight in the dog._

_DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER_

_

* * *

_

Thelonius stirred his drink and gazed out of the window, allowing his gaze to wander across the terrific sight. "Don't you think that the peacocks are a little bit too much, junior?"

"Why? Don't you like them?" Lucius stepped forth and accompanied the much older wizard. He grinned complacently. "Narcissa is very fond of birds, these peacocks I gave her for our seventeenth anniversary last summer, and she takes great delight in them."

"You've given your wife poultry for your anniversary? Why, I hadn't figured what an old romantic you are!"

Lucius gave a little chuckle but no reply. Instead, he returned to sit down in his armchair, legs crossed and leisurely flicking through a little booklet. When Thelonius lost interest in the gardens and looked at him, the younger wizard put the book aside with a pensive expression.

"What do you make of Arthur Weasley's latest attempt to disturb the peace of respectable citizens, Thelonius?"

This one sniggered. "Worried, junior?"

"Worried about Arthur Weasley? Oh please! That pompous little idiot. And don't you call me '_junior_'. That's my father's job."

Thelonius laughed some more, his wrinkled face appearing much younger suddenly. "I'm thirty years your senior, my good boy. You'll always be Abraxas' little lad, if you like it or not. I assume I'm telling you no news that your father is seriously worried that Malfoy Manor could fall subject to a raid, and certain things might be unearthed that you wouldn't want to be unearthed for your good wife's sake, if nothing else."

"Old, smart Abraxas, yes, he pretends to be concerned with his daughter-in-law's well-being, when all he's really after is his own reputation," Lucius snarled, unable to fully dispel the anger out of his tone.

Thelonius replied very earnestly, "You know that's not true, Lucius. Your father dotes on Narcissa, he really does. And he is right after all. Do you want to compromise your family? Narcissa? Your little Draco?"

"I won't _compromise_ them, what are you talking about!"

"Do you seriously mean to make me belief that you have lately discarded your little collection, Lucius? Whatever happened to the Pantalonian Poison that you were so proud of to have acquired? Where is the cursed armour of Aurelion the Atrocious? Did you get a good prize for the Assyrian severance scourge?"

"Oh, give it a rest, old man!" Lucius emptied his drink and put down the glass a little more forcefully than would have been necessary. "Just for your – and my father's, I suspect! – information: yes, I did see to it that nothing could be found here that could be deemed in any way illegal." He made a wide gesture with his arm. "My father in particular should know that this edifice offers more hiding places than the Ministry buffoons could ever take up with."

"Good for you. Now I suspect you must have had yet another reason for inviting me today. Is it because of Abraxas' ailment?"

"Ailment, you call it? He's got the bloody Dragon Pox, but being his bloody stubborn self, he won't hear a word of it! Narcissa has undertaken to spike his tea with some remedy potions, but he'd need a proper Healer taking a closer look. But being him, he won't have it, of course. I've long stopped preaching, he's old enough to know what he's doing, and if he means to kill himself – oh well, I think Narcissa wouldn't bear it too cheerfully, but otherwise he has my full sympathy!"

"So what do you want from _me_ then? Shall _I_ talk him into it? If you believed I could do that, you'd be sorely mistaken, my dear boy."

"Talk him into it, ph! Narcissa usually got him in the palm of her hand, if _she_ can't persuade him, nobody can, and I'm really sick of the whole thing." He shook his head with an expression that signalled finality, reached out for the little booklet once more and handed it over to his visitor. "You know what this is, Thelonius?"

The old wizard narrowed his eyes for a few seconds, before his expression turned into dumbfounded surprise. "Is this… Is this truly what I believe it is?"

"What _do_ you believe then?"

Thelonius sniggered dryly and opened his mouth for a reply, but in that moment, one of the servants pushed open the door and came in with a huge tray full of assorted fruits. "Dobby," his owner drawled snidely, "if you really, _really_ thought _very_ hard about it – do you think you'd be capable of finding out what fundamental principle of a civilised society you keep on breaching _whenever_ you come through this door?"

The elf did a double-take and stared at his master, the huge eyes bulging. He tried to make a bow and nearly lost hold of the laden tray. One of the pineapples on top had begun to sway dangerously. "Master," he wheezed imploringly, "Dobby didn't – couldn't – Dobby –"

"You know what? I think you're going to do this all over again, and while you're _knocking on the door before you enter_ – use your head as the bumper, bloody hell!"

The house-elf squealed miserably and turned on his heels, the fruits on the tray now curiously lopsided. He marched out, closing the door with his foot behind himself. Lucius could only gape at the idiotic little imbecile. Why _on earth_ hadn't he just let the tray right there where it belonged? Instead, he was going to drop it all over the place, it was as certain as midnight was the blackest hour of night. Indeed, in the next moment, there came a hollow knock and next thing, the elf staggered into the room, his bottom first, he struggled with the tray, his left foot caught the leg of one the side tables, and in the next moment, a nice fruit salad had covered the floor, the sofa, the curtains and the guest.

Lucius groaned and hexed the dimwit impatiently. "Please, Thelonius, beg ignore our latest acquisition. For every dish he washes, he breaks another two!"

"Oh, so _this_ is the 'disgrace to its race' that your father mentioned? Your butler's youngest?"

"The very one. Currently breaking him in." He shot a derisive look at the servant who had started to clean up the mess, just now scraping a bowl of smashed cherries off Narcissa's favourite chair. He snarled spitefully, "However, I like to think of him as the elfish pendant of a Hufflepuff."

"Merrily mediocre?"

"Rather systematically substandard!"

Thelonius had taken out his wand to remove the squashed mangoes and pieces of melon that were sprawled all over his chest and lap, but Lucius held him back, ordering the elf to stop messing with the drapery and attend to their guest at once. The elf gave another squeal and hit his head on the windowsill before teetering over with a slightly demented demeanour.

Thelonius handed the booklet he was still holding back to its owner. "You better clean this one yourself, boy. I don't think you want your clumsy servant anywhere around it."

"You think it's true then? The Chamber?"

"I don't know for sure if it's true, Lucius."

"But you did recognise – you –"

The elf had urged Thelonius to take off his overcoat and hurried out with it to have it washed, and once he had closed the door behind himself while bearing in mind his master's last remark 'And don't forget to bounce your head quite prettily for this!', the lanky visitor recommenced in a grave tone, "You shouldn't have this here to begin with, Lucius! I am not the only one who'd know what this is, and damn you if an Auror found _this_ in your house!"

"So it _is_ true. This little piece of Muggle crap does open the Chamber of Secrets. My, I hadn't –"

"All I can tell you is that the Dark Lord was _very_ fond of this little item when I last saw it. One of his roommates who happened to dare and touch it rather coincidentally, landed himself in the Infirmary with a number of severe injuries, but kept on claiming unwaveringly that the last thing he remembered was tripping over his own feet on top of the Astronomy Tower while looking for his lost binoculars."

"And you follow by _that_ that this booklet has any magical properties of its own?"

Thelonius stiffly shook his balding head. "Trust me on this one, Lucius. Whatever it is, this bloody thing _has_ magical properties, and I don't think you want to have it lying around with your son in its vicinity, if nothing else. Where did you get that from, anyhow?"

Lucius grinned rascally. "He gave it to me, then."

"Did he?!"

"I wonder why though… I have turned it upside down, you see? I cannot find _anything_, and I tried pretty much every revelation spell I know. _If_ it is supposed to truly open the Chamber of Secrets, one must possibly use it to break a window!"

"You don't want to try making it work, listen very well! I have seen this thing before; I have seen it work… Don't ask me how, but this darned thing can possess you in a way you wouldn't have thought possible for the range of the sixteen-year-old wizard who created it!"

Lucius smirked and gave a little puff. "He _was_ a genius after all."

"He bloody was, but would I want him back? Certainly not, boy."

"You got out of him what you wanted," Lucius muttered, thinking of the service the Dark Lord had once provided old Thelonius, thus securing his everlasting – or not – commitment to the Dark Lord's crusade.

"And you didn't?"

Lucius sniggered. "I remember that back then, I often complained. But looking back… Every darned day when I sit in that office and I can feel my brain crumpling with the utter insipidity of the business, I think that these times had their share of greatness, too. The rush of the adrenaline – the duels – the sheer power of some of the spell work…"

"You're talking to the wrong man, boy. I certainly never felt any rush of _adrenaline_, but I remember how eager you kids were. You, young Rosier, Yaxley, Bellatrix… Even young Severus –"

The door flew open once more and Dobby raced in, flushed, and waving with the cleaned cloak. "Sir, no stains left, Sir, Dobby –"

"What would it take to knock _some_ sense into your head, cretin?"

"– Snape," Thelonius finished with an irritated glance at the submissive servant who tried to wrap him into his cloak now, getting utterly entangled.

"Snape?" The head of an angelic boy appeared in the open door. "_Professor _Snape? What about him?"

"Get lost and play, Draco," his father groaned. "Frankly, I can't do with you now!"

"You said we'd practise!"

"Yes, but not now. Come on, leave me alone now, all the sooner we can start with your practise. Now make yourself invisible and go!"

"Okay," the boy grumbled and left with a pout that enhanced the impression of a cherub still.

Lucius watched after him with badly veiled fatherly pride. "And shut the door behind you!"

"As I said," Thelonius began anew, "you kids were pretty much in there. It's weird that one of you is now responsible for my son, in a way."

"I think he's the only teacher in that wretched school worth the name!"

"Yes, one cannot help but think that old Dumbles has lost his marbles in the course of time. Some of his staff –"

"Whom are you telling this? I'm a damned _governor_; I have to deal with this nutter on a regular basis!"

Thelonius laughed, all the more when the nervous house-elf slipped in a puddle of crushed ice and hurled a handful of already ill-used strawberries across the room in traipsing.

"Oh, Merlin's beard, Dobby! Are you a blistering ghoul or an elf?! You've got the fine motor skills of a two year old giant!"

"Dobby is sorry, master," the elf wheezed and hit himself with the dustpan over the chin, slipping once more.

"Can we come back once more to the Chamber of Secrets, please?" Lucius smiled and helped his guest to more whiskey. "You were there, back then."

"I know as much as you do, boy. _He_ was the true heir of Slytherin and found out how to open the Chamber of Secrets – _nobody_ knows how exactly."

"But what _is_ Slytherin's monster?"

Thelonius shrugged and sipped his drink. "Could be almost anything, if you'll ask me."

"You really don't know?"

"And I really don't care. It's long over, and I rather forget about the past. When you are as old as me, you might feel the same."

"What if… What if this flimsy piece of paper actually _is_ the key to the –"

"And if it is, _you_ should rather not be connected to the whole affair. Lucius, I implore you, be reasonable! It is well possible that we're looking at the most amazing, invaluable artefact, I grant you that. But ask yourself – is it worth clinging to?"

"I cannot bring myself to just throw it away!"

"Bear in mind what's on the stake, Lucius. If I were you, I'd most certainly put as much distance between myself and this thing as possible."

The house-elf scurried away with a stained curtain, and when he opened the door, the young master of the house practically crashed into the room. He looked like someone caught red-handed and comically contrite. "Dobby," he hissed and glared at the servant. "There is a large pool of crap in the hallway. I just slipped in it!"

"Did you, son?" Lucius smirked and shook his head.

"I am sorry to disturb you, Father," the boy muttered ruefully and hurried to get away. "But we'll still practise later on, right?"

"If you're not out of here – and with _out_ I mean out of the _house_ – in less than thirty seconds, Draco, we're not going to practise any flying manoeuvre for a whole week!"

The boy vanished even quicker than he had appeared, and the two wizards continued their conversation. A plan began to take shape in Lucius' mind… Yes, he _must_ get rid of this item, the sooner, the better. But why throw it away into the next fireplace? Why not make the best of this unique magical object, crafted by the undeniably greatest wizard that Lucius had ever come across, or even heard of.

Only after their practise, Draco had finally plucked up enough courage to ask his father about the things he had overheard in the afternoon. "What is it about Professor Snape, Dad?"

"You filthy little sneak," his father sighed fondly and ruffled Draco's hair. "When I tell you to get lost, you get lost. Hear me, sonny?"

"Oh, come on, Dad, you'd have done the same, wouldn't you? But now that I've heard you anyway –"

"Now what!" Lucius sneered and gave a dry chuckle. "Your Head of House is one hell of a talented wizard, is that what you wanted to hear now? Couldn't you tell so much yourself? Oh, I forgot – my son delights not to pay too much attention to his classes!"

"Dad!"

The boy looked perfectly mortified, making his father laugh for real now. "Don't give me that look, that works with your mum only. And also, you know that I am right. If you don't want to do it for yourself, Draco, think of your mum at least, will you? How do you think she feels when you bring home such a record! She has devoted so much time to your education, and this is how you pay her for it?"

"I'm sorry, Father."

"Don't be sorry, _do_ something about it!"

"Will you tell me about the Chamber of Secrets?"

"You prove me you're earnest and study about the goblin feuds in the Middle Ages, and I might tell you what I can about the Chamber." Lucius winked at him in a roguish fashion. "Your mum will examine you though, so you better give it a real try."

"Deal!" Draco beamed.

"One thing, Draco. This isn't the sort of thing your mother likes to be involved with. You trouble her, and this is going to be the last time I was so open with you."

"Yes, Sir!" He was still beaming, clearly eager to prove his reliability. And he did, in less than three days, he had memorised the entire third volume of Leonard Worple's Historic Anthology. Also, he hadn't mentioned a single thing to Narcissa; he never would have betrayed his father's trust. He knew his parents, and particularly he knew his mother's disposition. He knew the list of subjects that, if raised during conversation, would prompt his mum to arch her brows expressively and make his dad fall silent or change the subject at once. Well, Draco hadn't suspected that the infamous Chamber of Secrets could be such a banished topic, but he didn't come to think about it any further.

More intriguing in this respect was the other person that Lucius seemed to find unfit to know. "Don't you mention _any_ of this to Professor Snape, Draco," he said with great emphasis.

"But why? Didn't you say how much he –"

"Professor Snape is one of the most amazing wizards I ever came to know, Draco. But he is also a member of Dumbledore's staff, and I wouldn't want to force him deciding what's more important to him – his job, or an old friendship. Dumbledore has ways and means to unearth what he wants to know – my regard for Severus is too high to deliberately put him into such a predicament."

"So what are you going to do, Dad?"

"Me?" Lucius sniggered and patted his son's back. "I'm not going to _do_ anything, and mind you, neither will you. _You and I_ are going to lean back and watch the Heir of Slytherin do whatever he thinks best."

"But who _is_ the Heir?"

Draco made his best face, but his father merely laughed some more. "It's better if you don't know, Draco. Dumbledore has his ways of knowing what's going on in other people's heads."

"So _you_ know it, right?"

"Yes, I know. And one day I'm going to tell you as well. But not now."

Draco tried to get some more information out of him, but saw that he wasn't getting anywhere, except for annoying his father, so he gave in after all. He was proud enough as it was. He admired his father beyond measure, and that this one would share one of his secrets with him – a secret that not even Narcissa Malfoy or Professor Snape did know about! – Draco could hardly have felt more elated.


	54. Off Limits

There's one person alive in the world that Lucius does _not_ want to mess with

* * *

**- 3.4. -**

Off Limits

* * *

_Prudentis hominis est nosse mensuram suam._

_HYRONIMUS – Epistulae_

* * *

After Draco had gone to bed, Narcissa poured two glasses of wine and handed one to her husband. "Darling, I cannot help the impression that we're short of a servant."

He sipped his drink, hoping she wouldn't notice his uneasiness. "Are we?"

"I think we are, yes. More precisely – _you_ are. Or have you seen Dobby lately?"

"I'm happy to see as little of him as possible, my dear."

She smiled and strolled over to sit down on his lap, playing with a strand of his hair. He would have been pleased with such a display of affection, but he had the distinct feeling that she was up to something; there was a certain sparkle in her eye, her voice teasing in a fashion that didn't seem to lead to the exchange of caresses. "I have asked the other house-elves, and guess what?"

This wasn't good. The opposite of good, actually. "Hmm?"

"They pressed their hands to their mouths and suppressed crying."

"Did they now?"

"They did in fact, yes. Strange, don't you think?"

"Very, my love."

"So I called for Elsy and asked _her_. She's not the hysterical type. Still, she was very evasive, acting as if she was bound by some secret. Which is strange as well, isn't it? I'm her mistress, she's supposed to keep _my_ secrets, so it is hard for me to imagine what she was up to, unless…" She bowed over and nibbled on his earlobe. Unfortunately, he knew his wife far too well to believe that she'd leave it at that and move on to more delightful issues. Her hands glided up his sides to cup his face, making him look straight into her eyes. "_Unless_ they're all protecting their master's secrets, wouldn't you agree?"

"Would you be very cross with me if I told you that I really, really don't want to discuss this?"

She tightened her grip. "Just tell me that you haven't killed him."

"Cissa –"

She let go and moved away from him. "I know he's a pain in the back, but still, Lucius! You cannot dispose of our servants like that!"

"I have _not_ killed him! I should have though, faithless little bastard that he is!"

"_Is_ – well, that's good." She brushed a kiss on his forehead. "He'll learn. I'm sure he will. All he needs is a little correction here and there, and in time he'll be the perfect servant, like his parents. Give him time, mon amour."

"That one will never be up to any good, honey."

"Where is he, Lucius? Two weeks imprisonment in the dungeons ought to suffice."

"He's not in the dungeons."

"So where is he?"

"I haven't got a clue. I – I set him free."

She laughed out loud. "You did what?"

"I gave him clothes."

"But why did you do that? Oh dear! Ziggy must be _so_ upset! Now I get all the crying, gee!"

"He was absolutely useless, Cissa. He was worse than useless – breaking anything he'd take in his hand. Boy, the little idiot will someday forget his own head! And what's most – he is a traitor, an abominable little cheat!"

She made him tell the whole story, inevitably. She could do that, she was excellent in making him do whatever she wanted, even when he'd have given anything to drop the subject, like now. He gave in bit by bit, only confessing what he ought to, to remain consistent, but she was shrewd. She knew just what questions she had to ask, finally getting to the part which was worst.

"Diary? What diary?"

"I'm not sure… All I know is that it contained instructions to open the Chamber of Secrets."

She laughed incredulously. "Get out of here!"

"No, I'm afraid not. I got it from – _him_ – and you know I had to get rid of it, with all those raids last summer."

"Hang on, hang on. So – are you telling me that the Chamber of Secrets has _truly_ been opened? I thought it was a sham! _You_ said I need not be worried! And – _you_ had your hands in it?"

"It could impossibly be proven to me though!"

She had long got up from his lap to sit on the opposite armchair, but now she was pacing up and down, looking infuriated. There were but two people in the world that Lucius could be scared of, for entirely different reasons, and one of them was dead, hopefully. The other one he loved madly, devotedly, and she scowled at him right now.

"You've got to help me here, Lucius; I don't mean to get you wrong. You brought that – _diary_ – the means to open the Chamber of Secrets – into the very school that your own son is attending?"

"Listen, Cissa –"

"Are you out of your head?"

"Draco was never in any danger!"

"What? What sort of monster is in the Chamber? Tell me now, Lucius!"

"I'm not a hundred percent sure – but listen, Cissa, _listen_ – the monster goes for Mudbloods only, it –"

"You just said that you don't even _know_ for sure what kind of beast it is, and now you think I'll believe that it would make a distinction between Muggle-borns and purebloods? What about that Weasley girl – _she_ is a pureblood, too!"

"The Weasleys are a bunch of blood traitors and –"

"Oh, bite your tongue, Lucius! Not only does the beast distinguish between different bloodlines – it can also sniff out the parents' Weltanschauung?"

"Please, Narcissa, hear me out! I _gave_ the girl the diary! She only got attacked because she was the one who held it in her hands, see –"

She angrily waved her hands, gesticulating that he should stop. Shaking her head, she poured herself a large whiskey and emptied it with one big sip, then shot around to glare at him again. "We'll get back to this, I promise! For now I'd like you to remind me _why on earth_ you did this!"

Well, it _had_ seemed like a sensible idea at that time, but seeing his wife in this moment, he thought that his explanation was beyond lame. He had to try nonetheless, because Narcissa would never abandon the issue. "A catalogue of reasons, really! For one I had to get rid of this cursed book, and then, I wanted to discredit Arthur Weasley, that wretched little man. I wanted him to stop sticking his nose into other people's business – their houses even – you remember how upset you were yourself when they came and raided the Manor! And I wanted to get Dumbledore fired – I wanted the world to see his utter incompetence! You believe in the value of a good education, Cissa! Just imagine what a place Hogwarts could be _without_ the mad old egghead! I meant to see to it that Severus would take his place – you think highly of Severus, too – I had the other governors in my pocket, Cissa, they'd have done anything I demanded!"

"Are you finished? _Those_ were your reasons? You want to know how _this_ summary looks to _me_?" She drank another whiskey. "Addressing number one, getting rid of that book. Have you ever heard of, say, waste yards? Fireplaces? We own hundreds of houses and real estates where you could have hidden that thing, if you truly wanted to keep it for your collection! Number two – Arthur Weasley. _Yes_, he is a pathetic cretin, with you on that one. But what's he to us? Get him fired from the Ministry, and some other moron will simply take his place! And his _daughter_ hasn't done anything at all! It's not her fault that her father is an idiot! Besides – compromising Arthur Weasley could have been easier by implanting something with _him_, don't you think? I got to admit that I completely agree with you on the third point though. Having Severus instead of Dumbledore in charge of our son's education would have been excellent indeed. But if the other governors do anything you want anyway, you could simply have told them to sack him!"

She stopped her pacing right before him, her hands in her sides. "So much for the _reasons_, let's _now_ come to the effects actual or possible! According to the restraint coverage of the Daily Prophet, four students – not counting the Weasley girl – were severely injured, along with a _ghost_, and some cat, apparently. The way I see it, they could just as well have been killed – the last time, a girl _was_ killed, wasn't she? Are you seriously telling me that you meant to put up with some arbitrary children _dying_ in order to have Dumbledore and Arthur Weasley fired? And not only did you endanger some strangers, you brought our son – _our only son_, Lucius! – in mortal peril! And for what, I ask you! For what? And don't you tell me that nothing could be proven to you! Dumbledore's astute, and if Rufus Scrimgeour is assigned to the case – you know how it is! Nowadays, they can find out pretty much anything if they really want to! The Potter boy's suspecting you? Bet all our money that he's run to Dumbledore already! What if they arrest you, Lucius? We've been through this before, and it took all the luck we've got to get out of it unscathed! How can you do that to me? To our boy? How –"

"I won't be arrested, Narcissa, take my word for it."

"No, you won't, because I'd strangle you before they could lead you away! We were so lucky back then, Lucius, _so_ lucky! I don't get it! How could you be so reckless? How could you gamble with our lives like this? Is this how you pay Severus back for all he's done for us then? Dumbledore knows – he _knows_ – who do you think was his first suspect when those things started to happen?"

"Narcissa, please, I – don't be angry with me, I –"

"Angry? I'm not _angry_!" She spat the word, and emptied her forth glass of whiskey with one big swig. "I'm furious! I'm livid with rage, Lucius, if you truly want to know! I've never been remotely as furious with you as I am in this moment! Did you stop for one second and thought of me? Did you think of Draco?"

He didn't know what to say. The way she presented it, he was stumped with his own foolishness, ashamed of his thoughtlessness – he had let her down, hadn't he – he had vowed to always, always put her and Draco first. How could he have been so careless? This night was the first since they had got married where she wouldn't rest in his arms to sleep. She turned her back to him, and when he tried to at least put his arm around her, she pushed it away and made it clear that she was on the verge of sleeping in her own bedroom – which existed in theory, but which she hadn't used a single time in twenty years – if he didn't leave her alone.

After exploding like this, she ceased talking to him. In the next days, he would only hear her voice when she addressed Draco during the meals. She slept on her side of the huge bed, she left the room when he entered – it was dreadful, he suffered like a dog. He made a rather brave attempt to speak to her about this, receiving the cold answer, "You feel lonely, honey? Think how lonely a prison cell is!"

Luckily, Draco was so busy with his Quidditch practise that he hardly noticed his parents' fight. Usually, Narcissa didn't like to see her son flying about, training risky manoeuvres, but right now, she was glad to keep him out of this as good as she could. Her initial fury had quickly dripped away, but she kept her silence nonetheless. She wanted to make a lasting impression on her husband. He needed to _understand_, really understand what was at stake. The war was long over, there was no justification at all for taking risks! And such unnecessary risks, too!

* * *

_Prudentis..._ A wise man knows his limits.


	55. Father Of The Year

Draco had a brush with a hippogriff and who's the one to carry the can? His Head of House, of course

* * *

**- 3.5. -**

Father Of The Year

* * *

_Blanda facit segnes matrum indulgentia natos._

_WALTHER – Proverbia Sententiaeque_

_

* * *

_

Sometimes Severus couldn't believe in his own bad luck. He had just scribbled a note and sent away the Junior Slytherin Prefect to send an owl to Malfoy Manor. To _Malfoy Manor_, for goodness' sake! The heir to the throne had been injured in that idiot Hagrid's first class – if there ever was an incompetent teacher! And Lucius was bound to make a huge deal about this, not to speak of Narcissa's outrage. And who was it who'd have to handle this? Hagrid? No! Dumbledore, who had employed that big oaf in the first place? Absolutely not! He, Severus, would have to face Lucius' wrath! He could only imagine how badly he'd take it to hear that his precious son had been injured – a doting father if there ever were one! He calculated how long it would take until the fuming father of his favourite student arrived – one could only hope that the boy stopped whining in the next four hours.

The injury wasn't even that awful, regarding the fact that the kid had been in a brawl with the razor-sharp talons of a Hippogriff. A deep cut, all right, not actually pleasant, but Madam Pomfrey had assured him that no lasting damage was done. He tried to convince Draco that the whole fuss was way overdone, and he might have been successful, if it hadn't been for Miss Parkinson and Draco's buddies Crabbe and Goyle, who coddled over their friend as if he was on his death bed.

Lucius was quicker than Severus had feared even. That owl must have broken some speed record, because three hours and fifteen minutes later, the man himself rushed into the Infirmary in all his imperial glory, with billowing robes and a fierce expression, looking as if he would smack anyone coming into his way with his cane. Next to him and appearing much calmer marched Narcissa, but one glance at her eyes told him that on the inside, she was just as frantic and ferocious as her husband. Severus braced himself, put on a wry smirk and –

"Narcissa! Luc-"

"I will _sue_ this place! In Merlin's name, Severus! How _could_ this have happened!"

Amazingly enough, Draco changed his whimsical attitude for fake forbearance, but Severus wasn't deceived. "Father," the boy groaned, "I'm fine…"

"No, you're not!"

Narcissa sat down in silence, taking her darling's uninjured hand and pressing it with great animation. "Mon trésor," she whispered. "C'est bien, mon ange, ta maman est là…"

Draco's gaze flickered between his concerned mother and outraged father, settling on Severus at last. This one tried to give the boy a smile, but managed no more than a smirk and a little shrug.

"I'm _still_ waiting for an explanation, Severus!"

He gave that explanation in his study, but Lucius wasn't satisfied, not blaming Severus, of course, but furious with everyone else involved, even his own son – thus proving surprising clairvoyance in Draco's character. He paced up and down, brandishing his cane. "Narcissa is out of herself, Severus!"

"That's what I'd imagine –"

"I cannot afford her displeasure right now!" Severus shot him a curious look, but Lucius went on, "She's just started talking to me again!"

"You two did not speak…?"

Lucius ignored him. "She's concerned enough as it is!"

"Is she?"

"With that bastard Black on the run – what if he turns up on our doorstep?"

In his anger, Lucius didn't notice how tense Severus got with that mention. _Black_ – the traitor, murderer, the literal last nail of Lily's coffin! He forced himself to ask, "You think that could happen?"

"What do I know? He's Cissa's cousin after all! Maybe he thinks she'd help him – deluded idiot. In fairness though – I guess we owe him one…"

Severus blanched. "I beg your pardon?"

"We'd never have got rid off _Him_ if it wasn't for Black, would we…" Lucius made an indifferent gesture; Severus turned away his face, trying to disguise his dismay. Thank God, Lucius was preoccupied with very different matters. "Be that as it may – Dumbledore will _pay_, mark my words! And that backwoodsman! And – do you think I should take Draco down to Saint Mungo's?"

"The cut really isn't that harmful, Lucius. Excuse my liberty, but Draco is simply milking the situation."

"_I_ know, but _you_ tell that Narcissa! Her baby son – good lord. She blanches if he does as much as knocking his knee on the table, you know her! I think she'd appreciate it if some professional Healer looked at the wound…"

"Madam Pomfrey _is_ a professional Healer, Lucius. If you want to placate Narcissa, tell her that you did want to bring Draco to Saint Mungo's, but that I told you not to, so that he could continue his studies in the sickbed, and because the injury isn't so bad to begin with."

"That's good. Yes… Always been the smart one, Savvy! Continue his studies – that's important to her, yes. But that will not stop me from bringing this entire matter to court!"

"By all means, do what's right by you."

"This complete moron teaching classes! Preposterous! What's going on in Dumbledore's _head_, I wonder! Is he pulling a Dippet?"

"He's as shrewd as he ever was, but you know his sympathy for the inferior. Just take a single look at the staff! A Squib as caretaker, a ghost teaching History, that complete lunatic Trelawney… Hagrid is the perfect completion for this cabinet of miscreants."

"I reckon it's my own fault that he's got the job. Without that – _incident_ – Hagrid's criminal record wouldn't have been cleared."

"You had better let that be indeed."

"Join the chorus with Narcissa, Severus! God, she's been _mad_ with me! 'Twasn't my brightest moment, okay, okay, I got that! Why d'you think am I trying to become the Father of the Year, eh, although I'm perfectly aware that Draco's got no one else to blame but himself, possibly?"

"Why are you?"

"Because Cissa reproaches me for being an inconsiderate father, that's why!"

He kept on ranting some more before paying another visit to the Infirmary and returning home with his wife. She was pale and nervous, and it took him some time to persuade her that her little darling was doing all right, that the damages wouldn't last, that Madam Pomfrey took good care of him, and finally that Severus Snape was a great guardian for their child.

"Shouldn't I have stayed there? Doesn't he need his mother right now?"

Lucius had avoided to mention what a whiner his son sometimes was, and he wouldn't have for his life. Narcissa adored the boy – they both did, but Lucius wasn't completely blind like she when it came to Draco's flaws – he'd always remain the little cherub to her that he had been aged three. She became a roaring lioness when someone attacked him, or offended, or even mildly criticised, and knowing this, Lucius kept his opinion about their son, if unfavourable, mostly to himself.

"Trust me, mon ange, he is _fine_. _Your_ inconvenience would be far greater than the possible comfort for _him_, and besides – he might even feel awkward. The other students would take the mickey out of him if his mummy watched over him in school."

"You're right, yes… Poor, poor darling! You've got to do something about this, Lucius! That – that irresponsible fool must not come near an innocent child again! Oh, if you were a governor still!"

* * *

_Blanda facit…_ The mother's spoiling leniency makes a child lazy.


	56. Black Day

He's been waiting for this day for twelve years

* * *

**- 3.6. -**

A Black Day

* * *

_I had him – his throat was bare beneath my hand! No – I had him! His throat was there, now he'll never come again!_

_SWEENEY TODD_

* * *

Where was Black and what exactly was he up to? These questions had preoccupied Severus for the worse part of almost a year now, and the fact that the summer holidays would start soon increased his tension to an almost unbearable level. Because answering the second part of the question was easy enough – Black was after Potter – it simply wasn't clear _how_. Hogwarts supplied a certain amount of protection, but as history had woefully proven, even the old fortress wasn't unbreachable. Keeping the child safe in his aunt's house, or the Weasleys', seemed infinitely more difficult, if not impossible.

Severus didn't trust Dumbledore's assertion that the old magic evoked by Lily's sacrifice would suffice to prevent intrusion in the house of Mr and Mrs Dursley. As far as he could see, that magic would only keep the Dark Lord out, not harm in general. And how should they make sure that the boy would stay _inside_ at all times during summer? They couldn't, it was as simple as that. He didn't listen to anyone's advice anyhow, as that little Hogsmeade stunt had shown all too clearly. The entire wizarding world was racking their brains how to protect the silly child, only Potter himself could not be bothered to listen to reason, or at least Dumbledore if nothing else. No, Potter was his father's natural son, arrogant, wilful, bent on breaking the rules for the sheer sake of it. His teacher had long stopped counting all the reasons why this boy frustrated him so badly, and still – he had sworn to do everything in his power for Lily's child, and he had no intention to go back on his word, cost it what it will.

What comforted him in those nights when he could not sleep for fretting so much, was the hope to be the one catching Black. It was, so to speak, his reward for having to put up with Potter. And God may have mercy with Black's soul, because Severus would not have, should he be the one to catch him.

"Vengeance, Severus? There's no merit in revenge," Dumbledore admonished him one night.

He sneered, not bothering to hide his disdain. "Oh, of course – _you_ want to let him slip from justice once again, Dumbledore, don't you?"

"I don't want to see him dead, that is right."

"Dead?" It took Severus a moment to understand, then he shook his head. "I don't mean to _kill_ the bastard, Headmaster. _I_ want to bring him to face justice, as he ought to have faced twenty-five years ago. I want to catch him and drag him to trial, I want the world to see his wretchedness, his betrayal, and then I want to see him sentenced _properly_ and hurled back into Azkaban, where he'll hopefully live to an old age, and every day and night, every _minute_ the Dementors shall confront him with his monstrous deed." He saw the old wizard blanching and arched a brow. "Death, you know, is not the worst that can happen to a man. In fact, living can be much, _much_ worse. I feel the truth of this in every moment of my life, and Black, who is just as guilty of her death as I am, shall feel it too."

That was, always, the long and the short of it. Every waking moment and in many, many nights as well he was haunted by his guilt. Time had done nothing for him, neither the pain nor the self-hate had lessened one bit. How often had he squinted up to the Astronomy Tower, or along his shelves filled with deadly poisons and contemplated to end it all? But he had given his word and if anything could atone the tiniest bit for what he had done, it must be guarding over the child she had died for. The child that looked so extraordinarily much like his father. The child which he disliked like few others. Surely, there must be a merit in and of itself in the fact that he guarded a boy by which he was so repulsed.

As if he'd needed a steady reminder of every single reason why Severus would loathe Sirius Black, he had to cater to the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Remus bloody Lupin. Sometimes he wondered whether Dumbledore made these decisions only to spite him, really! What an absurdity to employ a _werewolfe_ in a _school_ – and have him teach how to defend oneself against creatures just like himself!

Severus thought that Dumbledore was acting irresponsibly foolish, Wolfsbane Potion or not. Children were curious – not to say nosy – and bound to sniff around where they weren't supposed to be in the first place. And Lupin? Lupin didn't find it necessary to take the potion in time, as if he were blissfully unaware how crucial punctuality was in this respect! Or perhaps it was beneath his dignity to condescend to the dungeons and get it? Did he expect Severus to play his butler? Sulkily, he sat at his desk and watched the clock ticking, his anger growing by the minute until he finally couldn't take it anymore. Dumbledore would berate him if anything went wrong, as if it was _his_ fault, and would find countless excuses for that jerk Lupin instead. It was always the same! Also, going up now delivered him with a chance to give Lupin a piece of his mind, and boy, that was what he was going to do!

Scorn and ridicule, just like reproof, were so much more effective if the one uttering them obliged formal courtesy, so Severus knocked lightly on the door. Since no one answered, he tried again, harder this time, and when still no answer came, he gave in to impulse and hammered against the wood, finally storming in unasked, ready to set the wretched idiot right, but finding the office empty. Had Lupin already withdrawn to the shack? _Without_ taking his potion first? Oh, it'd serve him right to suffer through the transformation without the remeding effects of the Wolfsbane!

He was on the verge of leaving feeling very self-righteous when spotting a rather large piece of parchment on Lupin's desk – a map – written in a handwriting he recognised from the silly prank-card he had found in Potter's pocket which Lupin had confiscated. So this was what it really was? A map? With built-in insults? He took a closer look and was astonished to find little labelled dots scurrying about a very detailed multi-storeyd plan of the castle and grounds. Zachary Bulstrode and Tabitha Kegg huddled together on top of the Astronomy Tower, a bunch of Ravenclaw First Years skulking in the library, Filch and Madam Pince in a corridor, Minerva possibly overseeing the detentions of Marcus Filch, Vincent Crabbe and Ariel Saunders. And there – indeed – was the name of Remus Lupin hurrying along the secret passage towards the Shrieking Shack and a single second glance sufficed to show two other names that set Severus in instant motion.

He didn't even feel satisfied that he'd been right all along about Black and Lupin being in league; in those tormentingly slow minutes when he sprinted out of the castle and towards the Whomping Willow he could merely think of the oath he had taken and that he was _so_ close of breaking it and the past twelve years would have been for nothing. Black would finish what he had begun all those years ago; he'd kill the child and make it complete, and then – then – then –

He was so out of himself, he barely managed to disable the Whomping Willow without being bludgered and next, his foot caught something and he stumbled, savagely cursing out loud. What the – _oh!_ Potter's darned Invisibility Cloak! Which came in _very_ handy now, so he could overpower Black and Lupin more easily!

In running, he put on the cloak, forcefully dispelling the memories still hunting him when seeing the surroundings that had seen his first brush with death. He only slowed down when he got very close to the shack; what use was an Invisibility Cloak when one made the noise of a stampeding herd of buffalo.

"... But I always managed to forget my guilty feelings every time we sat down to plan our next month's adventure. And I haven't changed... All this year, I have been battling with myself wondering whether I should tell Dumbledore that Sirius was an Animagus. But I didn't do it. Why? Because I was too cowardly. It would have meant that I'd betrayed his trust..."

Severus had crouched towards the entrance, spying inside, the blood pumping through his veins so violently that he was on the verge of hyperventilating. The next piece of talk he caught was – ironically, "... so in a way, Snape's been right about me all along..."

Oh lord, yes! Yes, yes, yes! Severus _had_ been right all along! He knew it, Lupin knew it, only Dumbledore had been determined to shut his eyes from truth!

Meanwhile Black and Lupin occupied themselves recounting their great feat to Potter and his chums of very nearly killing Severus back then – how proud Black still sounded, oh well! No surprises _there!_ At last, Severus couldn't take it any longer; he burst into the room and tore off the Cloak, pointing his wand at Lupin because Black was unarmed anyway. "I've told the Headmaster again and again that you've been helping your old friend Black into the castle, Lupin, and here's the proof. Not even I dreamed you would have the nerve to use this old place as your hideout –"

Lupin interrupted him, "Severus, you're making a mistake! You haven't heard everything, I can explain! Sirius isn't here to kill Harry –"

Barely capable to contain his wrath, Severus spat, "Two more for Azkaban tonight! I shall be interested to see how Dumbledore takes this – he was quite convinced you were harmless, you know, Lupin? A tame werewolf –"

"You fool, is a schoolboy grudge worth putting an innocent man back inside Azkaban?"

Innocent? _Innocent?_ That was it! He'd had it! With one swish of his wand, he took down Lupin, and it had taken all his self-constraint to merely use a binding charm for that. Black wanted to hurl himself at him, only stopping when Severus pointed the tip of his wand at him instead. "Give me a reason! Give me a reason to do it and I swear I will!"

He tried focusing on what he'd told Dumbledore, about death being not the worst of punishments, but truth was that every fibre of his heart strained to pay back in coin, a life for a life, Black's wicked, worthless life for Lily's! That cumbersome girl, Granger, tried speaking up and Severus nearly lost it, screaming at her to bloody shut it and even doing involuntary magic for all his hate and fury. What did they know, these children, trying to intervene on Black's behalf! But Black knew, and while the prospect of being fed to the Dementors clearly scared him, he didn't seem to feel the pain of having betrayed his so-called _best friends_ nearly as acutely as Severus did, which only enraged him the more. Being confronted with his crime for so many years in Azkaban had done nothing for his conscience, clearly!

But talking about the foolish children – when Severus wanted to haul Black and Lupin off, the last he saw was all three children raising their wands and screeching '_Expelliarmus!_', and then he passed out.

All that came afterwards seemed to happen in a haze, for which Severus entirely blamed the concussion he must have received when the children's spells hit him. When he woke up, he was lying underneath the Whomping Willow with an awful headache, and touching his temple, he saw a little blood. That was easily taken care of, or should have been, if only he had been able to find his wand, while he was trying to figure out why on earth he was here, or why he was feeling both elated, and hateful beyond expression. It came back to him with one sudden rush when he heard the cry of the werewolf in the woods beyond – Lupin, Black, Potter, in the Shrieking Shack – Black, he'd been there, he'd had him at the tip of his wand, _Black_, the traitor of all that was good and sacred in this world, at his, Severus' mercy – not that _mercy_ came in somewhere and certainly not Severus'! That'd account for the elation, the fierce hatred pulsing through him – but he also remembered that he had _not_ got him, and that anyhow shattering idea became unsurmountable the more he pondered, which wouldn't have come as much of a surprise, if it hadn't been for a subtle yet fearful sound in the air, a swishing of sorts, combined with a severe drop in temperature. His gaze was irresistibly drawn upwards to the sky and there he saw them – Dementors, dozens, perhaps hundreds, darkening the light of the full moon as they were gliding over the Forbidden Forest, all but aiming for one goal it seemed.

They'd come to finish Black off. He'd escaped but they'd found him all the same.

He recognised that this was no happy thought because it wasn't affected by their presence in any small way, quite the opposite. The Dementors shouldn't have Black. What did he matter to _them_? A small chip in the armour of their professional pride perhaps, but for Severus, this man embodied _everything_. A Dementor's kiss was too good for that monster! Too swift, too painless, too final! No, he was going to suffer, and if it was the last Severus was ever going to accomplish in this life!

Another thought struck him when he was already running over to the fringes of the woods. Where the heck was Potter? If Black had abducted him, he was with him now. If Black had escaped, the boy was bound to have pursued him. Regardless what, Potter was somewhere there, too, and Severus hastened his pace still. A Dementor was not fussy; they took what they could get into their icy clutches. A hundred Dementors however was not to be controlled, by _nothing_; they'd take down Black and then they'd turn to the child – Lily's child – they'd suck the soul of Lily's child right out of him and leave back an empty shell! In the same second when he thought this, he realised two things – the sheer thought of Lily was a happy thought, the happiest he ever had, and the Dementors wouldn't have it. He felt as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over him, shivering even though hot sweat was pouring down his face. The second thought was alarming, too, for different reasons – only now it had registered with him that he was running into a crowd of Dementors without as much as a wand.

What was he supposed to do without a wand, eh? But nevermind now. If there was but the remostest chance that the Dementors let go of the child and if only for one more minute to destroy _him_ instead it was worth it.

They all aimed for the shore of the lake endging deeply into the Forbidden Forest and that was where Severus was heading, too. He could discern two persons down there, one lying on the ground and one slowly falling to his knees, but he also saw something else. An eerie silver light coming from afar but fast, and only seconds before the first Dementor had finished off Black (for it was him lying down, Severus could see it clearly now), a brilliantly shining Patronus charm, a fully-fledged stag, came bursting through the trunks and chased the Dementors away.

A _stag_? Potter's Patronus had been a stag; Severus would never ever forget it, and it had looked almost exactly like _that_ one down there. Almost. For this one was a little more modest. Potter's stag had been a twelve pointer, the one coming to Potter's rescue was smaller, ten, nine points perhaps. Where did that come from now? But it didn't matter either; for the moment being, the boy was safe, even though he'd sunk down as well next to his would-be murderer. Severus had never been one for taking risks, so he slithered down the steep slope until he'd reached the both of them.

"Oh, _there_ you go," he murmured when recognising the wand in Black's hand and picking it up in total revulsion. He conjured a stretcher to which he tied Black, and a second on which he put the unconscious child, driving both back to the castle as quickly as he could even though his sides were aching. Never an athlete, he had been out of the habit of _running _since... Well, he'd never been truly in it. The Demetors however wouldn't be kept at bay by that Patronus charm forever, and Severus wasn't sure how capable he'd be to conjure up a similarly powerful one, too shaken he was, too much power the Dementors had sucked out of him by their sheer presence. Also, he's rather drop dead on the spot than have Potter see it in case he woke up soon, but that was on a different page altogether.

On the way, he came across the other two jackanapes, Granger and Weasley heading into the opposite direction, apparently searching for Potter and stopping dead in their tracks when seeing him with his charge. Well, his deadly scowl might have something to do with the terror in their insolent little visages!

"Looking for something, Miss Granger?" he snarled at the girl supporting Weasley whose leg was taped to a splint. "A crutch maybe?"

"Professor!" she gasped before letting go of Weasley who immediately slumped down wincing in pain. Little Miss Granger hardly noticed, storming at Potter's stretcher instead. "Harry! Oh, Harry! Is he –" She turned around to Severus, wide-eyed. "Is he – was he –"

"He was and he is the most unbearable little brat that the world has ever seen –" Well, actually, he was the rocksolid number two on that list. "– but in case you wonder whether the Dementors got hold of him, they did not, Miss Granger!"

"Oh, thank goodness!"

She gently patted Potter's cheek before remembering her own charge und turning back to Weasley, of whom Severus was already taking care. One more stretcher – who counted, after all!

"Professor, I – we – I can't tell you how very, very, _deeply sorr_-"

"I don't care for your excuses, Miss Granger. Now why don't you for once make yourself useful and run back to the castle and ring the alarm! Call the Headmaster, tell him –"

But for fear, for shock or for quick-wittedness, the girl had already turned on her heels and ran towards the school. Severus followed as quickly as he could, and had almost reached the school when Dumbledore, accompanied by little Miss Know-It-All, Minerva and Madam Pomfrey cam rushing down towards them, the Minister for Magic in panting tow. "Not so fast if you –"

"Withdraw those atrocious beasts at once!" he bellowed at Fudge while the others bent over Potter in horror fearing the worst had happened.

"Harry!"

"He's all right. Werewolves, Demetors, mass-murderers – they all roll off him like water off a duck's back!"

Fudge had arrived, holding his sides and staring at Black in utter shock. "You – you – captured Sirius Black?"

"No, I captured the winner of his look-a-like contest, but I thought that's close enough!" Severus retorted snidely, and only now, his vast exhaustion caught up with him. He was swaying on his feet.

"Thank you, Severus," Dumbledore said under his breath after checking Potter's vital functions.

"What for!" he snapped back.

"You know exactly what for," the old man whispered. "And thank you, too, for bringing Sirius back alive."

"My pleasure, Headmaster, _my pleasure!_"

After delivering the children to the Infirmary, the adults proceeded up to Dumbledore's office, where Fudge intimated with his usual pompousness, "I'll see to it you'll receive an Order for that feat, Snape!"

"Excellent, Sir," Severus answered with a wolf-like grin.

"I had no idea you were so keen on an Order of Merlin, Severus," Dumbledore threw in softly.

"They can stuff that bloody order up their –" He took a deep breath, wanting to calm himself but incapable. "I couldn't care less about some engraved chip of metal, Dumbledore, but what I should have gotten it for! _That_ I care for indeed!"

"Severus –"

He curled his upper lip into his most disdainful smile. "Do you have this odd feeling of déjà vu as well, Headmaster? Here, in this very office... Your dear favourite Sirius Black, your big triumph, the Slytherin kid that you managed to turn around and make him a Gryffindor –"

"Severus!"

"You know very well what I mean, don't you? Oh, no, you couldn't have it, you couldn't have it to be proven wrong, a killer even in his teens, but _you_ didn't want to see it and hushed it all up! But you couldn't have hushed up Li- the Potters' death, you had to give in and see your favourite go to prison! There's another déjà vu for you, Sir. He'll go back, but this time, justice will be done and he'll go with a proper trial as well!"

"I'm afraid you're mistaken in this one point, Snape," Fudge said smugly. "The man is a dangerous lunatic. This time, we'll not take any further chances. _This time_, we'll let the Dementos deal with him straightaway!"

Severus' mouth dropped open; Dumbledore cried, "Cornelius! You can't! You mustn't!"

Speaking of justice, speaking of history repeating itself.


	57. The Dark Mark Returns

Lucius is deeply unsettled by what ought tob e impossible

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**- 3.7. -**

The Dark Mark Returns

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_Quis fallere possit amantem.  
VIRGIL - Aeneis_

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Narcissa was standing in her dressing room, irresolutely rummaging. She had given in to Lucius' urging after all; she was going to meet the Minister for Magic, whom she thought to be a complete moron, but alas! He was the _Minister_, and Lucius set great store on the introduction. What was more – Draco was smitten to watch the Quidditch final in the top box, and Fudge had been more than ready to oblige, asking once more if he'd finally meet Mrs Malfoy, and this one didn't like disappointing either her son or her husband. She would go. And if she fell asleep with boredom.

Muggle clothes were mandatory, and she couldn't quite decide what to wear. She had a selection of Muggle costumes for different occasions, but the things suitable for a Muggle camping lot seemed so very plain… Lucius would want to make an impression on the Minister, wouldn't he? She held up an ice blue suit, with a slim skirt and a high-necked jacket – she wanted to protect herself against the sun as effectively as she could, and she thought that this would do. She chose a blouse, white leather gloves, a hat with a wide brim to shield her face, and for the impressive effect, she put on pearls and the collier with the large sapphire that Lucius had given her for their fifteenth wedding anniversary. He presented her sapphires for all their anniversaries; it was their tradition since he had first put on a ring on her finger.

"What do you think?" She had gone to his study for a second opinion and turned around with a mocking smile.

Lucius wriggled a brow and eyed her legs. Even as a schoolgirl, she had never shown them, always wearing long skirts underneath her uniform. The only times that her own son would ever see her calves was when she was swimming in their pool. And what shapely calves she had!

"If there's one thing to say in favour of the Muggles, it must be that they tailor great clothes!"

"I feel naked."

He got up and walked over to her to seize her close. "Come, petal, let me show you the difference to real nudity!"

One hand on her backside, he opened the top bottom of her jacket and nibbled on her throat. She let him; they had still ample of time. He undressed her with great care, marvelling at her as if he had never seen her body before. When he had got down to her lingerie, he stepped back with a delighted face and she laughed brightly.

"Get down to it, honey!"

"Let's just skip the sodding match and stay in," he growled and played with the strap of her bra.

"That is a _brilliant_ idea as far as I'm concerned!"

He took her hand, kissed it and led her over to his desk. In turn, she unbuttoned his robes and shirt with nimble moves, but before she could finally undo them, he plunged into her already. When they were finished, he carried her over to the sofa and bedded her in his arms, kissing the top of her head.

"I'd _really_ like to stay, you know that?"

"I know, yes. But I also know that Draco would never forgive us, just like I know that this hideous idiot Fudge is waiting for us. Come on, sweeting, let's take a shower."

They went into the bathroom; he was playful as ever, unable to keep his hands off her. Only when she meant to strip down his shirt, he winced back. She opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, but he quickly drew her close and kissed her. He was too good at kissing for her to keep on pondering, but when they were standing under the jet of water and he _still_ wore the shirt, tightly sticking to his body now, the thought inevitably came back to her.

"Chéri, it might be useful to take off _all_ your clothes, now at the latest."

He made a wry face. "Possibly…"

She reached out, but he snatched her wrist and brushed a kiss on her palm. "Shhh…" He looked uncomfortable. "That's not such a good idea, I guess."

"You're kidding me!"

"I – there's something – you mustn't see –"

"What?"

"A pimple, sort of –"

She furrowed her brow. "I am your _wife_, mon amour, if there was a tentacle sprouting on your back, I still wouldn't mind. Not much, anyhow. Come on, show me."

"No. No, I'd rather not, sorry."

"Lucius, I know you for thirty years and I have _never_ seen as much as a blemish on you! It might be something serious, so give me a look! I told you about this hole in the atmosphere, didn't I? Could be a melanoma, or –"

"I promise I see a Healer tomorrow, my love. Don't worry. Just let me keep on my shirt."

She shook her head, snuggled up to him and muttered, "You're crazy, you know that?"

"I'm crazy for you!"

"You're also very corny."

"Your presence befuddles me."

He insisted on watching her when she got dressed again, as slowly as she could, before obediently putting on the Muggle suit she had picked for him, but not in her presence. "The – uh – _thing_," he muttered apologetically and fled behind the folding screen.

"Don't be absurd! I've shown you mine, now show me yours!"

"Just a sec –" She saw him hurl the wet shirt over the screen and sneaked over, but too late. The sly fox had already donned the fresh Muggle shirt. "Help me buttoning up, chérie."

He looked amazing, she found. The suit was anthracite, the shirt was light grey; still she preferred his wizard attire. It was so much more dignified. Lucius looked down himself and tilted his head. "This is ridiculous. We're seeing the Minister for Magic, and I look like a buffoon."

"Since when do you care for the Minister of Magic? Besides, you always said you'd like this piece."

"For taking some Muggles out for dinner in Muggle London, but not for showing myself in public!"

"Trust me, the other people will look much more ridiculous. You know what they wear when Muggle clothes are called for."

"I console myself thinking that no one will look at me anyway, when they can have a look at your legs instead."

"One more word and I'll change my mind!"

"I'd love to see you undress again!"

They were late when they finally arrived at the camping lot, but Narcissa wasn't sorry. Lucius' mates had employed their time by getting as drunk as possible, she swiftly said hello and searched for Draco instead. She found him lounging in the pavilion of the Montagues alongside his friends, who were just as drunk as their fathers. She suppressed all the snide remarks that she had on the tip of her tongue and smiled at her darling instead. "Can I have a word with you, Draco?"

"Of course, Mother!"

He got to his feet, slightly swaying and they stepped aside. "Sweetheart, it's not half past six and you smell as if you had fallen into a whiskey barrel!"

"I'm sorry, Mum, but –"

"It's all right. Just make sure that it doesn't get worse. I don't want to see a picture of you in the Daily Prophet, embarrassing your father in front of the Minister of Magic. Did you use the sun screen ointment I gave to you?"

"Yes, Mum."

"Did you have fun?"

He beamed at her. "Yes, Mum!"

He had been camping with Graham and his son for the past ten days, not wanting to miss a single match – or party, as she suspected. Lucius had checked on him now and then, but knowing her husband, he had not discouraged his son from acting as 'manly' as he liked. "Anything I need to know?"

"No, we've been very good."

"I'm sure you were, darling. I don't mean to detain you, go back to your friends. Your father and I will come back for you before the match starts."

She heard whistles and appreciative howls from the other boys when she left, and her son sniping at them to shut up at once. She didn't look back; they were just hitting puberty, weren't they, they… They were just as old as Draco, weren't they…? Good heavens. Could it be that her little darling was growing up at last? But he was still so young! Last year, he had still taken his Chocolate Frog trading cards collection to school!

"Anything wrong with you, my love?" Lucius asked under his breath when she settled next to him, seeing her thoughtful expression. "Or with Draco?"

She chuckled and winked at him. "No. No, everything's fine. He appears to have the time of his life, pretty much like everybody else." She gazed at Amycus Carrow, who had just stumbled over a barrel and crashed into a side table.

"I'm so sorry for dragging you here. We can leave straight after the match – sooner if you wish."

"Oh no, I will meet this pathetic little man and put an end to his neediness. And you will enjoy yourself with your buddies here. You've got a hard day ahead of you." He looked puzzled, and she added with a frown, "You'll see Healer Flint, Lucius! You've promised!"

"I will, mon amour. Don't agitate yourself."

He shot her a tender glance and poured her a glass of champagne. He knew how she hated all this, and that she was only doing this for him. She didn't care for competitive sports, she despised any such thing as _camping_, and it was no coincidence on her part to never have met the Minister for Magic before. The guys were getting on her nerves as well, boozing, burping and belting out shanties. She sat there in silence, now and then pulling on her skirt to make sure it didn't slip over her knees and trying her best to ignore it all. Poor darling! He shouldn't have brought her here.

She left directly after the match, kissing him goodbye and admonishing Draco to behave. Lucius was glad; she wouldn't enjoy herself, his mates were getting more drunk yet, and so was he. Macnair, Avery, Yaxley, the inevitable Crabs and Goyle, Algernon Rookwood, Amycus Carrow, Gibbon and Rowle, they were all there, each one equipped with a bottle of Ogden's Fire Whiskey, and no one could say in retrospection how it had happened exactly. Fact was that they were singing – a tad too loudly, maybe – and that the odd Muggle camp guard showed up, looking sourly and snapping at them to shut up, or he'd throw them all out at once. They laughed at him, and lazily, Macnair flicked his wand and bewitched the old fool to sport some donkey ears, causing the others to roar out even louder.

But the man didn't even take notice of his new adornment, and snatched the wand from the drunk Macnair, mumbling something about the forbidden use of knives and weapons, and that he'd keep this one as a piece of evidence. He turned on his heels and stormed away, before any of the loaded wizards could have stopped him.

"The jerk's got my wand," Macnair bawled, staggering up to his feet and following the Muggle, and by and by, everyone else went after them, too. Macnair was too drunk to listen to reason, and what should he do anyway, without his wand? The next thing Lucius could have said for sure was that they had blasted open the front door of the shabby shack that would accommodate the camp guy and his family, yelling and threatening him, and his wife and children, who had been woken up by the noise.

Silly man, he didn't know with whom he was meddling; he still refused to return Macnair's wand, and his little daughter started to cry, very loudly and very disturbingly. Rowle silenced her with a spell, and this was the moment in which the whole thing finally got out of control. The camp guy plunged at Rowle and tried to beat him up, screaming that _no one_ should dare to harm his child – the present fathers among the wizards saw his point, somehow, but the others didn't, and in the next minute, the camp guy was dangling in mid-air, alongside his whole family.

Lucius couldn't help it but chuckle, too funny was the sight of their stunned faces, and he shrugged when Yaxley asked uneasily, "And now?"

"Stop making a fuss, Yax. Nothing _now_. The Ministry folks will temper with their memories and that's it then!"

"That's precisely what I'm talking about, Lucius! The _Ministry_! I could lose my license because of this shit!"

Macnair, Avery and Rowle in the meantime saw to drive the floating Muggles further on, Lucius rolled his eyes, both with their imprudence and Yaxley's whimpering; hissed that they'd all simply Disapparate in case the Ministry showed up, and put on their hoods. It felt like in the old times, only better, on a second thought. This was _fun_, no labour, no service like it had used to be. Lucius hardly cared for the somersaulting Muggles, instead he was greatly amused blasting tents out of their way; their group was joined by more and more wizards, and they had begun to sing again.

Faintly, he thought of Draco – his son couldn't be in one of those tents, could he? But Draco was clever, he'd have got away soon enough, his father was sure – and proud. They strolled along quite aimlessly, having the time of their life, mostly because of the frantic reaction of the _other_ campers, who were a dreary sort of people, lamenting and wailing, clutching their wretched possessions and running off like panicking chicken.

Well, not five minutes later, their own bunch ran off in horror, too, but _they_ had ample reason! Without a warning, the Dark Mark had risen up in the air, and Lucius cast a startled look around to see who of his companions could be so incredibly stupid to conjure it. To have a bit of a joke with some Muggles was one thing – not even illegal under certain circumstances – but conjuring the _Dark Mark_, the symbol of the _Dark Lord_! To his utmost terror, he realised that it had been none of _them_, no stray joker with a sick sense of humour, and he Disapparated at once, shocked beyond expression.

He emerged before the Manor, and there he realised his most crucial mistake – he could impossibly return to his wife without their son! Damn it! He cursed under his breath, conjured a mirror and restored his robes, vanished his hood and rearranged his neat hairdo. A swift test proved him that he terribly stank of liquor, unsurprisingly, and he took care of _this_, too, before Apparating back to the campsite, giving the show of his life as a concerned father searching for his son in the place of a crime. And he wasn't just putting up an act here – how should he forgive himself if something had happened to Draco? Narcissa would _kill_ him for this, and rightly so!

He came across Fudge again, who was predictably dishevelled and disorientated, and Ludo Bagman, who was looking strangely relieved, but at least capable to inform him that he had spotted the young Mr Malfoy on the edge of the forest. Lucius had been very shocked by the sight of the Dark Mark, and the horrible pictures that popped into his head, of all the things that might have harmed his son, made him suddenly sober up. But there he spotted Draco, thoroughly relaxed and clearly without a clue as to why his father was making such a face.

"You silly boy," Lucius snarled and dragged him away from the people who could overhear them. "Haven't you seen the Dark Mark?"

"Sure. I've thought it was brilliant – never seen one before –"

"Oh, Merlin, give me patience! Shut up, Draco, you'll Disapparate alongside me _now_!"

He calmed down again, at least in respect to his son. Yes, the boy _had_ never seen the Dark Mark before, and was quite unaware of all its other implications. He had believed – like his father at first – that some bloke from the midst of the stampeding crowd had cast it, and watched, head-shaking, the great turmoil that it had caused among the ignorant other campers.

On the way up to the Manor, Lucius silently urged, "You won't tell your mother anything about this, Draco!"

"That's fine with me, Dad, but I reckon the Daily Prophet will cover it nonetheless –"

"Leave that to me. The material point is that you say _nothing_ that could worry her!"

"Like me being alone in all the uproar?" He sneered, and Lucius finally lost his last scratch of patience, grabbing his shoulder and shaking him.

"Don't you try and be cheeky with me, sonny," he hissed. "You've _wanted_ to get wasted with your infantile friends, and I've allowed you to go. I've thought you'd be mature and smart enough to handle being on your own for two hours, but clearly, I've been mistaken, and I won't make the same mistake again so soon!"

Draco twisted his face and rolled his eyes. "Come on, Dad, I was merely joking! I don't see why you're so _mad_ with me, and I doubt that Mum gives a damn what's happened there –"

"You'll go to bed without any further detour, and you're not leaving your room again unless I give you leave. Got me?"

Draco nodded, bewildered and sulking, and Lucius hurried up to his own bedroom. Narcissa was in bed already, murmuring sleepily, "Back so early, mon amour?"

"I've missed you!"

"Nonsense!" She fumbled for her wand on the bedside table and ignited it, pointing the ray of light at him. "Strip for me, sweeting."

He did, grateful that she turned off the light when he took off his shirt. He had a very good reason not to let her see him without it, and it was no pimple. A few days ago – in the middle of a late business meeting with some broker from the States – _it_ had come back. In the first moment when he had felt it, he had instinctively clutched his left arm like a war-disabled veteran, who would sometimes feel a sharp pain jolt into a limb that he had lost a long time ago. He hadn't suffered from the old branding for many, many years; in fact, it had been almost invisible for an unwitting viewer, a galleon-sized, white-fading scar on his anyhow pale white skin.

But he had been in a meeting, and he had known that he must not take a look at it before he could do so on his own, without witnesses. Strangely enough, he had found the old scar faintly pink, and though far from distinctive – the peculiar shape couldn't be seen, it was merely a small reddened spot – he had been slightly alarmed. After not feeling it for oh-so-long – why would it burn now? Why would it show any colour at all?

He had chosen to ignore it for the time being, but keep an eye on it. The difference was so diminutive that it was hard to decide whether it had got worse or not, and only a random, and very quickly familiar, sting of pain occasionally reminded him that something weird was going on, something that he had no possible explanation for. He wouldn't speak about the odd mark for nearly a fortnight – to whom should he have talked, anyway? The Dark Mark was nothing to consult a Healer, nothing to talk about at dinner parties or business meetings, and by no means, he had wanted to disquiet Narcissa without a very good reason. Some of his former companions had been imprisoned in the time between, others lived abroad, Severus was unavailable at the moment, and most of them, he wouldn't have trusted anyway.

After Narcissa had left, and before they had all got too drunk to verbalise properly, he had talked to Yaxley, who was after all his Law Wizard, and Graham. They, too, were feeling it, and just like him, they hadn't got a clue why. They agreed that He couldn't be back, but like him, they weren't a hundred percent positive either that He was dead. It turned out that Graham, Crabs and the others had it as well, but the only thing they could do was draining a barrel of scotch and try to laugh off their uneasiness.

But now – after that disaster at the World Cup – that would undoubtedly make every paper – he had to tell Narcissa. He could only imagine how upset she would be. On the other hand – she was twice as clever as him – perhaps she'd come up with something – perhaps _she_ could figure out what was going on here… Someone had cast the Dark Mark – the old branding on his arm was visible again, after an absence of thirteen years – and if those two incidents had got anything to do with each other, Merlin have mercy with them all!

But how long could a man keep a secret from his clever, perceptive wife? A secret that would include a glowing scar on his arm? The next morning, she woke up in his arms and spotted the red spot in the rising sunlight suffusing their bedchamber. She got a queasy feeling in her stomach, but wanted to give him the chance to tell her about it in his own terms, so she pulled up the blanket to cover the mark and pretended to have not seen it at all.

He woke up soon after her, pulled her close and rang for coffee. "We're going to stay in bed all morning, honey."

"Are we? Did the kinky Muggle costume inspire you so much?"

"Very much, ma belle."

"You just want to avoid going to the Healer, don't you?" She shot him a fake grin, wondering how far she could take it.

"Yes, that's right – ah, there's the coffee. Have a cup, chérie…" She could see him bracing himself for the big revelation. Under different circumstances, she would have been amused about his awkwardness, but the Dark Mark was nothing to make fun of. A cold shiver ran down her spine and she pressed herself against him even closer, sipping her coffee. He cleared his throat awkwardly and began, "You've asked me why I've been home so early last night…"

"So you didn't miss me that much, eh?"

He kissed her forehead. "Seriously, Cissa… There's been trouble…" Another shiver, and the queasy feeling grew to outright nausea. Trouble…? "You've seen us – we were loaded – I'm afraid we messed it up…"

That was an unexpected turn and Narcissa propped herself up on her elbows to have a better look at him. Without embellishments, he told her everything that had happened, the flying Muggles, the burning tents, emphasising that Draco hadn't been in danger at any time, and finally –

"The Dark Mark, Cissa. Someone's cast the Dark Mark, and it wasn't any of us!"

He shot her a quizzical look, but she didn't say anything. She had nothing to say in this moment, she was too confused, and too scared that her worst premonitions could come true. He continued, decidedly avoiding to look into her face. "I've lied to you, Cissa. I got no pimple anywhere…"

"I know," she whispered, wishing he would look at her. "You haven't had a pimple in your whole life."

"It's back. Don't ask me why, don't ask me what it means, all I can say is, it's back." He presented her his left wrist, and though it was no longer a surprise, she was shocked looking at it. "I'm so sorry, love."

"So am I… Look at me, Lucius. Be honest – be very candid with me. Is he – can he be back?"

He told her everything he knew, everything he had thought about and discussed with the other old Death Eaters, not leaving out anything to spare her. When he had finished, she didn't say anything for quite a while. She showed him that she wasn't mad with him though, by crawling up and embracing him very tightly, burying her face in the arch between his head and shoulder. He held her, overwhelmed with movement. He didn't deserve this woman. He had just told her that their life as they knew it might come to an end, and she?

She whispered, "We will make it, my love, together. We will get through this, like we've got through the last time, too."

* * *

_Quis fallere..._ Who could deceive a loving woman?


	58. The Old Auror's Grudge

Not only that he's after Draco Malfoy; Dumbledore's latest acquisition clearly dislikes Severus too

* * *

**- 3.8. -**

The Old Auror's Grudge

* * *

_you had all of them on your side, didn't you? you believed in all your lies, didn't you? the ruiner's got a lot to prove he's got nothing to lose and now he made you believe the ruiner's your only friend well he's the living end to the cattle he deceives the raping of the innocent you know the ruiner ruins everything he sees you had to give them all a sign, didn't you? you had to covet what was mine, didn't you? the ruiner's a collector he's an infector serving his shit to his flies maybe there will come a day when those that you keep blind will suddenly realise_

_NINE INCH NAILS – The Ruiner_

_

* * *

_

"They're _exploding_, Sir," Draco said indignantly, brandishing his left hand which showed an unsavoury burn vesicle.

He sighed and shrugged. "And now you've come to me because you think I can make them stop exploding?"

"Tell him to kill them straightaway! Poor Goyle lost an eyebrow!"

"Knowing Professor Hagrid, Mr Goyle could lose an eye _and_ a brow, and still Professor Hagrid wouldn't stop hatching these – what did you say how he calls them?"

"Blast-Ended Skrewts," Draco answered, his voice saturated with disdain.

"Fancy name, isn't it?" He smirked, got up and looked through his provisions. He found the platen he was looking for and handed it to the boy. "There you go, that should mend the blisters before dinner. If it doesn't, I'm afraid you've got to see Madam Pomfrey though."

Draco curled his lip, resembling his father in his youth so much that Severus couldn't but smile. "If I need to go and see her, I think I shall wait until Wednesday so I can skip Care of Magical Creatures."

"Now, now, Draco, don't let me hear that. You know how your mother keeps on asking me whether you are a diligent student – I should hate lying to her."

The boy grinned, pocketed the platen and said goodbye, and Severus watched after him with a smile. It was amazing how much Draco resembled Lucius, in looks, and also in some qualities. The _sneer_, for goodness' sake! The scornful glint in the mercury grey eyes, the slight upward move of the dark, domineering brows, the little twist of the lips – the visual resemblance was stunning. Nevertheless Severus couldn't help it but rather think of Narcissa when dealing with their son. In temper and character, Draco was more like her, not exactly _softer_, but... Sharper in a way. His humour and intellect were cutting, cold and precise. Like her, the boy had an excellently sharpened eye for the weaknesses and whims of other people. When Draco gave his parody of Hufflepuff's pompous Ernie Macmillan in the Slytherin Common Room, delighting his fellow house mates because of his fine ear for Macmillan's tone and mannerism, his capability to single out the most remarkably ridiculous, it was really Narcissa's much more quiet kind of scorn, in the disguise of Lucius' out-going temper. Perhaps it was Lucius' face grinning whenever Draco would crack a smile, but it was Narcissa's sense of humour making him laugh in the first place.

He felt uneasy when contemplating what was coming towards them all, but he felt that vague dread the most keenly when thinking of Draco. There weren't many people close to Severus' heart – there were really only Lucius and Narcissa, weren't there. Those two could, and would, fight for themselves, and while it was a saddening thought that their ways were irreconcilable with his own, he could live with that. But Draco... It was obvious what lay in his future, once the seemingly inevitable would happen, and that perspective angered Severus as much as it depressed him. Draco, with all his cleverness, all reasonable hopes and chances, would end up like his father had, like Severus himself had: entrapped in a net of violence, isolation and hopelessness.

He was long enough teaching to know that Lucius and Narcissa were as good parents as any others, better than many in many respects. But all their love wouldn't save their child. It couldn't; it wasn't as if they had a choice once the Dark Lord... And there was nothing that Severus could do for him either.

_Some_ things he _could_ do though! Severus decided that he was going to try and have a word with Hagrid nevertheless. This _idiot_. Sometimes he couldn't but wonder if the Headmaster was quite sane, regarding his choice of staff, just as an example. In his own time here, he had been taught by two notorious drunkards (Flying Instructor Mr Couper, and Professor Hopkirk from the Astronomy Department, who had ended both his career and his life by tripping over an empty whiskey bottle in his bedroom and breaking his neck) and the singularly most boring, ineffective teacher in the entire western hemisphere, Professor Binns. Nowadays, Professor Binns had long left the realms of the living, but he was _still_ teaching here. Additionally, there were staff members like Hagrid – need that further explanations? Sibyll Trelawney – he didn't know where to _start_ counting the reasons why _she_ shouldn't be a teacher. Gilderoy Lockhart, anyone? This total coward Lupin? Or this utter failure Quirrell, who had been both the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher _and_ afraid of his own shadow – that was, _before_ he got himself possessed by the spirit of the Dark Lord? Not to speak of the latest acquisition for the ever-so-vacant position.

Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody? Granted, no one right in their minds would want a job cursed by the Dark Lord himself. All right, he had once been the best Auror the Ministry had seen in its long history. But that was all long in the past – now the man was _nothing_ if not mad. His first announcement in the staff room had been 'As far as the Dark Arts are concerned, I firmly believe in a practical approach!' Poor Poppy Pomfrey had dropped a tray full of soothing potions upon that cue. Not even Minerva had managed to refrain from doing a double-take.

Subconsciously, Severus shook his head. With Pettigrew and the Dark Lord at large, with the Dark Mark slowly becoming distinct again after all these years, an Auror in Hogwarts might be direly needed, so he guessed he simply had to put up with the old weirdo and stop fretting. Not five minutes later though, the door of his office was pushed open with a bang, and the _old weirdo_ himself came stampeding in, wrenching the arm of no one else than Draco Malfoy.

He had no chance of saying more than 'Yes, Professor M-' when this one cut him short already and boomed –

"Snape!"

"_Professor_ Snape, Sir," Severus said quietly and smiled. "Let's just stick to the traditions."

"And to what tradition do _you_ owe your being that?"

"The same like you, I suppose." He gave him a very pointed glance, and smiled at Draco next, who looked somewhat alarmingly ruffled. Had he got into another brawl with Hagrid's latest breach of the ban on breeding new magical species? "Mr Malfoy, are you feeling unwell?"

Again, Moody left Draco no chance to speak up, and vigorously shaking the boy's arm, he cried, "Your dearest Mr Malfoy's brat here attacked another student like a sneak in the back, the cowardly, filthy little ferret that –"

With the word 'ferret', life seemed to return to Draco, and in sheer outrage, he cried, "He transformed me into a _ferret_, Professor!"

"Well, so Draco's attack seems like an act of self-defence to me, Professor Moody. Defensio cuilibet permissa est. Now please, let go of my student."

Moody didn't let go though, and Draco's cheeks adapted a pink shade. Moody's magical eye kept on spinning around while he cackled, "Self-defence? Oh, no, no, Snape. _I_ transformed him into a ferret, after _he_ attacked the Potter boy with that one's back turned."

Severus suppressed a groan and willed himself to be calm. "I am sure you have been told that transfigurations as a punishment are strictly banned from Hogwarts, Sir?"

"Good Minerva McGonagall delighted to mention that, yes." The marked, scarred face changed into a hard-to-decipherable sneer. "But people like you and me, Snape – we both know how much more effective a good shock is, compared to writing lines."

"_Professor_ Snape still, Sir, and no, I don't think your approach and mine are in any way comparable. Now _let go _of the student, _please_." He kept his voice calm and low, but gave it a clear edge.

"You dare to stand up to me then? _You?_" Moody screeched, looking decidedly insane. Draco nodded supportively, making Severus smile – and outraging the old Auror. "Still chummy with old Lucius, are you? Think that makes you practically invincible?"

"Professor Moody, I fail to see why you take this whole business so very personal. Once you have settled down in the school, I trust you'll realise that, day in, day out, we teacher scarcely deal with anything else but juvenile ruckus. _If_ Draco indeed misbehaved – and I'll still have to listen to _his_ account of the incident – _nothing_ else but simple detentions or taking house points would have been appropriate, this has little to do with you or me as a person, or anyone else in this respect. Here, have a cup of tea and a few biscuits."

He pushed a cup and a plate into Moody's hands, thus forcing him to finally loosen his grip on the boy's arm. Moody glared at him, real and magic eye alike. "Clever, Snape, _clever_. But then you always knew your way around."

Severus tilted his head in feigned pity, straightened then and looked at Draco, who kept a respectful distance to the Defence teacher now. "Mr Malfoy, is it true that you attacked Mr Potter with that one not looking?"

"It's possible that he didn't _look_, right."

Mad-Eye opened his mouth, but this time, Severus was quicker. "Obviously, I would have to punish you for doing magic in the corridors between classes, Mr Malfoy, but seeing Professor Moody's attempt on it, I'd say the affair is settled –"

"No, it's _not_!"

"I am his Head of House, Professor; _I_ decide what's going to happen with him. You can leave now, Mr Malfoy."

Draco was faster out of the door than his pal Crabbe could spell 'toffee', and Mad-Eye Moody shouted after him, "And don't forget to write home to your daddy, laddie! Tell him that Alastor Moody is watching over his son!"

Draco slammed the door shut, and Severus turned back to the Auror, who was actually sipping his tea in this moment. "I guess I ought to feel flattered that you deem me worthy enough to drink a cup of tea that you didn't prepare yourself."

Moody stopped at once and goggled at the cup as if he was seeing it for the first time. Both his eyes then fixed on Severus with a menacing furrow. "Snape," he snarled flatly, "You want to remember that I've got my eye on you."

"Literally, figuratively, or both?"

"We'll see whom the last laugh is upon, man. You've made yourself very comfortable here under Dumbledore's wing, haven't you? Be prepared to sleep in the bed you've made yourself there."

Severus easily stood up to the icy stare; frankly, he found the whole situation almost humorous, with Moody's unequal eyes and his slight squint. "Speaking of the Headmaster, _Professor_ – do you think he'll approve of your latest teaching methods?"

"Leave that up to me."

"Oh, I will, don't be afraid."

"I do hope you're going to inform Malfoy senior of the incident though." A nasty expression marred the anyhow ugly features. "I'd hate for him to miss it."

"And so would he, I am sure. Why don't you write to him yourself, too? I bet he'll be delighted to take matters into his own hands with you."

Moody cackled under his breath. "I must admit I slightly lost track of old Lucius lately. I heard he's keeping himself well – but then, I'd imagine nothing else of him. Always so respectable, Lucius, always so glib. But there are stains that don't come off, no matter how hard he polishes his slippery appearance."

Severus walked towards the door. "Still sore that you couldn't have anything on him then?"

"Lucius Malfoy belongs in Azkaban, so much more than many, many of its inhabitants, and he's by no means the only one."

"Well, if that's what you think, there's no use for me arguing with you anyway. Just one thing, Moody –" Severus' voice had a determined tinge. "Whatever it is that bothers you about the past – don't you dare taking it out on my students."

"And what if I do?"

Severus opened the door and beckoned his guest out. "Do you seriously want to get on the wrong side of Dumbledore?"

The old Auror limped out, laughing, leaving Severus behind with a decidedly more miffed expression than he had shown in Moody's presence. What an idiot! What an incredible twat! How could Dumbledore _do_ that! How could he let this happen? Oh, sure, so he could have an Auror watching over Precious Potter! And perhaps it was still for the better, because Potter didn't need the return of the Dark Mark to get himself into trouble. Severus did not doubt for a second that the kid had deserved himself the spell that Draco had cast on him.

The boy himself confirmed that notion when he came back to his Head of House's office, still mortified and fuming with anger. "Potter spoke derisively of my mother," he growled and clenched his fists. "I couldn't let that go unchecked, right?"

"No, Draco, you couldn't," Severus agreed and meant it whole-hearted. Deriding Narcissa – _that_ boy! And wasn't that just like him, James Potter's one and only son! Still, for Draco's own sake, justified anger wouldn't do. "All the same – you want to refrain from attacking Mr Potter in the future."

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but Severus continued, "Ask yourself why Mr Moody has been appointed for this position. I am not sure what your father has told you and what he has left out, so I'm not going to comment on the matter, yet – be assured that uncertain times lie ahead of us. I don't appear to be alone in smelling young Mr Potter getting into the thick of it all, like usually. The Headmaster has thought of the same, and appointed Alastor Moody as Potter's personal baby-sitter. I'm sure you understand my meaning – stay clear of Harry Potter, Draco, or I can't help you with Moody either."

"What do you mean, Sir? About the uncertain times?"

Severus contemplated the student before him. His face was serious, eager, curious, all at once. Oh Lucius. When these _times_ finally came, what would Lucius have done to keep his son on the safe side? "I mean what I already said – namely that it is up to your father to discuss questions like this one."

"What is it all about my father, suddenly? First Moody's cryptic ramblings, now you –"

"Come on, Draco, you're not stupid. You can count these things together by yourself! You want to know one of Mad-Eye Moody's favourite lines in the staff room? 'There's nothing I hate more than a Death Eater going free!' So – what do you reckon is the nature of the issues that famous Auror Alastor Moody has with your father, or me in that instance? Hm?"

Draco gazed at him, his brows raised and his jaws working. "I see, Sir," he muttered at last. "Thank you."

"My pleasure, Draco, my pleasure. But you do understand what else I said, yes? No matter how badly Potter irks you – you stay away from him. And if you think you can't bear it – just remember that Mad-Eye Moody is lurking just around the corner, dying to have something on your father's son."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you once more."

"That's all right. Did the ointment work, incidentally?"

"It did marvellously, Professor, thank you for that one as well. Speaking of it – you happen to have something against bruises, too?" He rolled up his sleeve, to show a black and blue mark where Moody had coarsely grabbed his arm. "I'd hate to recount to Madam Pomfrey how I got them to begin with."

* * *

_Defensio..._ It is allowed to defend oneself.


	59. The Fourth Candidate

Guarding over the Boy who Lived is worse than watching over a bag of fleas

* * *

**- 3.9. -**

The Fourth Candidate

* * *

_New blood joins this earth and quickly he's subdued through constant pained disgrace – the young boy learns their rules. With time, the child draws in – this whipping boy done wrong, deprived of all his thoughts the young man struggles on and on, he's known a vow unto his own that never from this day his will they'll take away._

_They dedicate their lives to running all of his. He tries to please them all, this bitter man he is. Throughout his life the same, he's battled constantly; this fight he cannot win. A tired man they see no longer cares; the old man then prepares to die regretfully – that old man here is me. Never free. Never me. So I dub thee "Unforgiven". You labelled me. I'll label you. So I dub thee "Unforgiven"._

_METALLICA – The Unforgiven_

* * *

"Severus," the wizard muttered expressively and shook his hand with both hands. "I had hoped for us to meet."

"Igor," he replied just as quietly and made a stiff little bow.

"Really, I insist on a night cap – just the two of us," Karkaroff whispered before stepping aside, lightly stooping and shaking Filius Flitwick's hand.

Severus watched him, unable to dispel a little sneer. _White mink_, for goodness' sake! It wasn't difficult to guess what Karkaroff wanted to discuss with him, but why he believed that Severus would help him in _any_ small way was beyond this one. Even if Igor thought that they were all facing the same problem and therefore sitting in the same shaky boat – he hadn't forgotten how he had snitched on Severus Snape to get his bony arse out of prison, had he?

Obviously, he _had_. In the next days, Severus had to see that Igor Karkaroff seemed to regard him as his best buddy. Or rather – he put up a good show to give the impression. Like everyone else that Severus had talked to so far, Karkaroff, too, was deplorably ignorant as to what was going on with the Mark. What he was though was nervous – _very_ nervous. And Alastor Moody's presence in the castle wasn't making him any more easy-going.

"He's observing me," he growled during the Halloween feast, scowling over to the crippled wizard on Minerva's left side. Severus didn't really listen; he picked his peas but couldn't bring himself to actually swallow a single one of them. Karkaroff shook his arm. "Hey!"

"Oh, _leave me alone_, Igor," he hissed and shot him a very nasty glance. He _hated_ Halloween!

Pomona pushed a piece of parchment into his hand, which he unrolled, slightly incredulous. It was a betting list, and in a low voice, Pomona intimated that Ludo Bagman had initiated it among the teachers – who would be champion for their respective school. "Oh, _please_," he grunted and passed the parchment on to Igor, who seemed to approve of the list some more, and promptly scribbled down 'Victor Krum for Durmstrang – 10 galleons'

So far, the betting quota were 1/2 for Victor Krum, the famous Quidditch player, 1/6 for his fellow student Ivana Nàgy, 1/3 for Beauxbatons' Étienne Dubarry, 1/3 for Fleur Delacour, another 1/3 for Javier Mendez. Hogwarts students deemed worthy by their teachers to partake were Angelina Johnson (1/4, and Severus didn't believe it either), Damian Montague (1/3, and Severus absolutely approved) and Cedric Diggory from Hufflepuff (1/5, and Severus didn't think that Hogwarts should _ever_ be represented by a _Hufflepuff_, even if it was a rather clever one like here).

"You're not in, Severus?"

"I don't get paid enough to waste my money on students who can't tell the difference between Pepperup Potion and a cup of coffee."

"Why don't you come to my school, old friend? _My_ students can tell the difference when they're in their first year still!"

"You know, Igor, I reckon the weather up North disagrees with me. I'm more the sunny type. Now _excuse me_!" He returned to viciously attack his steak, but again, he couldn't make himself eat it. If only this dinner was over at last, and with it the stupid nomination, and he could finally – _finally_ – lock himself up in his room and keep on boozing until he passed out! Goblet of Fire, my ass, the only thing _he_ would thoroughly approve of today was a Goblet of Fire _Whiskey_, and not just one!

Indeed, the first chosen champion was Karkaroff's favourite Krum – Severus forced himself to smile benevolently at the boy's mentor. Number two was Beauxbatons' Miss Delacour, and number three – Severus was drumming his fingers on the table by now, impatient to get away at last – oh. The Hogwarts champion was Hufflepuff's Diggory. Well, on any other day, Severus might have felt scandalised by such a misjudgement, but traditionally, October 31st wasn't such a day.

"Harry Potter!"

Severus hadn't trusted his own eyes when the Goblet of Fire had started to smoke once more, spitting out a forth piece of charred parchment, and hearing that name made the scene only more surreal. Harry Potter. It was like in one of these nightmares.

It took him one or two seconds to take in what had happened. Potter – this incredible, coronation-of-insolence, sneaky little show-off! Smuggling his own name into the Goblet of Fire! Dumbledore had protected it with an age line, but surely that line had put up little or no resistance to Miss Granger's far more penetrating mind! 'Merlin, give me patience,' he thought, infuriated, almost trembling with ire. Thirteen years ago to this very day, the kid's mother had laid down her life for him, and how did he thank her for that sacrifice? By getting himself into mortal trouble over and over and over _again_! That attention-seeking little brat! Couldn't endure _not_ being in the spotlight for once, could he? 'Oh, wait, Potter, until I can lay my hands on you!' He had got up without noticing and joined Dumbledore and Minerva. The Headmaster was deeply concerned, while his deputy appeared to be sick any minute now.

"Betrayal," Karkaroff barked, but Severus didn't do as much as turn around. Only Ludo Bagman seemed to be genuinely pleased; rubbing his hands with a thrilled smile, he just now went after the champions. Karkaroff, Maxine, Dumbledore and Minerva all spoke at once, until Crouch lifted his hand, suggesting that they all went to talk to the children for a start.

Predictably, Potter denied having _anything_ to do with his name coming out of the goblet, and _just_ as predictably, Dumbledore believed him, if no one else. It was history repeating – dearest James Potter had been perfect at lying through his teeth, too, and _this_ was _just_ the kind of prank he would have pulled, mindless, egotistical bastard that he had been –

"Severus, Minerva – can I see you in my office later?" Dumbledore asked quietly.

"Of course, Headmaster," Severus replied, his teeth gritted. He _had_ to get to his room, the sooner, the better, or he might end up smashing one of the ancient trophies in a fit of anger and frustration!

"Minerva, please, see to it that Harry is all right and join us then. Come with me, Severus." Dumbledore unceremoniously took hold of his arm and marched him out, silent until they had entered his study. Only there he let go with a sigh, poured two glasses of Ogden's Fire Whiskey and handed one to his teacher. "I fathom you're in the mood for a drink, Severus."

"_One_ drink?" he grumbled and swallowed it with one big sip. He stretched out his hand and Dumbledore refilled the glass with a flick of his wand.

"To the noble dead," Dumbledore muttered and sipped.

"To her." And he emptied the second glass. He narrowed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. "You don't seriously believe the boy, do you, Dumbledore?"

"As a matter of fact I do."

"Why am I not surprised!"

"For a start – he couldn't have overcome my age line, though I say it myself –"

"But Miss Granger could easily – I beg your pardon, but if anyone could have, I'm sure _she'd_ be standing behind that one's back, learning it by rote!"

"A remarkable girl, don't you think?"

"Her intelligence certainly surpasses her innate talent. But I'm really not in the mood to discuss Miss Granger's existing and non-existent qualities! You've got to find a way to get Potter out of the sodding tournament, that's all I can say, and I don't even _want_ to know if he did it or not because –"

"Because it makes you feel so much better thinking that Harry did it himself?"

Severus smiled subtly. "Indeed," he said softly and gave his boss a poignant look. "And regarding all the implications connected to the idea that it was _not_ Potter himself, I'd say you'd better start hoping the boy did it, too!"

"We can't close our eyes from the truth. It was no coincidence that Harry's name came out of this goblet, Severus. Neither was it a schoolboy's prank. There are a number of curious little incidents, none visibly connected to the other, but all the more I feel they do have a connection, I merely need to find out which! – Did Lucius mention anything?"

"I think he found his three-foot letter of furious defiance to his son's treatment too long already to add much of a Post Scriptum!"

"I already talked to Alastor about this. It won't happen again. Mr Malfoy shouldn't have attacked an unwitting victim though –"

"That's hardly the point now, is it? And while you're speaking to him, could you please tell your old buddy Alastor to stop cornering me? In front of Draco Malfoy, for example? I have little taste to discuss such matters in front of Lucius' son."

"He's still settling in, Severus, don't be so harsh on him."

"Oh, it was rather _he_ being harsh on _me_, but never mind now. Seriously, Dumbledore, if there is nothing else for tonight, I beg you let us continue the conversation tomorrow!"

"I understand and respect that. One last thing, Sev-"

"Yes, I'll keep an eye on Karkaroff, just like I'll keep an eye on Potter. I _know_."

And then he was finally dismissed, so he could lock himself up and drink himself into oblivion – to make himself forget for a short while, the bittersweet memories just like the horrid. He usually didn't approve of self-indulgence. Wallowing in self-pity wouldn't do – but in this one night each year, he allowed himself to let go.


	60. The Dark Lord Returns

Narcissa comes to Hogwarts, allegedly to watch the Third Task, but forced to witness a very different speactacle

* * *

**- 3.10. -**

The Dark Lord Returns

* * *

_I don't like to commit myself about heaven and hell - you see, I have friends in both places._

_MARK TWAIN_

* * *

When she had asked her son who he was supporting, it had been more of a rhetorical question. His dislike of the Potter boy was legendary, so _of course_ he'd back up the other one – she had forgotten the kid's name, it didn't matter anyway. But to her surprise, he beamed when answering, "Victor Krum!"

She arched a brow. "He's the Durmstrang champion, isn't he?"

"And the best Seeker in the world!"

"But the other one – what's his name – is from Hogwarts."

"As if I cared! Plus he's a Hufflepuff! I mean, _come on_! _Hufflepuff!_"

"Yes, well, that is admittedly a drawback. Still, darling, you've got to root for your own folks!"

He merely sneered and they continued their way back from the former Quidditch pitch. Lucius would _weep_ if he saw what they had done to his favourite place in the entire school. Now there were huge hedges forming a maze, only the stands were still surrounding the pitch. Despite the contrary appearance and her own professions, Narcissa wasn't keen on watching the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament; frankly, she didn't care for it the slightest bit. Still, it offered her the perfect pretext to come here in the first place without raising too many suspicions. Not even Draco knew what she had come for. He had bought her act without further inquiries after his initial amazement.

They had taken a walk together, he had showed her around, and now she was on her way to see his Head of House. He was in his office, looking not quite as astonished as she had expected. "Narcissa! Good afternoon! What a pleasant surprise!"

Until Draco left for an errand that his teacher assigned him to, she kept her pretence, but when Severus cast a couple of spells on the door to block and seal it soundproof, she dropped her airy attitude at once and went in medias res. "Just how concerned are you, Savvy?"

He vaguely shrugged. "_I_ ought not to worry, right?"

"Let us be candid, dear. Lucius _is_ worried, very much so, and you don't even need to ask _me_ how _I_ feel about _this_!" She pointedly looked at his left wrist. "It's got worse and worse!"

"Yes… Has Lucius heard anything new?"

"He has not, and I am here because I've hoped that Dumbledore and his network might have found something out by now."

He slowly shook his head and shrugged again. "He is worried, too, for lots of reasons. I – I have showed him the Mark, right after the incident at the World Cup – and there's something really shady about the Potter boy even being in this darned competition – the Potter boy of all people, Cissa! But if he knows something, he hasn't informed me about it."

"He – he couldn't come back, could he?"

"_You_ were the one who never wanted to believe that."

"Yes, well, I might have been wrong, obviously! _Is_ he back?"

"How many times, Cissa? I don't _know_, honestly. Dumbledore's always believed he'd return one day, and perhaps this is it. But there's not much any of _us _could do about it."

"Go and fool someone else, Savvy! You're not as cool about this as you want me to believe!"

"Look, what do you want to hear from me? That we're all doomed if he comes back? That I haven't got the foggiest clue what to do? If even _Lucius_ is frightened, what do you think _I_ am? He can always go back, he –"

"He's renounced him, too! And what do you mean – he can go back? He can _not_ go back! I wouldn't allow him to go back even if he wanted, are you out of your mind?"

"Has he got any alternative options then? Of course he'll go! He's dead if he doesn't! We all are. _If_ he – the Dark Lord – returns to power, we'll play his game or we can hang ourselves straight away. Those are the facts, my dear, face them!" He saw her face and raised his hands soothingly. "Listen, I'm sorry. I had no intention to – to put you off. You and Lucius have always been my friends; I know what I owe to you."

"And I know what we owe to _you_, Savvy. As far as old debts are concerned, we're more than even."

They talked some more, but didn't come to any fruitful result, and then Draco knocked on the door. Severus lifted the spells and Narcissa left, wearing a serene expression again, but she had some difficulties to keep it. Her mind was racing. How could this be? Why the hell wasn't he _dead_? He ought to be dead, dead, dead! How could anyone survive a Killing Curse, eh? Sure, Bella had always believed that he was immortal, but that was nonsense, and Bella was simply insane. Could she have been right after all? But how – why –

"Look, look!" She didn't recognise the voice, but Draco next to her got tense and Narcissa looked around, seeing whatever was left of Alastor Moody, the infamous Auror. Boy, she still had a bone to pick with _that_ guy! He was limping towards them, with a fierce, scornful expression. "Madam Malfoy! What glamour in our shabby halls!"

"Mr Moody! Still alive and – well, not actually _kicking_, are you?"

"Have you come to knock some sense into your good-for-nothing son's thick skull?"

"Kindly refrain from abusing my son, Mr Moody! And since we're already speaking so charmingly together – what _have_ you been thinking to attack him, eh?"

Draco shrank back when Moody made another step towards them, stabbing his finger at her. "I sincerely hope that he's told you the whole story. _He_ tried to attack another student at first – with that one's back turned! But what can one expect, really! The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

Narcissa sneered and straightened her back, making her taller than the stooped wizard. "Have you any complaints to make about my family, Sir?"

"Your family, Madam…" He looked at Draco in disdain. "You come from a very grand family, boy! A looong line of splendid wizards and witches, I give you that. Your turncoat father – your dear aunty, who's wreaked havoc upon anyone who's ever come near her – and of course, your mother here. I suppose you're very proud of her. I suppose that's where that swagger of yours comes from!"

Draco stared at him, clearly wondering if the old man had finally lost his last scrap of common sense, while his mother smirked and drawled, "It must be very hard for you, Mr Moody, I understand… You've been great once, too, and look what's become of you. A bitter, crippled old man fit for the mental asylum, who doesn't even trust his own friends, and who no one believes in either. Pitiful, aren't you."

"Spare your _pity_, Cissy. You'll need it all for yourself!"

She was intrigued, hearing that long-forgotten sobriquet, but she didn't wince. "Do I? Funny. I don't think anyone's ever _pitied_ me. Envied, yes, but never pitied."

"There will come the day when everyone must pay, Mrs Malfoy. And all your gold won't be enough for _that_ bill then!"

That statement hit home after the meeting with Severus, but Narcissa smiled still. "I don't believe in those trite fortune cookie phrases, Mr Moody. I understand your attitude though – I guess it comes with old age, the superstition, the nagging anxiety if one's done right, the hate for those who are young…"

"Old age, or suffering." He giggled merrily. "Of course, _you_ cannot understand that. _You_ haven't suffered a single day in your life. Nor has your husband, or your spoilt son."

"See? There it raises its ugly head again – the yellow mug of envy."

He was still giggling, but it sounded mad now. "You'll soon be envying _me_, Madam! Oh, you'll wish you had my scars to trade them for your own fate!"

She gave a little laugh, too. "Yes, yes, sure. I'm in no mood to quarrel with you, Sir. I've come to enjoy the spectacle."

"Oh yes. The spectacle. It's well conceived, Madam, I'm sure you'll be drawn into it completely!"

She led Draco away until they were out of earshot, then whispered, "Good heavens. Dumbledore's lost it completely to employ _that_ lunatic!"

"I told you! He's giving me that kind of speech each time I see him!"

She shook her head and they left. Moody's words intrigued her. He was an old friend of Dumbledore, and unlike Severus, he had never even flirted with the Dark Side. It was probable that Dumbledore was more candid with Moody than he was with Severus. How should she assess the old Auror's unveiled spite and glee towards her? All the 'Soon you'll envy me – there comes the day to pay – spare your pity for yourself'. Given the present situation, he could only mean one thing, and Narcissa's pulse was rushing. What did he play at? What did he know? Would it make any sense for her to go straight to Dumbledore…? Nah, possibly not. Why should he trust _her_, after all the stunts that Lucius had pulled?

It was hard for her to keep up the façade; Draco commanded her attention, and he mustn't sense her worries. They spent the afternoon together, until all students and visitors went down to the pitch to secure good seats. Or what they thought to be good seats anyway, because regardless where Narcissa and Draco went to, the hedges were so high and thriving that nothing inside could be seen except for the centre where the hedges were lower and the Triwizard Cup was gleaming in the sunset.

"This is so pointless!"

"Whoa, be glad that you weren't here for the Second Task, Mum. Staring at the surface of the lake for one solid hour, pretending to be _really_ excited!"

"Yes, well – at least some of the other spectators are worth looking at." She gazed around, noticing that the girls from Beauxbatons were in much better shape than most of the Hogwarts students. Their school robes were more elegant, their hairdos better-groomed, their faces fresher and in average prettier.

Draco followed her eyes and shrugged. "I can never dispel the notion that they're some sort of cousins of mine."

She sniggered. "You should have gone to that ball with one of _those_ still."

"I certainly should have, but I didn't get a chance, did I?" He carefully glanced over his shoulder, making sure that the Parkinson girl wasn't in the vicinity. Narcissa grinned – the Parkinson girl was a spectacle in herself; they had met her three times in three hours, 'by coincidence', and it was as embarrassing to watch her around Draco as it was entertaining. She clearly had a mad crush on the boy – Draco had never put it that way, but Narcissa had read it between the lines years ago, and anyone _seeing_ the two together could easily guess. The girl would simper and giggle, batter her lashes and twirl her hair; she was the textbook example of a teenage girl in love who had read all the authoritative girl magazines. Either Draco wasn't as much his father's son as he looked like or he simply hadn't reached the age to take an interest in girls, for all Beauxbaton's graces, all of little Miss Parkinson's readiness to please left him perfectly unmoved. A little daunted, perhaps.

Severus found them and sat down next to Narcissa. "Dear, you'll be bored to _tears_, I grant you!"

"Try to get in the right mood, Savvy!"

"The right mood? Sure! Perhaps I can get Madam Sprout here to explain what hedges she's grown, what she's done to make them grow so fast and tall, and _hey_ – what insects usually live in them!"

Narcissa laughed. "Excellent! A running commentary, that's what I've come for!"

In that moment, the Parkinson girl pushed herself through the rows, beaming and slumping into the seat next to Draco. "Here you are! I've been looking for you!"

Draco rolled his eyes, and Narcissa grinned wolfishly. "Look who's there, Draco! Miss Parkinson, what a surprise!"

"Thank you, Ma'am! I must tell you, I _love_ your robes!"

"Yes, dear, you've already said so."

"You've got great taste!"

"Yes, dear, you've said that, too."

"Where do you _get_ those?"

"Oh, shut up, Panse. Leave my mother alone, will you!"

She looked hurt, but adjusted speedily and addressed Draco instead. No matter how reluctant his answers, she'd go on talking and talking, and Narcissa turned to Severus, asking under her breath, "Say, did you mention that cursed nickname to Mad Eye Moody? 'Cissy' – why would he call me so?"

"Because he likes to annoy people as much as he can."

"Yes, but how does he even know that name?"

"I don't know. 'Cissy' stands near to reason when your name's Narcissa."

"Only my sisters called me so – well, and their friends in school later on…"

He shrugged. "I'd forget about it if I were you. Geez, I can't wait for the term to end. He's made it clear that he'll retire for good then. Unbearable freak!"

"Oh, you should have been there. He was incredibly insolent!" She meant to repeat some of the things Moody had said to her, but stopped when seeing Severus wincing and grabbing his left arm. "Does it hurt very badly?"

"The pain's not the worst about it," he whispered, avoiding to look at her.

She thought of Lucius. He must be feeling the same pain in this moment, and like Severus, he had to conceal it because he was in some business meeting. Her poor darling! She knew that he was scared, and he was there all by himself. But he wouldn't be home before midnight, he had promised some Japanese business wizards to take them out, so she could just as well stay here and support Severus a bit.

"Talk to Dumbledore, Savvy!"

"He's got enough on his plate tonight. I might speak to him tomorrow," he replied flatly.

The four champions walked onto the pitch, Dumbledore officially started the game, and for the next forty minutes or so, _nothing_ happened. The Beauxbatons girl – a very distant cousin of Narcissa and Draco, incidentally – had to give up, some time later, 'the world's best Seeker' was carried out, but there was absolutely nothing else to be seen. For heaven's sake, she couldn't say when she had been that bored for the last time! Severus' face was distorted with pain. Narcissa squeezed his right hand, thinking of Lucius. As soon as this was over, she'd rush home, perhaps he was there already, he –

"Oh _no_," Draco groaned next to her, beckoning at the centre of the maze, where the Potter boy and the other kid had appeared. "Go, Diggory, _go_! Potter's injured, just _run_, for Merlin's sake!"

But the two boys went along side by side, slowly because Potter was limping very badly; they hesitated before the Cup, then grabbed it simultaneously. Narcissa gasped – in the maze, both children had vanished along with the Cup, and next to her, Severus had made a move as if he had been punched.

"What's this? Where are they?" cried Miss Parkinson, wildly looking around as if they might reappear right beside her. "Have they Disapparated?"

"You _can't _Disapparate on Hogwarts grounds, Panse!" Draco grunted irritably.

Severus stared at the pitch in something like disbelief. "What the _fuck_ –"

"I take it that's not part of the game then?"

He shook his head, not taking his eyes off the spot where the two children and the Cup had been seconds ago. "Oh, sh- shoot! _Damn it!_" He jumped to his feet, whispered into Narcissa's ear that he had to see Dumbledore and rushed off.

"Where's _he_ going?" Draco asked. "Where's everyone _going_?"

"It appears that there's been a mistake. The boys ought not to have vanished, I reckon."

"Oh, if they'd just never come back," he sighed. "At least Potter!"

Everyone was confused, and Narcissa had a very dark foreboding. She couldn't put her finger at it, but Severus' pain – the Potter boy gone – this wasn't good. This was absolutely no good! She excused herself, telling Draco she'd go to the bathrooms, but actually hurrying to find Severus. She bumped into him on the stairs; he was out of breath and looked haunted.

"Cissa, you've got to go! He's back – he must be back – he's _called_ us!"

"What?" She had understood well enough, but she didn't want to believe.

"Go and find Lucius, Cissa! Whatever he's doing, _force_ him to follow the call if you've got to! Imperius him if you must!"

"And you?"

"We'll see about that."

"Savvy! Be reasonable!"

He sneered. "Two hours ago, you've been telling me that going back was not an option."

"Oh god! Oh god, oh god, oh god!"

"Go and persuade him, Cissa!"

"I needn't persuade him! He's not suicidal!"

"Mum?" Draco had caught up with them, shooting his mother and teacher bewildered looks.

Suddenly there were cheers in the stands, screams that the boys had returned, and Severus sprinted down the stairs. Instinctively, Narcissa followed him, holding up her robes to keep up. Draco was trailing them, too, but much slower. He had no reason to worry in the world, had he? He just thought it an act of courtesy to follow his mother if she took the pains to come to the school in the first place.

Dumbledore and McGonagall had blasted the hedges to make a path to the middle of the pitch, and dozens of people stood around the boys already when they arrived at last. They grasped the situation in an instant – the Hufflepuff kid was dead, Potter was cowering over the body, sobbing, stammering, there was blood on his shirt.

Narcissa took in the scene with one swift glance, too, spun on her heel and intercepted her son.

"Don't!" she cried sharply, desperate to prevent him from the sight.

"But Mum, what is it, I –"

She bridled Draco to run to the scene, both hands firmly on his shoulders. She tried to compose her thoughts, tame her worries, process what Severus had told her – how on earth could he have _called_ them? If he could _call_ them, he must _live_ for a start – how _could_ he be alive still? Curse him! In the corner of her eye, Narcissa faintly perceived Moody leading away the Potter boy in the distance. The child appeared almost paralysed, not putting up any resistance to his teacher. She had the distinct feeling that there was a direct link between the boy and the Dark Lord's return, and she elbowed Severus. "Follow him," she whispered agitatedly, "Potter must know something! You've got to talk to him, Savvy!"

He looked over to the disappearing figures, whispered with Dumbledore, and together with McGonagall, those three pursued the old Auror and Potter. Narcissa had half a mind to go, too, but there was no use. Maybe Savvy was right when saying that she needed to go home in case Lucius – but this was nonsense. He was bound to have followed the calling, she was dead sure… She waited half of the night until Lucius finally returned to the Manor. She was shocked; he was pale and worn-out, all his usual self-confidence had fallen off, his hands were trembling, and he couldn't look into her eyes.

"Cissa –"

"I _know_, mon amour." She embraced him, pushing his head on her shoulder. "I know… We can make it. We'll come through."

He clang to her like dear life, shaking. "I'm so sorry, Cissa, I –"

"Shhh… You needn't apologise. Nothing of this is your fault!"

He gave a scornful laugh. "Whose fault is it then?"

She laughed, too, bitterly. "_His_! He ought to be dead, dead, dead!"

"We're doomed, Cissa! Potter's _seen_ me! I'm amazed that the Ministry's not here yet! I'll be in Azkaban by tomorrow!"

"Then flee! Hide! I'll take care of everything!"

He tightened his embrace still. "I love you, Cissa… No matter what will happen, you must never forget!"

"I love you too, mon amour. And that is why I know we can make it! Potter, ph! Who'll Fudge believe in more, you or that kid! Ha! Wasn't it all over the papers that he's gone nuts? That's a good start. Disturbed orphan, traumatised and psychotic, compulsively seeking attention, and tonight, he's seen his buddy die – he just snapped, didn't he? He was on the edge before – now he's gone a step further!"

He looked at her, full of admiration, and brushed a kiss on top of her head. "You are unbelievable, chérie. Merlin, you're bloody fantastic! You would have made a darn good Law Wizard, you know that?"

"I'm married to a darn good Law Wizard, that's enough." She chucked him under the chin and made him look into her eyes. "Believe me. We. Will. Make. This."


	61. In The Graveyard

Severus returns to Lord Voldemort's side at last

* * *

**- 3.11. -**

In The Graveyard

* * *

_Vita enim mortuorum in memoria est posita vivorum._

_CICERO – Orationes Philippicaes_

_

* * *

_

"Severus… You know what I must ask you to do… If you are ready – if you are prepared –"

He had waited for this moment, feared it, but now that it had come at last… "I am," he said simply, and there was nothing else to say. He had prepared himself for this for almost fifteen years, especially the last one. He had known it would come, one day; Dumbledore had predicted it, and he had clung to this prediction, had clung to it much more than to his bare life even.

Back then, in that fateful, dreadful, unspeakably painful night, Halloween 1981, the night of Lily's death… He hadn't managed to save her, he had done everything, _everything_ in his power, and yet she had died, quite literally before his eyes. For a very brief period of time, his old time delay, the time span between an event and its emotional impact on him, he had still functioned. Had seen after the kid, had rushed to see Lucius in more or less cold blood. In the back of his mind though, he had already known – that had been meant to be the last thing he'd ever do. He had meant to save Lucius' arse as his final proof of friendship, before going back to Spinner's End, and finish his life where it had started.

He had sat down to write a short note for Dumbledore, mainly what he had witnessed so Dumbledore would know, and his last bit of fervour he had spent on a flaming plea that the old Headmaster ought to see to it that Sirius Black, that obnoxious, mere-words-are-not-strong-enough traitor of his so-called _best friends_, would meet the only end he deserved –

The same Sirius Black that he had cursed with every breath he had taken, had just left the room, right before his nose. Dumbledore had actually forced them to shake hands – there would come a time, hopefully, when he'd have time to think just _how_ repelled he was by this involuntary act of pseudo-reconciliation, but not now, not now. He'd have to clear his mind, wipe away every true feeling he had on the subject, or he wouldn't live to see the next day. He _knew_ that – but the evening's events, fears, revelations had exhausted him, and the more he tried to push all these memories and thoughts away, the more they afflicted him.

On a second thought… The Dark Lord could see his hatred for Black, couldn't he? _Because_ Black hadn't been the real traitor but a loyal member of the Phoenix order, and of course, Dumbledore would have told him that. Yes, indeed – the flicker of loathing he had just felt was quite a safe haven, if he thought about it. It'd deliver a pretext for all the other strong emotions he had, could serve as a blind to conceal his true feelings on the subject. He reminded himself that he had to survive this night, if Lily shouldn't have died in vain. Lily – he mustn't think of her now! Still, he couldn't help himself; she just came back to his mind, now more than ever. Perhaps it had been the confrontation with Black, that bastard, that brought back all these memories now, in the most unsuitable moment.

Lily… Lily as a child still, and he could still remember in perfect clarity every moment they had spent together; he could recall how she had once asked him not to go 'home' just yet, and how he had looked at her in astonishment, realising that he had felt so much more 'at home' with her than he had ever felt in his parents' house. Lily in her Gryffindor robes, making jokes how the red of her hair clashed too badly with the Gryffindor scarlet… Lily as a blooming teenager, how she had awed him, scared him, attracted him like a moth was attracted by the light. And that's how it had been – he had been nothing but a moth, a tiny, unremarkable, greyish would-be-butterfly, and she had been the light, the sun, fire, warmth, life itself really. Oh Lily!

Everything could have come differently, if only… He would have been able to put up with darned James Potter on the long run; he would have hated him, sure, but he would have managed, only to have Lily still be a part of his life, his friend. He would have been able to put up with her child that was so much more his father's son than hers. For Lily's sake, he would have put up with everything.

'Cling to this,' he told himself, 'for Lily. Anything for Lily.' He'd go and follow the call after all, he'd look into the Dark Lord's face and tell him whatever it was he wanted to hear, he'd endure the torture that was certain to come, he would accomplish it all _for Lily_. In the end, she would _not_ have died in vain, that part of her child that _was_ Lily would vanquish the Dark Lord, would avenge her death, the Dark Lord himself would come to regret that he had ever laid his claws on Lily Evans –

And he did have some advantages on his side. All through the past year, he and Dumbledore had had time to prepare themselves; Severus wouldn't have to make up an ad-lib story. He had trained himself, it was all there in his head already, he would show the Dark Lord what he had practised on and _nothing else_ – for _her_.

He reached the gates, undid the security spells, slipped out in silence and put them back in order. He took a deep breath, pushed up his left sleeve and closed his right hand around the wrist. '_For her_'. In the next second he was gone without a sound.

He suddenly found himself on a Muggle graveyard, he noticed vaguely, but really, he had more pressing worries at hand. He spotted roughly twenty figures in black robes, spotted Lucius, Thelonius Nott, and on the ground, Elias Yaxley was just being Cruciated. He swallowed and fell on his knees, lowered his head as if he was going to be decapitated, and muttered, "My lord… Forgive your unworthy servant."

He made enough of an impression for Yaxley's torture to end at once. "Severus?" The voice wasn't what it had used to be; it clearly hadn't been used in a long time, but that didn't mean it was any less chilling. "Severus Snape?"

"Yes, your lordship, it is me."

He remained in that most submissive position, wondering if the last thing he'd feel in this life would be a blow and a cut in the back of his neck. But the Dark Lord seemed disinclined to kill him just now. Instead he asked, "You dare coming here, Severus?"

"I would never dare to defy my master's calling, my lord."

"Ah, but it clearly took you a long struggle, didn't it?" the Dark Lord taunted him. "I called you all more than two hours ago!"

"I believed I could be of better service to my master if I didn't follow the call at once."

"And why would _that_ be?"

"My lord, you once sent me out to spy on Albus Dumbledore. All year I felt the Dark Mark getting stronger, I _knew_ you would come back to us, to be our leader and master once more. I believed you might want me to keep the position I've got with the old man, and if I had immediately vanished when you called us, he would have noticed it at once. There was a big turmoil in the school –"

"What about Potter?"

Severus gave a lowly chuckle, expressing anger just like disdain. "Potter… He's like dry rot. Impossible to get rid of!"

"Look into my eyes, Severus," said the high voice silkily, and he obeyed at once. The Dark Lord rummaged through his head, looking this way and that, and Severus let him see everything he craved to see. Dumbledore's discovery of Crouch Junior and the real Moody. Potter bleeding, sobbing, but unmistakably alive. He let him hear Potter's story. He let him hear Minerva's furious report over Fudge's Dementors dealing with Crouch. The icing on top was a little scene compiled from several memories, containing pictures of a real emergency session with Dumbledore, dubbed by a variety of other moments.

He was surprised with himself for remaining so calm. The same wizard scrimmaging through his cranium for no less than half an hour at first, and subjecting him to the Cruciatus Curse next for his 'lack of faith' in his immortality and invincible power – how ironic, for Severus had been one of the few people actually believing that he'd come back one day, and if only because Dumbledore had said so – the same wizard had been the one to kill Lily in a moment of impatience and ennui. He hadn't even _wanted_ to kill her in the first place; he had simply done it to get to his true aim more quickly! But her death, cruel, useless as it had been, had fulfilled _one_ purpose at least, and while screaming in agony due to the torture, he consoled himself with the prospect of fierce, gleeful Schadenfreude once he had an opportunity for it.

His reaction to another of the present assembly took him more reserve than the Dark Lord himself – luckily, Severus hadn't recognised him at once. Peter Pettigrew – the rat – the filthy vermin who had sold out his best friends – who had ratted on Lily Evans, knowing full well what would be her fate! Maybe it was lucky that Severus had once, not quite justifiably, vented his hate for that traitor – a hate which had impounded over the course of twelve years – on Pettigrew's other old buddy Black, so that he could keep his aggression at bay _now_. Another stroke of luck was that nobody here seemed to feel the slightest bit of sympathy for Pettigrew. They all claimed that their repellence was rooted in Pettigrew being the one who had led to the Dark Lord's downfall. But Severus knew that in the majority of cases, if not all – none of them had _ever_ attempted to find their so-called master, after all, had they! – it was really the fact that Pettigrew had brought _Him_ back which made them all so hostile.

In Severus' own case, another, once unpardonable, now lucky, circumstance played out to his favour – he knew Peter Pettigrew _much_ longer than any other of the present wizards did. He had been one of Potter's notorious cronies who had made Severus' time in Hogwarts hell – but that the true reason for that 'older' loathing consisted in the fact that Severus blamed him for having partaken in destroying the friendship between himself and Lily, not even Lucius knew _that_.

The long and the short of it was – and the only matter of real importance here – before sun dawn, Severus had convinced the supposedly best Legilimens in the world to believe that he was looking at one of his most enthusiastic followers once more when boring into Severus' black eyes. Severus returned that gaze serenely and unblinking.

He would see to the Dark Lord being defeated, and Lily Evans' son surviving, and if it was the last thing Severus Snape ever did!

* * *

_Vita enim..._ The lives of the dead live on in the memory of the living.


	62. In Order

Nymphadora Tonks honours family tradition by joining an order and making new friends there

* * *

**- 3.12. -**

In Order

* * *

_Tapfer wird sein, wer gegen ihn kämpft. Klug wird sein, wer seine Pläne vereitelt._

_BERTOLT BRECHT_

_

* * *

_

She finds this kind of spooky. This house – this house belongs to Sirius Black, her cousin once – or is it twice? – removed, and not four weeks ago, she's still been assigned to hunt him down as a dangerous fugitive. Well, she's still supposed to catch him, but now she knows that this is absolute rubbish. He is innocent, just that this moron Fudge delights in being blind, deaf and silly – but that's no news to his employees, so… Sirius has offered his family's house to the Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore's gang that this one's summoned to fight against You Know Who, since the Ministry's doing nothing.

You Know Who – she smirks wryly. Even among Aurors, who are after all the spearhead in the fight against Dark wizards, some don't dare to speak his name, and she has accustomed to avoid speaking it, too, simply to spare her colleagues' nerves. This is stupid, of course, she isn't superstitious, but what the heck. There's no reason to offend the old blokes for nothing.

However – this _house_ – oh Merlin. How could someone actually _live_ in such a place? Who the hell would decorate their hallway with a dozen servants' heads? Seriously! There are dead _house-elves_ hanging on the wall! She would never have believed this if she hadn't seen it with her own eyes. Her mum sometimes mentioned that her aunt and uncle have been totally off the rocker, but Tonks always assumed that she was exaggerating like usually when her family is concerned. Nope – no exaggeration _here_. The interior designer who furnished this house must have been a complete weirdo, and very, _very _morbid.

It rarely happens that Nymphadora Tonks is punctual, and today has been one of the rare occasions, because she has come here together with her colleague Kingsley, who's the epitome of reliability, punctuality and every other responsible quality. If only she had been late as usual, for waiting here for the others to arrive is bordering on torture. Can she truly be related to those people who used to live here?

Sirius seems all right; right now he's bustling about in the kitchen, which isn't _quite_ as horrid as the rest of the house, but only fractionally so. Because in the hallway aren't only dead servants, there are also portraits of former owners, one nastier and viler than the other, and all of them screaming and screeching on top of their voices. Kingsley cast a charm on the door to make it soundproof, but had to undo it again because they realised that otherwise they wouldn't hear the others ringing. The screams are unnerving, and impatiently, she's sipping her tea.

To make it all worse, there is this nutty house-elf, scurrying in and out and muttering curses under his breath. She has only little experience with house-elves; as an Auror, one sometimes comes across one of these odd creatures, but this one here is decidedly the strangest so far. He clearly hates his new master, and Sirius does nothing to lower the tension.

"Ungrateful brat," the elf murmurs, his little fists clenching and unclenching. "My poor, poor mistress, Kreacher cannot stand to hear her complaints –"

"Then go and console her!"

"Kreacher's poor mistress cannot be consoled, having a son like this!"

"Oh, I think a brown-nose like you as her servant may have made up for that."

Before the elf could give a snide retort, Sirius has grabbed him and rudely conveyed him out of the door. Tonks tries a smile. "Welcome home, eh?"

"Azkaban is the most terrible place in the world, but this house is a solid number two," he replies darkly. "I bet your mother's told you how my parents were like."

"She's said that it's a hard one to call who was worse, your parents or hers."

"I guess everyone hates their own parents most – at least when they're parents like such – but your grandparents weren't half as mad as my dear old mum, mark my words."

"And your dad?"

He smirks, inclines his head and gnarls, "Not as bad as she, but – let me put it like this – _neither of them_ would have admitted _you_ to enter this house, or your father. Ever."

In this second, the doorbell is ringing and the tremendous noise in the hallway reaches another peak. Sirius hurries away and returns with an illustrious group. A tall, balding man and a small, chubby witch that anxiously clings to his arm, another witch with black hair and an enviably rosy complexion, a greyish wizard in worn-down robes and –

"Bill?" She jumps up and hurries over, stormily embracing her old school mate.

"Tonks! What are you doing here, kiddo?"

"I could ask you the same, sweetie!"

"I'm here because I want to join the Order."

"I meant – since when are you back in England?"

They easily fall into conversation; Bill is two years her senior and was a good friend in school. She has been a substitute for the Hufflepuff House Team then, and they often practised together, but haven't seen each other for four or five years now. She's had a short fling with his younger brother Charlie, who's been in her year and a Quidditch player as well. Now Tonks is rather amazed to find out that the frightened lady and her husband are Mr and Mrs Weasley, Bill's and Charlie's parents. Next she's introduced to the others, a witch called Hestia Jones and a wizard called Remus Lupin.

The latter is terribly nice and sympathetic, and before long, she's talking mainly to him while they are still waiting. All the while she tries to figure out his age. His hair and the deep lines in his face suggest a man in his late forties, and there's something in his eyes that makes him appear haunted. On the other hand, the same eyes can sparkle so mischievously as if they belonged to a much younger man. He has interesting eyes, thinking about it, gentle and knowing and kind.

"I guess I ought to tell you beforehand – before you hear it from someone else," he begins quietly, apprehensively glancing around. 'Oh, there we go', she thinks, 'he's married'. She peeks at his hands, but no ring to be seen. "I – you must know about my condition… Dumbledore will address this point anyway, so I can just tell you straightaway. I'm – I'm a werewolf."

She is puzzled. "A werewolf?"

"Yes."

"Oh! So you're – you're the one that's been Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher, right?"

"I can well understand if you feel like sitting elsewhere."

"Elsewhere? Oh! Oh, I see! No, I'm very comfortable." He looks doubtful, and she repeats with more vigour, "I'm really comfortable! Really!"

He doesn't look too convinced. "I suppose for an Auror this must be an interesting experience. For once, you're not hunting a werewolf down, but drink tea with him?"

"Oh, come on! I'm not one of those prejudiced cows!"

"Excuse me. I didn't mean to imply you were."

She is spared an answer because Dumbledore and McGonagall arrive. She has lied to her new acquaintance – she _is_ insecure with his revelation. She never talked to a werewolf before. She hasn't thought that she might ever _want_ to have a private conversation with a werewolf. Though it isn't the poor man's fault, right? He has been bitten by a vile and dissolute beast – and turned into the same then…? No. This man certainly isn't vile, or dissolute, or any other bad thing. As far as Tonks can see, he's nothing but obliging and sweet.

"Miss Tonks, are you even listening," comes the crisp voice of her old Deputy Headmistress. Some things never change, eh?

"Yes, Professor."

"Let me clarify some things, Miss Tonks," Dumbledore says with a twinkling smile. "This goes to you as well, Mr Weasley. We're not in Hogwarts. I cannot speak for my esteemed colleague here, but as far as I am concerned, I am Albus, or Dumbledore, or the old crackpot if you please. In return we will address you Nymphadora if you –"

"Gosh, no! Call me old tart if you've got to, but not Nymphadora! I'm _Tonks_. Just Tonks!"

"After getting the names right, I would like to continue," says McGonagall, half smirking, half frowning.

"Indeed, Minerva. As you just said, we need as many people as we can assemble. This morning, I talked to Dedalus Diggle. Arthur tells me that we can count on Sturgis Podmore, too. Both couldn't come today due to their jobs; we mustn't raise suspicion if we can avoid it. That means – you're more than welcome to attend the Order meetings, but make sure that this does not collide with other duties, or that outsiders notice your engagement."

"Within Hogwarts, we've got Rubeus Hagrid and Severus Snape," McGonagall continues, and Tonks suppresses a loud groan. _Snape!_ How dearly she' hoped to never see _that_ man again! She catches Remus Lupin's eye, who must have registered her discontent, giving her a little smile and mouthing something like, 'Don't worry!'

"Both are working on most secretive and dangerous assignments that I cannot comment upon at present. Furthermore there are Elphias Doge and my own brother, I suppose many of you remember them of old. Alastor Moody is still recovering from his imprisonment, but he will join us as soon as possible."

"What about poor Harry?" Mrs Weasley cries, clenching a handkerchief. "When I think of the poor boy I –"

Her husband pats her back and quietly talks to her. Dumbledore nods. "Harry is safe where he is now. Nothing can happen to him in his aunt's house. Nevertheless I think it's most important that we keep an eye on him to make sure nothing happens to him _outside_. I don't know if Voldemort –" Several people gasp with the name. "– has already found out about the protection that Mrs Petunia Dursley delivers. Anyway, he might give it a try, or he could attempt to lure Harry out and attack him elsewhere –"

"Excuse me, Sir, but if I'm not mistaken, that Mrs Dursley is a Muggle, isn't she?" Kingsley Shacklebolt asks in that deep pleasant voice of his. "How can she protect her nephew?"

"That woman!" Mrs Weasley snarls, unable to suspend a disdainful expression. "_Protect_ Harry! She'd let him starve if she could!"

"Molly, you must understand that Mrs Dursley is a conscious mother like yourself. She cannot cope with her nephew's capabilities, that's true, and I don't mean to excuse her behaviour towards Harry either. Still, she wouldn't seriously harm him, and to answer your question, Kingsley – Mrs Dursley is the only living person except for Harry himself that is related by blood to Lily Potter. That relation is very powerful; Lily died to save her son. This is ancient magic, which I don't have to explain any further, do I?"

"And we have someone close to him."

"Thank you, Minerva, for bringing this up. Yes, indeed, on one of our next meeting you will meet Arabella Figg –"

"_Who?_"

"Arabella Figg. She was the youngest daughter of the Norwich branch of the Cauldwells."

"Never heard of her. Arabella Cauldwell, you say?"

"Forget it, Molly. She is a Squib. She is a neighbour of the Dursleys and has kept an eye on the boy since his infancy. We've stayed in contact all these years and she indeed is a most valuable help."

Mrs Weasley isn't easily pacified. "Are you telling me that poor Harry's safety is based on the shoulders of a _Muggle_ and a _Squib_?"

Dumbledore and her husband try to soothe her concerns; next thing is a schedule for extra-guarding Harry Potter – Tonks is dying to meet famous Harry Potter, but isn't offered the job – and they contemplate who else they could trust to support them. But right now, she is much more interested in her neighbour. For a werewolf, he is kind of cute, isn't he? She catches herself with that notion, appalled with herself. '_For_ _a werewolf_'? She really _is_ that sort of prejudiced cow!

"Would you care for a butterbeer after this?" she asks as nonchalantly as she can.

"I reckon I'm a little too old for butterbeer," he says with a smile.

That is her chance. "So how old _are_ you?"

"I'm thirty-six. And you? Old enough for Fire Whiskey?"

"What do you think?"

"I'd say I couldn't decide since you're an Metamorphmagus."

"How do you know?"

"Since I've come, you've changed your nose three times."

She hasn't even noticed this and blushes. Accidental transformation only ever happens to her when she is extremely worn out – or nervous. How could this guy make her so nervous? He _is_ cute, werewolf or not, who cares? They've agreed to go to the Leaky Cauldron, when Sirius suggests that they could stay and have a drink with him instead. As much as she is curious for her long-lost cousin, she would prefer to be alone with the intriguing Mr Lupin – she can talk to Bill, and Sirius, and the rest another time.

"That screeching in the hallway is so annoying, Sirius –"

"I can join you in the Leaky Cauldron then!"

Remus Lupin gives a dry chuckle. "I hate reminding you, pal, but you're a wanted criminal! And dogs aren't served drinks!"

"Dogs?"

"He's an Animagus."

"I can use an Invisibility Cloak!"

"Don't be silly, Padfoot. What if someone accidentally stepped on it and exposed you?"

"Remus is right, Sirius," Dumbledore joins in the conversation. "You mustn't leave the house, it's too dangerous."

"But –"

"As things are now, none of us could help you, Sirius. If you were caught, you'd be on your own and lost to the Dementors."

"He's right, Padfoot," Remus Lupin says sympathetically. "But if you want, we'll stay. We can hex the door soundproof."

"Excuse my bluntness, but this place is – it's awful," Tonks sighs, looking as apologetically as she can.

Miraculously enough, it is Dumbledore who answers, "True. That's another point – we should try to make this house more fit for – well, visitors. If this is going to be our Headquarters –"

"I can do that!" Sirius exclaims. "I've got to stay in this wretched house anyway, right, I can just as well spend my time renovating."

"If it's all right for you, I'd suggest that Molly, Arthur and their children move in with you and help," Dumbledore says calmly. "Voldemort cannot attack Harry in his aunt's house, but he's a capable strategist, and it isn't unlikely that he might want to lure Harry into a trap by attacking his best friend Ron."

Molly Weasley turns paper-white and gasps for breath. Her husband keeps his composure better, he merely swabs his forehead with his handkerchief and squeezes his wife's hand. "You think that could happen?"

"Yes. For that reason I will pay a visit to Miss Granger's parents, too, and ask them for their permission to bring their daughter here. Of course only if you agree, Sirius."

"Sure! You reckon I appreciate being stuck in this cave all by myself?"

"Who is Miss Granger?" Tonks asks curiously.

"One of Harry's closest friends," Remus Lupin replies. "Her parents are Muggles, they cannot protect her."

A loud wail comes from the kitchen sink and everyone swirls around. The weird house-elf has thrown himself on the floor, crying and whimpering. "_No!_ No, no, no! Master mustn't invite a dirty Mudblood! What would Kreacher's mistress say – no Mudblood ever entered her house!"

"Shut up, maggot!"

"Kreacher has endured all this in silence, but no more! A _werewolf_ in Milady's house! And those ruddy bloodtraitors, and master also wants to invite a _Squib_! And now he even means to bring a _Mudblood_ –"

Once again, Sirius grabs him and hurls him into the hallway, muttering all sorts of rude curses under his breath. He is reprimanded by Dumbledore, but he just shrugs. "_You_ try living with this brick head under a roof! He and my mother's portrait, they –"

In the end, Sirius, Bill, Remus Lupin and Tonks sit down in the kitchen of that terrible house. With the door spelled soundproof and the ghastly elf whining about in his former mistress' bedroom, it isn't quite as horrid as Tonks has foreseen, and most of all, it gives her the opportunity to deepen her new acquaintance. Naturally, Sirius and Bill do most of the talking, the former relating further details of his erroneous imprisonment, his escape and what has happened since, and the latter mainly gushing about his new girlfriend.

"And you?" asks Tonks at the first possibility. "What are you doing?"

She gives Remus Lupin her brightest, most encouraging smile and elicits a little blush from him. "This and that, after I had to leave Hogwarts. Presently Dumbledore has given me the order to try and make contacts to other werewolves. He believes that Voldemort will form an alliance with them."

Tonks shuffles on her seat. "Oh… Is that – is that possible? I thought… I thought they detest anyone who tried to live among hum- forgive me – among pure – oh damn it! I'm so sorry!"

"I'm used to it, Nymphadora, don't worry. And I fathom I know what you meant to ask. Yes, they are very suspicious about someone like me, but for the first time I can consider myself lucky for all the strict anti-werewolf regulations, and that I had to leave Hogwarts then. My bitterness is credible, so to speak –"

"That's awful!"

"No, it's helpful. I already encountered one or two fellow sufferers in a similar situation like myself."

"And how's your mother, Nymphadora?" Sirius butts in with a slightly annoyed expression.

"Please, I cannot stand that name! It's Tonks, simply Tonks."

"So how is my favourite cousin?"

"She's doing fine, as usually. Not even You Know Who's return seems to dampen her spirits."

"You call him like this, too? I hadn't meant that you'd be so superstitious!"

"I'm not superstitious, just a creature of habit. Most people flinch when you say _Voldemort_, so I got used not to mention his real name."

"That's thoughtful of you," Remus Lupin says with that sweet smile of his, and Tonks' heart makes a leap. Blimey, who would have thought… That man _is_ interesting! This notion is confirmed in the next weeks – the more she gets to know him, the more attracted she is. She gets downright exited before the Order meetings.

Joining the Order makes sense for a whole lot of reasons, in Tonks' eyes. First and foremost, it's a matter of conviction. Those bastards must be stopped, and if it costs her career, or life even. There comes in the second aspect already, perhaps it's her Muggle ancestry, perhaps it's her juvenile age, but she has this romantic ideal of resistance, of values greater than a single life. There are things worth fighting, why, even dying for. It's a question of honour for her to be in the Phoenix Order. Thirdly, she is a professional Auror, it is her _job_ to hunt down Dark wizards, and if her bosses are too stupid to realise the deadly peril that they're all in, she's got to act on her own. Number four – beside her Muggle ancestry, she's got that other side of family, and she feels like she's compelled to make up for _their_ crimes. She's the first grade niece of Bellatrix Lestrange, for goodness sake! Lucius Malfoy is her uncle! It's as if she's got to prove that evil isn't in her blood, for her mum's sake. Then there's her hunger for adventure, too. She's become an Auror, but under an incapable Minister, who wouldn't recognise a Dark sorcerer if they were casting a curse on him. She's been assigned to persecute Sirius Black after his escape, but being the clever – and innocent! – man that he is, there was never any direct combat at all. All her training, everything she has learned – she wants to put it into action.

Last but not least, there are her new comrades. She's come to grow as fond of her cousin Sirius as her mum is – a relative to be proud of, after all. She's so happy to meet Charlie and Bill again; she's strangely satisfied to prove to her former teachers that she's grown up to be a responsible, able witch, and showing Kingsley that she's more than his clumsy little apprentice is great, too. And then, there's Remus Lupin!

If she was the gushy type, this would be the moment to sigh and look dreamy. That such a man is still unmarried! He's sensitive and smart. Experienced, but by no means patronising. He's got a fantastic sense of humour, witty and ironic, but never mean. He's perfectly amiable, and face it, sexy as hell. He's not handsome in the way that Bill is, for example, it's something quite different with him; the scars, the knowing looks, the strands of grey hair on his temples – aww!

It's impossible, of course. He's thirteen years older than her. He is a werewolf – all silly prejudices aside, that _is_ an insurmountable problem. Also, she's an Auror, and Aurors can't afford closer relationships. And most of all – he isn't the tiniest bit attracted to _her_. Pity. _Damn_ pity!

And finally, she's come to meet famous Harry Potter, too. Her mostly male colleagues like to give themselves a cool air, so they would never admit that they're just as keen as everyone else to get a glimpse. Tonks doesn't pretend to be cooler than she really is. Oh, if only she could boast to her colleagues that she knows _Harry_ _Potter_! That she's talked to him, that he's a very pleasant boy, and that despite all his awful experiences he is absolutely sane, not at all the weirdo that the papers paint him to be.

There are quite a number of Aurors who think that Potter is a lunatic, still they also do believe that the kid has been on that graveyard and that he's seen Lord Voldemort return. But what can they do? They have no leave to investigate; as a matter of fact, anyone who hints that he believes in the boy's story has to fear disciplinary proceedings, indeed, a remove to office work if they signal particular stubbornness. Kingsley has come to the Phoenix Order because he's been trained up by Mad-Eye Moody himself, then, who is an old buddy of Dumbledore. Now Kingsley knew his young apprentice Tonks well enough to sense that she'd be interested to join, too. Another reason for her recruitment may be that they might've hoped that she could spy on her aunt and uncle, but if that was so, she'd have to let them down in that quarter anyway.

She hasn't talked to either of them in more than ten years, and if she knocked on their door _now_, she'd raise more suspicions than be in any way useful for Dumbledore. It's funny… She's got her uncle Lucius to thank for coming so far – Kingsley's told her. She messed up her first entrance examination for the Auror training; she was bloody nervous, and her natural clumsiness kicked in. According to Kingsley, Lucius heard of her failing and arranged the second test. She still wonders why. He doesn't like her. She'd go as far as to say that he loathes her. It must be her aunt's doing to persuade him, or… Maybe he just wanted to keep up that respectable façade, signalising, 'hey, I'm one of the good guys, I even support my Mudblood niece to defy Dark wizards'. Who knows. Who _cares_, more like!

She hasn't been exactly surprised when she's heard that Lucius has been on that graveyard in the night of Voldemort's return. Still, it has strangely touched her. If she had a wish – all right, if she had two – _three_ wishes, she'd firstly wish that he hadn't come back in the first place, secondly that Remus Lupin asked her out on a date, and the solid number three would be that her own uncle had not been one of the first to appear on his old master's side. She couldn't say why though. He _is_ a complete jerk. That story she's heard about his involvement with the Chamber of Secrets plot some years ago – that alone is more than she could ever forgive. God, those poor kids could have been _killed_! But dear Uncle Lucius has never cared for trifles, has he.

Since Voldemort's return, she's often thought about the old times. Tried to square her memories with the facts. As long as old Cygnus was still alive, there was no contact whatsoever. He died shortly after his oldest daughter's conviction, in the summer of '82. Nana – her French grandmother – was very much a family person, and even if she wasn't exactly happy about Andromeda's choice of a husband, her attachment outweighed her resentment. So they met up again. For birthdays, for Christmas, for summer outings. And however uncomfortable the adults might have been with those arrangements, the children _loved_ them.

Draco was their only cousin, and Tonks and Lenny had so much fun with him. He was their doll. _So_ cute. Those soft blond curls he's had as a toddler, the little nose, the bright, lively, sparkling eyes. They showed him spells, romped around, sledging, swimming, they carried him along beaches and up mountains. He was no easy child, quite his father's son really – demanding, spoilt, egocentric. Did they care? No way. He was delightful with all his bad qualities. And they enjoyed spoiling him even more.

It's all come to an end after Nana's death. Not immediately, but soon. She died in – hang on, in '84, and although they tried it some longer, two years maybe, it didn't work out. The first to be cancelled were the joint trips in summer. Andromeda said she had only ever agreed to go because of Nana. And Lucius must have been _pretty_ relieved, too. Must have been awful for him to be seen in public with such disgraceful relatives! They would meet for Christmas still, and a couple of special birthday parties, but they all ended in a turmoil. Andromeda and Lucius argued about mere trifles first – about the real stuff later – and they simply wouldn't stop again. Almost a ritual – at some point, Andromeda jumped to her feet, hissed at her husband and children to follow her – and they'd all march out, Andromeda's chin raised, Ted shaking his head helplessly, the kids upset.

No, Tonks never wanted to leave then. She wanted to _live_ in Malfoy Manor. She wanted to become just like Aunt Narcissa, so gorgeous, so elegant, so goddamned witty and cool. She's had these incredible robes – Tonks has only seen such robes in high class fashion magazines, just like that jewellery. None of her dolls had _any_ outfit comparable to one of Aunt Narcissa's leisure robes, let alone the more festive ones.

And the Manor! Malfoy Manor! Oh boy! What a house! House? _Palace!_ The Malfoys have a number of splendid places all over Europe, but Aunt Narcissa wasn't fond of leaving home, and who could blame her. Malfoy Manor is a jewel. It's breathtakingly beautiful; the epitome of an enchanted fairy tale castle. It has even come with a real moat, a huge lake, a little stream, a huge park and an even huger forest beyond. Countless towers. Eerie dungeons. Endless corridors, huge halls, velvet, marble, mahogany and ebony everywhere. Furniture carved out of Oligophant ivory – portraits framed in solid gold – chandeliers with diamonds as big as eggs… When they played hide and seek, they often had to stop, simply because they hadn't found each other in two hours.

As a kid, she's worshipped her aunt, and doted on the boy. Gawd, he was so cute. Like one of those cherubs. One Christmas, she and Lenny attached wings to his back and levitated him. He _loved _it, so did they. Sure, Aunty Cissy did _not_ love it. It was the only time in fact that she got rather mad with her niece and nephew. But all in all, Tonks' memories of her aunt are nothing but great. She was so cool. In every meaning of that word. She was reserved and detached. She never lost her countenance, no matter what. During all those fights between their mum and Uncle Lucius, Narcissa never did raise her voice. When she thought that Lucius had crossed the line, she'd raise one of her perfect brows for the tiniest fracture, and he'd fall silent at once. Same for Draco. Whenever he was angry or upset or unhappy, one look from her would suffice to make him change his mind and smile again. Lucius was grand in every respect. _Everything_ was grand about him. His voice, his gestures, his facial expressions – everything about him emanated power. But to Tonks, her aunt has appeared much more mighty. She needn't talk, she needn't gesture, she could command people by _looking_ at them.

Tonks' mum is very different from her sister. Her temper's much closer to the surface; she'll speak her mind, she won't keep the peace for the sake of it. Let's face it: many, if not most of those arguments back then, her mum has started. She couldn't stand her brother-in-law, and she'd use every opportunity to pick up a fight. Sure, Lucius was a jerk. No doubt about it. Today, Tonks knows _exactly_ what he's like, and even as a child, she has been aware that he was no nice person. But somehow, his wife's glory reflected on him.

Why on earth would a woman like her aunt marry such a complete twerp like old Lucius? It must remain a mystery to Tonks. It is a mystery to the entire branch of her family; Andromeda avoids to mention her sisters, but she is grudgingly fond of Narcissa, and Ted practically admires her, not at last because of her fantastic knowledge of art and her exquisite taste. Lenny, too, used to like her a lot, back then. All of them adored Aunt Cissy and loathed or feared Uncle Lucius. Kids can be very perceptive. They're not always right with their sensual assessment – when she was five or six, Tonks staunchly believed that Tom the hunch-backed bartender of the Leaky Cauldron was really a goblin in disguise, trying to spy on the wizarding community – but in Lucius' case, both Lenny and Tonks herself got the right end of the stick somehow.

To his credit – he _did_ try his best. Undoubtedly for Narcissa's sake. He forced himself to smile at his niece and nephew, he gave them marvellous presents – Tonks' first racing broom was in fact a gift from aunt and uncle, and they'd arrange a summer class in sculpturing for Lenny, with the famous artist Euridyke Pappadopulos. But in the end, he simply couldn't help it – he despised his brother-in-law, he always resented his old classmate and Prefect colleague Andromeda, their children were abominations in his eyes, and he couldn't entirely hide his abhorrence. In unguarded moments, he gazed at them in sheer disgust, head-shaking, and when the fights with Andromeda got more heated, he'd also speak his mind very clearly – this being the usual moment for Narcissa to raise a brow and for Andromeda to get up and go.

"I have a feeling they're going to strike soon," Sirius says, thus waking Tonks up from her trip down memory lane. "Why risk that Dumbledore does find an auditory after all? It's clear that he wants Harry –"

"Thank Merlin, the boy is safe where he is," Arthur interrupts him.

"But –"

"Not now, Sirius. Not now. I've got to get back to work, and I still don't know if I'm supposed to trail Elias Yaxley, or that Carrow character –"

Yes, they have a rather concise idea about the Dark order. There's Professor Snape spying on his old buddies – though the particular system of the Death Eaters prevents him from knowing everyone involved. Voldemort has read his Art of War, right, he's made sure that no jackass could blow up his entire circle. There are cells containing seven wizards each. They might know someone outside of their own cell, but that's accidental. And from Snape's old cell, pretty much everyone is either dead or imprisoned. Thank Merlin there's still good ol' Uncle Lucius.

And here is the _real_ problem now. Numbers. Voldemort has been away, presumed dead, for more than a decade, still he can fall back on four times as many wizards as his opponent Dumbledore can. Those wizards that are called 'Death Eaters' represent the inner circle, those who have given an oath for their life to serve, and both Professor Snape and Mad-Eye estimate that there are roughly thirty-five wizards still alive, only a dozen of them in Azkaban. Additionally, there are twice as many guys tightly linked to Voldemort, and if Dumbledore is right, a vast number of magical beasts and beings that he can use for his purposes.

Hagrid has been sent to the giants, to secure their support, or at least, their non-interference. Remus Lupin has gone back to join the other werewolves to agitate against Voldemort. Both missions are unlikely to be much of a success though. The giants are dumb and void of those sentiments that humans call 'morals'. Voldemort can offer them a life that no one else would be willing to grant them. And the same is true for the werewolves. Even if the Ministry loosened the rigid anti-werewolf laws, their hunger could never be satiated in a civilised environment. The same regulations are to blame that there are only a handful of werewolves like Remus. Why bother if they're despised outcasts anyway? Fenrir Greyback is out there…

Fenrir is the doyen of werewolves, a tragic figure himself. He is one of the rare specimens born to this condition, raised by his werewolf father in the woods. His mother was a witch that had to abandon her child because her parents would have murdered him if they had got hold of him. So there he is; a capable wizard, a brilliant strategist, but most of all, a bitter, disillusioned monster full of hate and hunger for revenge. Every child knows his name, but they mostly believe that it's merely a tale of terror, one of the kind that kids whisper under their blankets when they sleep over at their friends' house. But he is very real. There is a whole special unit designed to hunt him down, but Fenrir is clever. His attacks are unforeseeable, he and his gang keep on changing their whereabouts, and since Voldemort's downfall thirteen years ago, he's specialised on abducting Muggle children to feed, never leaving a trace. Once a year, they kidnap a wizard child, as young as possible, to make them a werewolf and raise them in their species' way, until they've forgotten who they were, until they're following their chief unconditionally.

Remus could have been one of these unfortunate boys, if it hadn't been for his father and Dumbledore. Mr Lupin defied Greyback, saved his little son and stood up for him. Dumbledore became Headmaster in Hogwarts at just the right time, giving him a solid education and the same steady principles like his father. Some of this, Remus had told her himself, the rest she has got from the files of the special unit. She felt a bit guilty to snoop around a fellow order member, but her curiosity has overwhelmed her conscientiousness, and everything's she's read has only made her like him more yet.

However, their chances to defy Voldemort are slim, but they exist. They've got Dumbledore after all! And Harry Potter, which might look feeble, but works as an intrinsic motivation somehow. If a baby of eighteen months was once able to defeat the greatest Dark wizard of all times, they can do it again! Being the cunning bastard that he is, Voldemort hasn't come out in the open so far. Smart move. For the time being, he can reorganise his order without the Ministry's intervention. The Phoenix Order on the other hand is closely surveyed; three Aurors are assigned to track down Sirius Black (Scrimgeour is _not_ satisfied with their performance so far), and everyone who is found out to be a member has to face some sort of punishment. Tonks herself and Kingsley didn't hesitate – he has lost a brother to the Death Eaters, but she knows a couple of colleagues who are just too scared to risk their career. Four years of thorough training, renunciation of a family – she doesn't blame them for being anxious, and it's good to know that there are some friendly minds in the Auror department at least.

"The boy is fine. He doesn't look too healthy, but he's fine," Emmeline Vance says now. She is one of Harry Potter's secret guards, because Dumbledore fears that the kid might be attacked in the vicinity of his aunt and uncle's house.

Molly Weasley puts on a fierce look. "These people do not feed him properly!"

"I think it's the stress."

"Plus he's grown quite a bit."

"I _still_ say we bring him here at once," Molly insists stubbornly.

She is backed up by Sirius. "Sure! I don't get why he's got to stay with those morons!"

"Because Dumbledore says so," Professor McGonagall says briskly. "Now where _is_ Mundungus, we've got to schedule the next week!"

"Just assign him when you need him, Minerva. It's not as if he has got a job to claim his time!"

"Perhaps we could ask Snape to take a shift or two – it's holidays after all, so –"

"Rubbish, Broderick, rubbish. He must not be seen anywhere near the boy – or the Department of Mysteries, before you start with _that_. It might compromise his cover," Kingsley says calmly.

"But they think he's a double spy, so –"

"So they'd pick one of his shifts for an attack and what's he supposed to do _then_!"

Momentarily, the shifts for protecting Harry Potter are mostly assigned to Charlie, Bill and Bill's girlfriend. Everyone has agreed that they're the most unobtrusive; all of them know Harry and if someone, or the boy himself, spots them, they can still claim that they merely want to pop in for a visit. Problem – Charlie needs to get back to Romania, and Bill and Fleur alone cannot cover twenty-four seven, they've got jobs of their own.

"What about Fred and George?" Charlie asks, but doesn't get any further because his mother explodes at once.

"Are you _crazy?_"

"They're of age, they're keen on joining –"

"They are _children_! They're in school still! They're –"

Arthur pats his wife's arm. "Easy, dear. Fred and George are no option, Charlie. Of age or not, they'd hardly manage to stand up to a full-grown Dark wizard."

"_I_ could take over every open shift!"

"You must not be seen anywhere, Sirius. Pettigrew knows your Animagus form, every Death Eater could recognise you and call for the Ministry to get you out of the way."

Tonks raises her hand. "I can change my appearance at will, no one would recognise me."

"But we need you elsewhere, Miss Tonks. I agree with Molly – Mundungus has time at his hands, and he's professional in keeping a good cover. What about you, Emmeline?" Professor McGonagall examines the parchment before her. "Tuesday and Sunday, shift one and two, like usually?"

"I can do the Saturday, too."

"Excellent. I'll assign Mundungus for Monday to Friday afternoon, still it'd be good to have a stand-in, just in case."

"Wednesday eez my free day, I can do Wednesday," Fleur says readily and smiles. Gawd, that girl's got perfect teeth. And complexion. And legs. And –

"That's generous, dear."

Professor McGonagall scribbles, not noticing Molly's scowl. Bill does though and angrily grimaces at his mother, making Tonks and a couple of others grin. Molly is _not_ content with her oldest son's choice of a girlfriend, as everyone knows. Admittedly, Fleur Delacour _is_ a case of her own. On the plus side – she is incredibly pretty, she is bright and talented, and she's on _their_ side. On the negative – she is – _well_ – very _French_, isn't she? Lofty – affected – airy – and pretty extravagant. She'll drink no normal tea. She'll eat hardly anything normal. She'll dress up for work as if she was going to some fancy party. She'll talk with that unnerving accent. And she'll act completely weird when she's around Bill. They all have a snigger now and then on her cost, but she's okay. Only Molly cannot cope with her. Oh well, it'll pass.

* * *

_Tapfer..._ Brave will be who fights against him. Smart will be who foils his plans.


	63. How Close It Really Was

A disheveled servant shows up in Malfoy Manor

* * *

**- 3.13. -**

How Close It Really Was

* * *

_Suffering by nature or chance never seems so painful as suffering inflicted on us by the arbitrary will of another._

_ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER_

_

* * *

_

In retrospection, he couldn't recall how he had come home. How he had even survived. Severus had saved him, somehow, had begged for his old friend's life, Graham had carried him out, had Disapparated with him, had carried him all the way to the Manor. Narcissa had waited, she always did, and freaked out when seeing the blood, his broken limbs. The next thing he could say for certain was that he had woken up in their bed, his wounds taken care of, his fractures already mended. Narcissa's features were as white as the linen; she was sitting beside the bed, and informed him that they had put him to sleep for three days until his worst injuries had healed. She sat down on the mattress, tenderly stroking his cheeks.

"Graham and Severus have told me what has happened, mon trésor. The bastard! That rotten piece of filth! Mark my words, he will pay for this!"

He feebly shook his head, reached out for her and pulled her down to lie beside him. "Leave it be, my love. He punished me with good reason."

"Good reason!" she spat, scandalised. "Graham mentioned the word '_punishment'_, but he didn't know what for, and I strongly doubt that you've deserved _any_ punishment at all!"

"He's found it out, Cissa… The thing with the diary!"

"Diary…?"

"The diary that could open the Chamber of Secrets. He entrusted it to me, and I've lost it."

"And that's what you call '_good reason_'? You've really got yourself a bad concussion there, mon amour!" She cuddled up to him, very careful not to hurt him, and tentatively pressed his hand. "Don't you justify the fiend!"

"I don't mean to justify him… But I'm alive, am I not, and that's all that counts for now."

Narcissa wasn't pacified so easily. She had nearly got a heart attack when she had seen him, had dreaded in agony for an entire night that he wouldn't come through, she had prayed and trembled, and played Spanish Inquisition with poor Graham. She had been on the verge of seeing the Dark Lord himself and make him pay for what he had done to her husband, only her anxiety for this one's recovery, her last scraps of common sense and Severus' Petrification spell had kept her.

Who did that bastard think that he was? What did he think he was doing? And Lucius' explanation didn't make it any better. They had believed the Dark Lord to be _dead_, so no one could reasonably expect them to store his old belongings, for goodness' sake! Some silly booklet, and for that crap he'd almost killed her husband! All right, so it would open the Chamber of Secrets, big deal! Had he forgotten how to do it then, that he needed that cursed thing so badly?

She had been sitting in the armchair next to their bed for three days and nights, watching over him, murder in her heart and revenge on her mind. She had been repelled by the whole business right from the start, she was frightened out of her wits that Lucius could be caught, that there was a war at hand in which he could be injured or – beware – killed, she hated the idea of Lucius being compelled to _kneel down_ before some ludicrous _master_, but she had arranged herself with all this, hadn't she? And then this – this – _swine_, this monstrous _bastard_ – would torture her beloved husband until he was half-dead? How dare he!

Lucius didn't dare acknowledging to his wife how close it had been. He had truly believed that his had been _it_, that he wouldn't live to see another day. He had begged for mercy first… At some point, he had merely begged to be finally killed, at last, _please_. He had thought he'd never see his son and wife again, and this idea had caused him just as much pain as the Cruciatus Curse to which he had been subjected for hours on end.

Thirteen years ago, Severus had rescued him from Azkaban. In this night, he had rescued him from certain death, in more than one respect. His capabilities as a Healer were truly remarkable, and as soon as Draco would have graduated from Hogwarts, Lucius would try and convince his old friend to quit his job in that goddamned school, and make something of his life, become a Healer, or a professional potioneer.

Well, he _was_ a professional potioneer anyway. In the last ten years, he had patented a dozen potions, making him fairly prosperous. The first one alone had sufficed to reimburse his student loan _and_ buy his parents' house. Funny enough, Severus didn't seem to care the slightest bit for money though. He would dress himself better than he had as a schoolboy, but his vanity would not extend further than that. He had even denied the honour to become a member of P.I.G., the prestigious Potions Inventors Guild.

"I don't belong there, you know," he had said when Damocles had suggested it – Damocles, who else, was the president of P.I.G. "Thanks for asking though."

All that talent wasted away as a lowly teacher… Well, perhaps he thought that _now_, he had some good chances of becoming Headmaster on the long run. If the Dark Lord ever finished off Dumbledore… But Dumbledore didn't seem to interest him much these days. Harry Potter it was, the beginning and the end of all of his scheming. Harry Potter! That one's last escape – gosh, the kid _was_ good at slipping away after all – had infuriated the Dark Lord even more, if that was possible. He wanted the kid, he wanted the prophecy, and Lucius had been told that it was _his_ job to get both.

_Harry Potter!_ How annoying could a single boy be, really! Whatever had gone wrong in the last years in Lucius' eyes, it could always be traced back to cursed _Harry Potter_. If he had only bugged Draco in school, Lucius would have shrugged and told his son that this was simply one of life's lessons. But by now, their entire family's future existence seemed to be linked to that awful kid! Severus had been right, Lucius thought with a sneer. Potter _was_ like dry rot.

He had thwarted Lucius' scheme to have Dumbledore sacked, had got hold of and _destroyed_ the key to the Chamber of Secrets. He had set that atrocious beast free, which had injured Draco so badly before. He had managed to somehow get through the Triwizard Tournament without half as many scratches as he ought to have had, only to – and here Lucius' sense of reality had been challenged, really! – _stand his ground against the Dark Lord himself_ in a wand duel, and despite an injury that disabled him from running about, had managed to escape from that one's sphere of influence! If he hadn't loathed the kid so much, Lucius would have felt a certain amount of admiration for that feat.

So what could he do to bloody get Potter? He could not be touched in the house of his aunt and uncle. That ludicrous Umbridge woman had sent Dementors after him, and _again_ Potter had escaped. The following trial – want to make a guess? Course, Potter had, yes, _escaped_. Lucius had been _so_ close to get his hands on the boy's wand – for the Dark Lord wanted the boy's wand, too. Lucius had used every connection he had ever tapped to discredit Potter, as much for his own sake and freedom as for the Dark Lord's cause. He had weaselled his way into influencing not only Fudge, but also that one's Senior Secretary Umbridge, who was acting as Hogwarts' High Inquisitor presently, and was unwittingly craving _just_ as much as the Dark Lord, to have something on the kid. He had Imperiused half a dozen Ministry people, he had Imperiused even one of Dumbledore's own men.

Still, Potter walked free, and Lucius began to believe that Narcissa might have erred in her assessment of that prophecy then. Narcissa hardly _ever_ erred, but the fashion in which Potter managed to get out of one tight spot after the other was too remarkable to ignore.

"I never said that prophecies are principally nonsensical in themselves, darling," she replied when he asked her. "As soon as you start acting on their account, they're set in motion. And the more you try to prevent them from becoming true, the tighter the rope around your neck becomes."

"The only neck with a tight rope around is mine, presently," he groaned and swallowed the rest of his whiskey.

Narcissa watched him apprehensively. "What can I do? Tell me if there's anything I can do to help you, Lucius."

"No… For a start, I can't think of _anything_ you _could_ do – by now I'm running out of ideas what _I_ can do. And what's more – you mustn't get involved in this as well, mon ange, you –"

"I _am_ involved already, my love," she said earnestly and blew a kiss on his fingertips.

"And I am to blame for that, and I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive myself for it!"

Far more forcefully than he could account for, she cried, "Don't say that!"

"But –"

"Lucius, the first time you and I kissed, you were a Death Eater already. It was not your smartest idea to join up then, I give you that, but it was the mistake of an eighteen year old boy, barely older than Draco is now. I love you. I _love_ you, you hear me? And that means I'll stand by you no matter what!"

He embraced her, pressing her head against his chest and covering it with caresses. "Oh blossom, you are the singularly best thing that ever happened to me, you and our son. All I meant to say was how deeply sorry I am that I had given one life-long oath already before making the only life-long oath that I can stand by…"

She clang to him, consciously perceiving the warmth of his body, the vigour of his embrace. She would never let go of him, _never_, come famine, death and apocalypse! "You and I and Draco," she whispered against his skin, "You and I and Draco, we'll _never_ be apart, mon amour, and _no one_ will ever come between us! Not Harry Potter, not Vol- sorry… Not the Dark Lord, and whoever else thinks he's got a claim on one of us! I won't stand for it!"

No, she wouldn't, but clever as Narcissa Malfoy might be, _she_ didn't have any brainwave what to do either. Autumn went along and turned into winter, and within all the anxieties and insecurities, both Narcissa and Lucius had at least _one_ thing to look forward to – soon, Draco would come home. Narcissa longed to see her child, she always missed him, but this year was worse than any other before. She felt as if she needed the physical presence of all her loved ones to reassure herself that they were safe, that neither Lucius nor Draco would come to harm.

While preparing for the joyous holidays, her opportunity to _do_ something for her husband walked into her house at last, and very literally so. She was just wrapping up one of Draco's presents – a set of silver and golden daggers for Potions – when she overheard an argument among the house-elves in the hallway. She went out to see what the heck they were about there, and was startled to find some shrivelled, unspeakably ugly elf that did _not_ belong here, and was held in headlock by Nobby.

"What do you think are you doing here?"

"My Lady," Nobby groaned, beads of transpiration on his bald head. "I have _told_ this – this – _creature_ – that My Lady must – not – be – _disturbed_!"

The other elf had been wailing, but when spotting Narcissa, he stopped and panted instead, "Miss Cissy… My Lady Narcissa!"

"She's not _your _My Lady, tramp!"

"She – is," the elf coughed, and Narcissa gestured at Nobby to loosen the headlock. "Miss Cissy must remember Kreacher – Kreacher was the most faithful servant of My Lady's Aunt Walburga –"

Oh, for goodness' sake. "_Kreacher?_ I didn't think you were – well – _alive_ still!"

"And Kreacher wishes he was dead, Ma'am! Only Milady can help!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The master – the vile master has returned –" At first she believed that the elf, who must be ancient by now, had simply gone nuts and now imagined that her Uncle Orion had returned form the dead. But despite the fact that he clearly _was_ crazy, he made some sense still. It must be Sirius who had returned from the proverbial dead – who had come back to his parents' house that he had always despised so much, and seemed to make a mess of the place, according to the sobbing servant, who for some mysterious reasons best known to himself hoped that she could help him prevent this.

They went down to the kitchens; empirically, house-elves performed best in their natural environment, even a complete weirdo like this one might get his act together in the kitchens after all. The elf kept on complaining, stammering inconsistent nonsense, wearing Narcissa's patience out and she was already on the verge of leaving when hearing him speak of 'the master's cursed god-son', a 'bunch of red-haired blood traitors' and a 'Mudblood'. That rang a bell and she turned around.

"The Potter boy? You mean the Potter boy?"

"Master's forbidden Kreacher to talk about the – the – _boy_. He's very fond of that brat! Fonder than of his own blood! His own family! Oh, if Kreacher's poor Mistress was alive!"

"Nobby – offer our guest a drink and something to eat. Kreacher – you'll wait _right here_. I'll be back in a minute!" She fetched Lucius and ordered the confused elf to repeat some of the things he had said. Lucius was scornful in the beginning, but when the elf got to the point concerning Potter and his mates, he had the host's full attention.

"So that's where they're hiding him? The Potter boy is in Black House?"

"Kreacher – mustn't speak – of those – things!"

Narcissa gave him her best smile, bowed down and patted his arm. "That is all right, Kreacher. We understand. A house-elf must always obey his Master's orders. But the way I see it, you aren't prohibited to speak of your master's godson, are you? And that godson is presently a guest in your Master's house, right?"

He nodded eagerly. "They're destroying everything! Even tried to undo my mistress' family tree! Throwing her treasures away! Veiling her portrait!"

"That is disgusting, naturally." She gave him her most benevolent smile and signalled Nobby to put a blanket over the stranger's emaciated, shaking shoulders. "We'll see what we can do about _that_. Now let us come back to that child for a moment…"

Lucius was hooked, and after observing his wife some more, he got the gist how to talk to the crazy elf himself. She could tell by looking at her husband that he was thinking exactly the same like her in this moment. This elf was a gift from heaven itself, the means to satisfy the Dark Lord for the time being, the means to get to Potter after all, the means to guard their family on the long run –

He had just confirmed what they already knew – Sirius' house was Dumbledore's headquarters – when the elf jumped up and tried to hurl himself into the fireplace. Lucius dived after him at once, preventing the worst, and ruggedly hauled him back onto his chair. Narcissa beckoned at Nobby to fetch a wooden spatula, and pressed this one into the trembling hands of their guest.

"There you go, Kreacher," she said very softly. "I understand your predicament. If you feel obliged to punish yourself, use this, please."

His eyes were glinting. "Miss Cissy… Always so gracious… Oh, Miss Cissy, if only poor Kreacher was allowed to serve Miss Cissy alone!"

"Don't call her like that," Lucius gnarled, knowing how much she despised that old nickname, but Narcissa shook her head at him indiscernibly.

"It's all right," she said, smiling at the elf once more. "To Kreacher, I'll always be Miss Cissy. It's truly all right. It reminds me of old times. Good times, Kreacher, weren't they?"

"The best," he breathed, and fell into a rhapsody that visibly strained Lucius' patience. Once more, Narcissa imperceptibly shook her head, signalling him to leave the elf alone. He'd come to them because of the short temper of one master, they must not drive him away with another.

"Look, Kreacher," she said when he paused to catch his breath and wipe away the abundance of tears that had streamed down his cheeks and snout when talking about 'sweet Master Regulus', 'the good, good Mistress' and all the rest of what he connected to 'the good old times'. She nodded towards Lucius. "This is my _husband_, you understand? That means our union is just as binding as blood. You can trust him as much as you trust me, you see?"

"Of course, Milady! Master Lucius – so good – so noble –"

"Because _he_ is much more capable to help you than I am in this instance."

Lucius had adapted a shark-like smile, but the elf was obviously inclined to take it as kindness itself. "Master Lucius, Kreacher will do _anything_!"

"I'm glad to hear it," this one sighed, and Merlin, he _was_. Hope sparkled at last.


	64. Pansy Pertinacious

Pansy has set her heart on catching her classmate Draco

* * *

**- 3.14. -**

Pansy Pertinacious

* * *

_Est miser nemo nisi comparatus._

_SENECA - Troades_

_

* * *

_

She moved in front of the mirror and tugged on her skirt. "How d'you like it, Mil?"

"I'd say you've got better underwear than that."

"This is no underwear, dummy!"

"You're not telling me that you intend to wear this in public, are you?" Millicent shook her head and ate another cookie. "If Snape sees you like this, you'll be in detentions for the rest of term."

"He's such a square. And so are you, incidentally!"

"Love you too, bitch," Millicent giggled and stretched out on her bed, munching yet another cookie. "But seriously – you're not going to show yourself like that to anyone, right? I think I can see your navel, for Merlin's sake. From the wrong side."

"This has cost a fortune!"

"They've tricked you, Panse. So little fabric cannot cost that much. And I don't believe that dear old Malfoy will be too impressed either, if that's what you're playing at. You look like a common slut, ya know?"

Pansy swallowed and took one more look at herself. The crux was that she had bought a miniskirt, which she had shortened some more, and which showed her legs very favourably. She knew she had great legs, long and trim and promising, and those school uniform skirts did them no justice. "Listen, Mil, I know you haven't got a clue about fashion, but if you want to take a look in only one of those mags, you'll see that this is the latest rage."

"Obviously, it's _outrageous_, and if you want to signal that you'd do anything for money, this is certainly the right outfit. But just as surely, Malfoy would get the wrong end of the stick. Just in case he should ever get the notion of touching you, you wouldn't want him to give you fifty bucks afterwards, right?"

Pansy blanched. "It's not that bad, is it?"

"The money's not wasted, Panse. You've got yourself a very pretty belt there."

"Oh, be quiet!"

"Trust me; you should try a little more subtlety."

"What would _you_ know about it, anyway?"

Millicent grinned, not deaf for the deprecation, but knowing her friend too well to mind. "About seducing guys? Nothing, admittedly. But I've got eyes to see and brains to think, and I do believe you should start contemplating to lure him in with your personality."

"Personality!" Pansy snorted and slouched down next to her friend. "Who needs _personality_ with legs like these?"

They both giggled and Millicent offered her a cookie. Pansy declined; she was on constant diet, practically since their third year. And for what? She did look good, she was slim and fit, and she invested ample of time and money in her appearance. But had Draco ever risked a second look at her? She couldn't deceive herself – thought she would have liked to, really! – he had not. Her breasts and hair had grown – well, slightly, anyway – her shirts and skirts had shrunk, she had perfect skin and perfect teeth and her aunt had shown her some marvellous spells for extra-long lashes, but nothing had ever done the job. He took as much interest in her as she took in Greg Goyle – they were good for hanging out and having a laugh, and that was it, deplorably.

"I've overheard Blaise talking to Ivor, Panse. _He_ said you were looking terrific."

"Yeah, so what?"

"So what? He's the most handsome bloke in the entire school, you cow. All right, all right, I know he's not Draco Malfoy, but perhaps you should widen your scope. I mean, what can go wrong? Either you find out that you can have a good time with someone else, or maybe Malfoy gets a little jealous at least. Go to Hogsmeade with Blaise and make sure Malfoy sees you together."

Millicent was getting sick with the whole subject. She couldn't remember a time when Pansy hadn't had a huge crush on their house mate Malfoy, and during the last years, she had done pretty much everything to attract his attention. Millicent was convinced that this crush was bordering on an obsession; Malfoy was undoubtedly good-looking, cool and clever and what else have you got, still Millicent was unable to grasp the extent of her best friend's infatuation. Everything she ever said was how he had looked at _this_ girl, how he had smiled at _that_ girl, what it could possibly _mean_, how he had talked to _her_, and if he would like Pansy better in this blouse or that. It was unnerving, really.

As far as Millicent could tell, Pansy had as much chances with him as Hufflepuff had to win the Quidditch Cup, but she didn't have the heart to tell her that. Normally, Millicent was very direct and outspoken; she made no bones about stuff. But she knew that honesty in that particular quarter wouldn't cure Pansy of her crush, but only make her unhappy and depressed. On the plus side – Malfoy didn't show interest in any other girl either, and if he wasn't gay, Pansy might be lucky by default after all.

And incidentally – Millicent wasn't even entirely convinced that they'd be _allowed_ to go to Hogsmeade, after all. There had been such a fuss after Sirius Black had escaped from Azkaban, back then. Now there were _ten_ Death Eaters on the run! Hogsmeade was bound to be teeming with Dementors, and she didn't believe that Dumbledore would allow his students to be endangered by _that_ lot. She was on the verge of telling Pansy that – that she needn't despair, because they wouldn't get the permission to go in the first place, with or without Malfoy – but one look at the girl sufficed to know how futile every attempt in that quarter would be.

"Who do you think is the best-looking girl in school, Mil?" Pansy asked pensively, distractedly twirling a strand of her hair with her index finger.

She groaned. "_I_ am, Panse. I've heard the natural type is _in_ this year."

"No, seriously!"

Millicent hurled a cushion at her and cried, "Thank you very much, Miss!"

"Oh, come on, Mil!"

"You truly want my honest opinion?"

"Yeah. You mustn't say I was, though, because I knew you'd be lying anyway."

"You know I never flatter you, Panse, and what's the point of this anyway?"

"Just give me an honest answer, okay?"

"Okay… Let me see. – Obviously, the Patil sisters do look great." Despite Pansy's whimpers, Millicent went on relentlessly, "Juliet Montague's quite pretty, too. Oh, and Cho Chang, of course."

"Oh _please_! I've heard she's dating _Potter_!"

"Yeah, but does that make her less pretty? Give her another year and Warrington's little sister will look great, too. Then there's the Weasley chick –"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Mil!"

"What? You said you wanted an honest answer, and she does look good, even you must admit that. What are you fussing about anyway, eh? _She_ won't snatch Malfoy away from you."

Absent-mindedly, Pansy reached out for the cookies and nibbled on one. "So, that would make the Patil twins, Chang and Montague… I've tried it with tanning charms, but I look shitty like that. Dying my hair blond like Montague isn't an option either, I've tried it… It's such a shame; I got a feeling that Draco likes blondes…"

"You've dyed your hair, silly? When?"

"My aunt did it for me when I visited her at Christmas. Forget it, it looked crappy. I _could_ try red like Ginger Head though…"

"Take an advice from a friend and don't. Your hair is beautiful as it is. Why do you want to look like some other girl in the first place? I haven't heard that Malfoy had asked out any of _them_ either."

Pansy knew that Millicent was right, but she couldn't help herself. She wanted him so much, she would have given her right arm to get him. She would have dyed her hair to any colour he liked – she would have cut off her thumbs if he had asked for them. Valentine's Day was approaching and she so dearly wished to go to Hogsmeade with Draco on their own. But he hadn't asked her yet, and there was no sign that he was about to. She had no taste to go with Blaise either; despite his good looks, he could never match Draco's in _her_ opinion, and additionally, he was so full of himself that she sometimes wondered how he could walk upright.

Pansy Parkinson wasn't the brightest star in the evening sky; as a matter of fact, Millicent was ten times smarter, and when she suggested the jealousy trick, Pansy would deem it a good idea to give it half a try. She arranged it, with her roommate's help, that Blaise indeed did ask her to go to Hogsmeade together, in front of Draco. She giggled and simpered and replied that she felt very flattered, but that she was already engaged to go with her girlfriends. However, Draco didn't flinch; neither did he show any trace of upset about Blaise's proposal, nor the remotest sign of relief about her refusal. She would have believed that he hadn't even registered the whole scene, if he hadn't joked about it later that evening.

"That outfit, Gregory, looks _terrific_ on you!"

"Gee, thanks, Draco! I don't mean to flatter you, but I hope you're not otherwise engaged and still join your friends to go to Hogsmeade together?"

"Why, Gregory, that is so _sweet_ of you! Did I blush now? Oh, I'm _sure_ I _must_ have!"

Millicent suppressed a smile, Pansy bit down the tears that shot to her eyes and escaped to their dorm. Her roommate followed her slowly. "Panse, will you please calm down and stop sobbing?"

"They made me look like an idiot!"

"No, Panse, they didn't. You've managed that by yourself. _Oh, Blaise, how sweet of you_," she cried, imitating her with a mock voice. "_This is so flattering! I'm soooo sorry, but I really, really can't!_"

"_You_ said I ought to make him jealous!"

"_I_ certainly didn't tell you to prance and coo around like this. Blaise is no fool and neither is Malfoy. You were _so_ bloody obvious!"

In a very filthy mood and deadly unhappy, Pansy, together with Millicent and a group of other Slytherin girls, set out to Hogsmeade some days later. Draco would go later with his mates, after training, and if she was particularly lucky, they would meet in the Three Broomsticks, but that was by no means safe. Juliet and Daphne wanted to buy new robes at Twilfitt and Tatting's, Millicent wanted books and sweets from Honeydukes, Maxine Bletchley meant to buy a present for her father's birthday, but Pansy was indifferent about all that. Her sole object was seeing Draco and consequently, she gave a damn about Honeydukes and Twilfitt and Tatting's and the rest, where he wouldn't show up anyway.

On their way, they crossed the path of Gryffindor's Golden Boy Potter, in the company of Ravenclaw's Chang. Oh god, even that total loser could get a date, going out with Pretty Chick Chang. This was all so bloody unfair!

"Potter and Chang! Urgh, Chang, I don't think much of your taste! At least Diggory was good-looking!"

The other girls were laughing, only Millicent said under her breath, "Give it a rest, Panse. She's practically a widow, damn it!"

"A widow who's smugly consoling herself with that prat, right," Pansy muttered stubbornly, but much more quiet. "But they match perfectly, don't they? She's a stupid cow and he's a stupid arse!"

Juliet Montague gave a shrill giggle. "Careful, Parkinson. You're turning yellow with envy."

The other girls laughed even harder while they went on, and Pansy snapped, "Envious? Me? Because of what! I'd rather be dead than go out with _Potter_!"

"Yeah, well, who'd want to date Potter? But maybe Malfoy would ask _you_ out, too, if you were just half as pretty as Chang, eh?"

"Oh, shut up, Montague," Millicent hissed. "You think you're oh-so-pretty, and still, I don't see _you_ having a date for today either. Clearly, one's got to be a bit daft when one wants to get a boyfriend in this wretched place."

Juliet curled her rose petal lips to a subtle smile. "I wholeheartedly second that."

"You do, don't you?" Millicent grinned and exchanged some challenging glances with Montague.

Pansy didn't get the joke, but joined the general laughter. Everyone was giggling, some more jokes were cracked on Potter and Chang and they arrived in the village without further disturbances.

"You should try the Prickly Pastries, Panse. Chocolate's a famous remedy for depression," Millicent said after they had entered Honeydukes, and tried shoving a praline into her friend's mouth, who, of course, declined with tightly-pressed lips.

"Is that the reason for your chocolate addiction, Mil? You suffer from depression?" Maxine asked and winked at them.

"Certainly not. _I _enjoy good food and the pleasant side-effect that it spares me the attention of any of those total gits that you lot crave for. If a guy should ever get the notion of courting _me_, I'll know he wants me for my personality and not some illusion out of Teen Witch."

It should perhaps be mentioned that Millicent was, as people say, a 'big girl', in every possible meaning of that term. For once, she was really tall – six feet one to be precise – and she had inherited the sturdy figure of her mother and grandmother. One of her favourite jokes was that she should join the House Team, because the other players would be too intimidated to play if they were facing the danger to collide with her. She was heavy-built, with big bones, a strong jaw and mighty hands and feet; there were only two reasons why no one had ever insinuated that she had troll or giant blood – she was a Slytherin, and must therefore be a pureblood, and also, people were too scared to dare getting trouble with her.

She wasn't upset about her looks; if a guy should ever like her, she wanted him to do so because of herself, not because she was a pretty doll. Paradoxically, this concept didn't interfere with her long-standing friendship with Pansy. Ever since their first day in school together, those two girls, who couldn't be more different, had been thick as thieves. Pansy had been spoilt and cute, with her shiny dark brown hair and her little nose, her parents' only child and sole concern. She was superficial and girlish, rather half-witted, but easy-going. Millicent was the total opposite in most respects; the only sister of four elder brothers who had given her such a hard time as a child that she had adopted a cynical sense of humour and a thick skin; she was clever, a good student and a bit of tomboy.

"You reckon we'll encounter him later on?" Pansy asked very quietly, with an almost imploring expression.

Good-humouredly, Millicent patted her shoulder and answered in the same low voice, "I don't know, Panse, but what I _do_ know is that it hardly matters. You see him every goddamned day in school. Don't worry. One day, he'll discover your true value, and if he does not, he's such a silly twit that he doesn't deserve you in the first place."

"You mean it?"

"Sure. And in that case, upon my word, I'll crash all his bones for you."

They hugged and Millicent ushered her to try some of the delicious candies. Pansy's hopes weren't entirely let down that day. Around noon, the girls went to the Three Broomsticks for lunch, and not five minutes later, Draco Malfoy and his pals arrived, too. It turned out that they had spent half of the morning at the Hogsmeade section of Quality Quidditch Supplies, had lost Crabbe and Goyle after swiftly popping into Honeydukes (Pansy cursed her bad luck for not having stayed there longer), and dawdled around for the rest. Now they were hungry and in a chatty mood, heartily laughing about the story of Potter and Chang, complaining about Filch's latest harassment, and Pansy's heart was rising once again.

"Did you guys see a _single_ Dementor on your way?" Mil asked, and it took Pansy a moment to understand what she was even talking about.

"Not one," Theo said with a little shrug. "Maybe Dumbledore prevailed this time. You know what he thinks of Dementors."

Blaise, Draco and Maxine giggled, and Blaise, whose mother was on the board of school governors, cried, "Dumbledore? He's lucky they haven't axed him yet. You seriously think he can demand anything these days?"

"So where _are_ they, then?"

Pansy saw Draco arch a brow and grin, and faintly thought that he must be thinking of his aunt, who was one of the escapees. But to her knowledge, no Slytherin student was so tactless – or daring – to ask him about her. People were almost as afraid of Bellatrix Lestrange as they had been of You Know Who – and _she_ was alive still! _And_ out there, somewhere!

Well, _most_ people were so tactful, because in fact, Blaise sneered now and gave Draco a long, sly look. "Yes, Malfoy – where _are_ they? Did your aunty turn up at your doorstep already?"

Draco didn't wince – Pansy was _so_ proud of him! "If she does, _you'll_ be the first I'll tell all about it, Zabini. Want to make her acquaintance, by the way? I'm sure that could easily be arranged."

Blaise wasn't quite as cool as he wanted to be; he gave a bit of a start and looked away. Well, in fairness, Pansy couldn't blame him. As obsessed as she surely was with everything and everybody only remotely connected to Draco – not even _she_ wanted to meet his _aunty_. There was an uncomfortable silence at their table, until rather unwittingly, with a leer at the bar, Crabbe mumbled, "Madam Rosmerta must have been a hot chick in her days…"

"For heaven's sake, Crabbe, are you so desperate for a date that you consider middle-aged witches by now?"

"I merely said that she must have looked good then."

"She's still looking good," Millicent said expertly.

"Yeah, and if you take one good look at the mother of Malfoy here," Damian Montague said and beckoned at Draco, "you see that a forty-year-old witch can be a hundred times prettier than every teenager."

Draco turned even paler than usually. "Watch your tongue, Montague, or –"

"Keep your wig on, Malfoy. That was a bloody compliment!"

"Keep your 'compliments' to yourself, pal!"

"But your mum does look lovely," Pansy said and nodded eagerly.

"I'd be proud if someone paid _my_ mum a compliment," Crabbe uttered and took a big sip of butterbeer. "All I ever hear is that she looks like a troll!"

"She _does_ look like a troll, Vince. It runs in the family."

Draco groaned. "Look, I'd be thankful if you just _shut up_, all of you. If you want to gush about someone's mother, why don't you pick Zabini's mum."

"Hey!"

"Your mum's a real looker, too, Zabini!" Goyle and Crabbe nodded in lewd unison.

"Oh, cut it out, man!"

Draco grinned maliciously. "Why, it's true! Don't be so shy, Zabini. Didn't I hear somewhere lately that your mum was voted to be England's most beautiful witch?"

Millicent bit her lip to stifle laughing out loud. Theo, Greg and Vince didn't bother for that much. Zabini scowled, Malfoy triumphed, and the others looked slightly clueless why Zabini was so stumped. Millicent however knew that the vote Malfoy referred to hadn't been in the Daily Prophet, or The Owl, or even Witch's Weekly, but in a lurid magazine called 'Witches & Bitches', subtitle: 'For Wizards Only'. All her brothers held an abonement.

"I still think that Mrs Malfoy is the prettiest witch that –"

"Panse, give it a rest," Mil gnarled and stamped on her friend's foot underneath the table. Wispering through gritted teeth, she added, "This is ridiculous!"

"Have you ever contemplated that there's more to witches than how they _look_?" Goyle threw in with an earnest face, reaping enormous laughter from everyone expect Draco and Millicent. She nodded and gave him a smile.

"Exactly."

Juliet Montague giggled snidely. "There's hope speaking, Bullface!"

"Leave her alone, Montague. If she's not spending two hours in front of the mirror each morning like yourself, that says something for her," Draco drawled languidly.

Pansy goggled at her crush. He liked girls who did _not_ spend hours in front of the mirror? Could he be fancying _Millicent_ after all? No! No, it _couldn't_ be! Still, she monitored her best friend closely for the rest of their stay in the pub, counting each of Draco's gazes. In the end, she was more or less satisfied – there wasn't much of a clue that Draco – _her_ Draco! – was in love with her roommate. Or pretty Juliet, at that instance. Unfortunately, there was no sign that he was in love with herself either. But that could be worked on.

* * *

_Est miser…_ Miserable is who compares themselves to others.


	65. Bless The French

She wasn't in Gryffindor, but that doesn't mean Tonks can't be brave

* * *

**- 3.15. -**

Bless The French

* * *

_You wear guilt, like shackles on your feet, like a halo in reverse… I can feel the discomfort in your seat, and in your head it's worse. There's a pain, a famine in your heart, an aching to be free. Can't you see? All love's luxuries are here for you and me, and when our worlds, they fall apart, when the walls come tumbling in – though we may deserve it – it will be worth it._

_DEPECHE MODE – Halo_

_

* * *

_

He knows that he shouldn't even be here. It's far too risky. And what if someone sees him coming out of the front door? Or's seen him going in? He should _not_ have come. He should _go_ now, at least. She has freshened up his drink once more, it'd be totally rude to leave _now_, but this is the last one. Definitely.

He likes her flat. It's comfortable, a real home. He can see that she's done her best to clean up, but she's certainly no housekeeper. On the surface, she's tried to tidy up, but on a closer look, one can see the inconsistencies. There are red wine stains on the couch that she's tried to cover with cushions. The ficus on the windowsill is simply dead. She's obviously taken down some posters; there are shadows on the walls showing their former places, that she has replaced with some tasteful art prints. There's an interesting pattern on the wallpaper in one corner, that might very well be lichens. Not a single piece of furniture matches another. She has wiped over the obvious surfaces, but forgotten the upper sides of the picture frames, chandeliers, lamps, books. The curtains have never been washed before, they're drinking wine out of old mustard jars, the grandfather clock in the corner under the lichens doesn't run clockwise. It's totally charming.

And so is the inhabitant, isn't she? She's chatting away, so lively, so careless. He could listen to her forever, just rattling along, about her colleagues, about Quidditch, about her work, about her father, the acclaimed artist, about the Weird Sisters concert she's been to last month. Everything about her is easy-going and light, still she's not superficial. It must be her age, possibly. She's not twenty-four yet, practically a child. Well, nearly a child still. Or that's what he keeps telling himself, anyway. He mustn't think of her as a woman. That way madness lies.

"We could meet at Headquarters tomorrow, if you'll like. I reckon Sirius would enjoy some company."

"He'd surely do, but I can't. The others are getting too suspicious if I'm away so often. But you should go if you've got time. It'd do him good if he's not alone so often."

"I guess he prefers your company though. He's lucky to have a friend like you."

He bites his lip. "I'm afraid I'm not the friend I ought to be for him though… He's going crazy in that wretched house, all by himself, you know."

"Who wouldn't? It's awful!" She laughs sardonically. "It's like in one of those gothic tales! I wouldn't be surprised to see a skeleton coming out of one of the closets."

"There are lots of skeletons buried in the closets of _that_ house. Did you ever meet your aunt while she was still alive?"

"Are you kidding? Course not! But her painting's giving a good picture how she must have been in life. It's a miracle that Sirius has become the man he is, in a house like that!"

She has poured more wine without him noticing. Alas! They toast and he checks his watch. "I got to get up very early tomorrow –"

She makes a funny face. "Yeah, I know… Pity. It's so nice, ain't it?"

"Absolutely! I didn't mean to – I'd much rather stay and talk to you than return to sleep in a damp cave – now _that_ came out wrong… I'm truly enjoying myself, I _am_ –"

She beams at him. "Now, that's excellent! Come, let's just finish the bottle, it's already late anyhow."

Her nose changes, but she doesn't give the impression that she's doing it on purpose. He's often noticed that with her, mostly when she's excited. Apparently six glasses of wine can have the same effect. He sometimes gets the notion that she – well, he doesn't mean to sound conceited… But sometimes he thinks she likes him. Likes him more than, say, Sirius, for an instance. But that's just a presumption, and a very daring presumption, too. Unfair, to impute on her something like this, when she only means to be kind… She wants to demonstrate that she doesn't mind him being a werewolf, _that's_ the point, yes. He mustn't mistake her kindness and openness for fancy.

Speaking of the wine – god, his drinking days are long over. He feels more than just slightly tipsy, and more adventurous than he can afford. He's never been the type for flirtation; as a matter of fact, he hasn't got a faint idea what to do _if_ he wanted to flirt with a girl. He's always kept away from women, in _this_ respect at least. He's not dating, he's not flirting, he's not coming any closer than a handshake. He is a goddamned _werewolf_!

Only that right now, he finds himself constantly smiling at this girl, stammering how pleasant he finds her company. He forces himself to draw his gaze away from her and make the tenth remark on her flat instead. She smiles back – 'don't look at her, don't look at her, man!'

He drains his glass as quickly as he can and gets to his feet, trying hard not to sway. "I'm so sorry, Tonks, but I _really_ got to –"

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, I know. Another time, eh?"

Another time…? She walks him to the door, and before he knows what's happening, she's hugging him, brushing a kiss on each of his cheeks. She's letting go and makes an awkward movement. "That's how the French say goodbye. My grandmother was French, you know?"

He's petrified, rooted to the spot, and racks through his brains to come up with some line. Anything. 'Just say something, idiot! Do _not_ stare at her!' What did she just say about her grandmother?

She tilts her head and adds, "Actually, the French do three kisses."

"Do they?" His voice is a rasp, but he still doesn't pull away.

"Indeed, they do –" She moves closer and brushes a kiss on the side of his mouth, and since he's not putting up any resistance, she reaches out for his neck and pulls him closer to kiss his lips now. He's not kissing her back, he doesn't move away either…

Tonks is as confused as he is; she hasn't planned this, but now they're here and… 'Waste not' she thinks faintly and summons all her courage and kisses him for real. It's feeling weird, but not bad, not bad at all. His stubble tickles her chin, her cheeks, she can smell the wine in his breath, can taste it on his lips. He is amiably shy, not grabbing her, not urging her, not sticking his tongue into her mouth – not like the guys in her own age. Her heart makes a leap when he lifts his hands to cup her face; he moves his head away from her, she opens her eyes, finding him look straight at her –

"We must not do this," he whispers, but she doesn't take him serious. This is too good too stop, so she mouths a 'no' and makes him laugh.

She chuckles, too. "Hey Mister, I've been pining for you for too long to let you go just like that."

He laughs even harder, their gazes locked. "_Pining_?"

"Yeah!"

"For _me_?"

"Yeah! And if you say one more time that you've got to get up early, I won't let you leave at all!"

"That's supposed to be a threat, right?"

He does _not_ run out of the flat with some fake excuses like he should. Instead they go back to her living room and make themselves comfortable on the couch, snogging. Gee, the last time he's kissed a girl – when was that? The night when he graduated from Hogwarts… Yeah, he's been snogging with Debra Withers then. Just that he wasn't half as nervous. Can it be possible that he hasn't kissed a woman in the last twenty years? Little wonder he's nervous!

She sniggers when he tells her this. "I feel extremely honoured that you're making an exception for me!"

He doesn't tell her how honoured _he_ feels, honoured and puzzled. The voice in his head – the one telling him to grab his coat and run for it – becomes more and more timid; he knows, tomorrow it will yell at him for being so careless, but he doesn't give a damn now. She feels so good under his hands; her warmth, her tenderness, her liveliness make his heart race. Tomorrow's another day.


	66. Always On Your Mind

Severus is forced to give extra lessons to his least favourite student

* * *

**- 3.16. -**

Always On Your Mind

* * *

_I know I'm unloveable, you don't have to tell me – message received loud and clear! I don't have much in my life, but, take it, it's yours. I wear Black on the outside because Black is how I feel on the inside. And if I seem a little strange, well, that's because I am – if I seem a little strange, that's because I am. But, I know that you would like me if only you could see me, if only you would meet me._

_THE SMITHS – Unloveable_

_

* * *

_

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, partly vexed, partly unnerved, partly despairing. He felt that he could be lecturing a wooden log instead, with _just_ as much success. More, possibly, because a piece of wood couldn't give pert retorts, at least!

"Potter, believe it or not, but I have absolutely no wish to put you in detentions and spend even more of my time with you! Just keep your mouth _and _your mind _shut_, is that really so hard for you to grasp?"

"Oh, don't tell me you didn't just _love_ to give me detentions!" And with a challenging glance, the boy added, "_Sir_."

"Five points from Gryffindor, and I'll make it ten if you don't shut up at once and _concentrate_! You'll _never_ get the gist of this if you don't learn to –"

"Learn _what_! You're not teaching me anything!"

_This_ could impossibly be Lily Evans' own child. There must have been a mistake in Saint Mungo's. Because the boy's mother had been sharp and quick – and not only at quick repartees! _She_ would have learnt the same in no time, Severus was positive! But a single glance at Potter would have sufficed to dispel any doubt about his parents, had Severus seriously nurtured any. These _eyes_… And the face, and stature, and insolent demeanour! – He pulled himself together and raised his wand once more.

"This is how Occlumency _works_, Potter! I'm so sorry the subject doesn't oblige you and your lazy ways, but it seems to me we _both_ have to deal with it! You truly believe I _enjoyed_ frittering away my time with you? Think again! Now get your act together, for goodness' sake! One – two – three – _Legilimens!_"

Predictably, the boy put up as much resistance as a piece of paper would resist a flying dagger, and a stream of thoughts and memories flooded Severus' mind. He saw the youngest Mr Weasley clowning about, giving a rather funny mockery of the _High Inquisitor_. These images were followed by a sequence, showing Potter and his friends practising spells – their little secret club, clearly, and Severus would not deny it – they weren't doing half bad. Every now and then, even Potter had a good idea. Even though it had probably been Miss Granger's idea in the first place, but at least there was _someone_ more sensible than he was, that Potter would listen to.

The next image he easily recognised – because he had seen similar pictures in Potter's head, and also because the woman hadn't changed that much in the last twenty years. Still blond, still bony, still with the same sour look upon her unpleasant face – Petunia Evans down to the ground. How unresembling she was to her younger sister – in looks, but so much more in nature. In this particular memory, Potter must be seven or eight. He, his aunt and her family were sitting around a lavish Christmas tree – the kind of Christmas tree that Severus had seen loads of times in the house of Rosemary and Harry Evans – and a plump (not to say fat) boy was playing with the legions of toys surrounding him. Potter, skinny and pale, was sitting in the opposite corner, a single gift before him – a pack of white tennis socks – and gingerly leant forwards, reaching out for one of the Playmobil figurines that his cousin had received in abundance. Instantly, the fat one started howling and lashed out at the other child, his face deeply red and outraged. Potter winced back, looking alarmed, even more so when his uncle jumped up to tower above him, shouting at him with spit flying from his fleshy lips. The child shrank away more and more until his back pressed against the wall, and finally Petunia got up, roughly grabbing his arm, pulling him up and out of the living room. She yanked the door of a cupboard open and pushed the boy inside, admonishing him to be quiet, if he didn't mean to incite his uncle even worse.

Severus shuddered and stopped the incantation. Potter had stumbled and was sitting on the floor with a befuddled expression. "You got socks for Christmas that year?"

"Uh… Yeah?"

"Anything else?"

"I was lucky to get so much in the first place," he replied rather cheerfully and scrambled back to his feet. "Socks aren't that bad. One year, I got a bottle of rinsing agent – _that_ was a bit of a let-down."

Severus suppressed a little smile. "Well, yeah… Come on, now, Potter. The next time when I count to three, you focus on _something_. Anything, it doesn't really matter. Just try to _stick_ to it, all right? No matter where I try to get – _you_ cling to that initial thought. Got it?"

"Yes, Sir."

"One – two – three – _Legilimens!_"

The thought that Potter had chosen was a memory of Sirius Black, strolling about in Headquarters and humming a Christmas tune, winking at his godson. Severus couldn't help himself – he sharply drew his breath, and slightly more forceful than he had intended, he drew away from that picture to the next best thing – less to test the boy, but to get away from seeing Black of all people. The memory 'behind' that last one was much more menacing still – and yet, Severus found he could cope with it more easily. Potter was seeing through Nagini's eyes, while she slithered along a dark, deserted corridor in the Department of Mysteries. A few seconds later, the bloody beast attacked Arthur Weasley, there was blood splattering, Weasley's eyes were wide with terror, he weakly lifted his arms in defence, protecting his face, his throat, against the striking snake.

Severus lifted the spell, stretching out a hand to help the boy back to his feet, but Potter merely scowled at him. "You really do enjoy yourself, do you!"

Severus frowned, struck for a second how much the boy's eyes resembled his dead mother's when he looked like this. He pushed that notion back and shrugged. "No, incidentally, I'd much prefer to get my hand squashed in a slamming door than spending my free time with you, Potter, but alas! I'm afraid we both have to oblige the Headmaster."

"Dumbledore certainly doesn't want _that_!"

"_Professor_ Dumbledore, you brazen –" He stopped himself, took a deep breath and snidely went on, "But who am _I_ to tell you what the Headmaster wants. _You_ know so much better, naturally."

"Yeah! I do!"

Potter had got up again, and nearly as tall as Severus by now, puffed himself up some more, but his teacher wouldn't have it. "Mmh, yes, I see. You really are your father's son, Potter. He thought, like you, he knew everything better than Professor Dumbledore even. He'd be alive still if he hadn't acted the wiseacre, and your oh-so-dear godfather wouldn't have spent twelve years in the gaol!"

"Oh, shut up!"

"Pardon?" Severus arched a brow and cast the kid his most dangerous glance, but Potter didn't flinch.

"You heard me!"

"I did indeed. That's another five points from Gryffindor, I'd say, for being an unreformably insolent brat! A family trait, I know, I know. But only to keep up the memory of your dearest father, I shall not endure your cheek all the same."

"Please, _Sir_ – deduct another five points straightaway." Potter curled his lip into a disdainful smirk. "What do _you_ complain about my father's death, anyway? You must have been so pleased with it – I'm sure nobody was happier than you that night!"

It took him every last ounce of self-control he could muster to keep himself from cursing the awful, self-righteous child right on the spot. His fingers clenched around his wand in his pocket, the blood rushed through his ears like rolling thunder, and he forced himself to snarl, "You're dismissed, Potter. Get out of here _at once_!"

His face a blend of triumph and fury, the boy stalked out of the office, banging the door behind him, and Severus finally let go. He grabbed the next best object he could lay his hands on – which happened to be a bottle of dragon blood, worth half a month's income – and smashed it against the wall, where it broke into a thousand pieces. The thick, dark red liquid dripped down the quarry stone wall, and his breathing heavy and laboured, he collapsed onto his chair and squeezed his eyes shut. It took him half an hour before he had rallied himself again, and another hour before he thought he was fit to see the Headmaster.

"You look unwell, Severus."

"Do I! Why, is it possible!"

"Any news?"

He lifted his hands in a gesture of futility. "Oh, no, it's all the same old caboodle. The _High Inquisitor_ threatens to sack me – my two worst crimes in _her _book appear to be that I am a Muggle's son, and have no juicy gossip about you to tell her. The Dark Lord mistrusts me more than ever, and instructed _everybody_ not to tell me a _word_ about their latest schemes – Lucius thinks it's because you're a Legilimens, too, but I have my doubts –"

"And Narcissa?"

"When do you think I had a chance to talk to _her_, eh? She is no Death Eater, she doesn't attend the meetings. And it might look slightly conspicuous if I turned up on their doorstep out of the blue to have a little talk about ways and means of the Dark Lord!"

"And young Mr Malfoy? I had the impression his father keeps him well-informed."

Severus gave a little, mirthless chuckle. Indeed, once upon a time, Lucius had told his son a whole lot – more than could be healthy for the boy, even. But he also knew his son very well. He knew that Draco tended to speak more quickly than he could _think_ at times. He knew, too, that Dumbledore was a Legilimens, and believed the old warlock would use that skill to spy on him. But what was most – Lucius deliberately left the child as much in the dark as possible these days because he was so deadly scared for his sake. Not unreasonably, he thought that Draco would be _very_ much disillusioned if he understood what being a Death Eater _really_ was about. And running about in Slytherin, making thoughtless remarks about _the Dark Lord_ was the safest way to see the end of _that_ family line.

Severus couldn't make up his mind whether he approved of Lucius' paternal safety measure. On the one hand – yes, he, too, preferred to see Draco on the safe side. On the other hand, the kid had the most idiotic notions, which could turn out to be just as risky. His parents and his Head of House did their best to keep him as busy as possible, lest he got the same idea like Potter and his lot, and founded an illicit club to learn the Dark Arts. Albeit his father was a true master at that field, Draco himself knew surprisingly little about them. And Severus knew that not only Narcissa meant to keep it that way, as long as she could. She had told her darling that she expected him to pass twelve OWLs, even in Muggle Studies – a subject he had never taken in the first place. His father had told him that it'd be the bitterest disappointment in his entire life if his son didn't win the Quidditch Cup this year, and became the next Team Captain after Warrington's graduation. Severus encouraged him in every respect, to distract him as much as possible.

Lucius had merely told the boy the inevitable – the things he _had_ to know. Severus wasn't surprised that Draco was as proud as a peacock, after learning that his own father had been the second-in-command of the Dark Lord – who had returned to England, who had returned to _life_, more like. Or that his aunt and uncle were serving lifelong sentences in Azkaban, because they had been such devoted supporters of the cause. Of course, his parents didn't want the boy to walk straight into the trap, in case something happened – but it was exactly that kind of half knowledge that Severus found more alarming than utter ignorance, or if they had told the boy the full truth. Draco was far too easily susceptible in this respect – it was _dangerous_ to have him strut around in the school, thinking he was the son of the prince of darkness!

"Did Harry have any other dreams?"

"Always the same, as far as I can tell."

"Is Voldemort aware of the connection yet?"

Severus had thought about this question many times, and still, he couldn't answer it with reasonable certainty. After the incident with Arthur Weasley, he'd met up with Lucius – who had clearly been as keen on getting information out of his friend as vice versa. Well, they had both got disappointed. Severus had denied to know anything at all about the incident – other than he would know as a teacher, and so much, Lucius had already heard from that ridiculous Umbridge woman – and pressed Lucius to tell him what _he_ knew in turn.

"I _can't_, Severus! You must understand that!"

"You don't trust me, then?" he had asked, lurking, with a resentful expression.

"I trust _you_. I'd trust you with my life, with my family's life even – you _know_ that! But I also trust Dumbledore to be a Legilimens, pal."

Guilty as he had felt indeed, hearing that profession, he still hadn't let go. "Dumbledore hasn't found _me_ out, either. You reckon I'd still be there if he could overcome my defences?"

"That's not the point, Savvy… If… If this thing goes wrong –"

"What_ thing_?"

Lucius had ignored the interruption and repeated, "If this goes wrong, he told me that my son will pay! I can't risk that, Severus, I _can't_ take _any_ chances at all! Don't you understand that? _This_ is the last chance I've got, and if I mess it up…"

He had shuddered, and Severus hadn't had the heart to continue. In fact, he had had half a mind to offer Lucius – or rather say Draco – Dumbledore's protection. The old man would agree, sure he would. He had a soft spot for the threatened and persecuted, even if they came in the high and mighty form of Lucius Malfoy, or the smug and self-righteous outfit of his son.

Dumbledore still waited for an answer, and he murmured, "I'm not sure. It might be that the connection is accidental, and that Potter merely catches some glimpses of the things prepossessing the Dark Lord. _Or_…"

Dumbledore twisted his face and gave a little groan. "And what about Harry? Is _he_ aware what this is all about?"

"I dare say he's too stubborn to ponder."

"Is he advancing?"

_That_ he could answer, definitely! "Not the slightest bit."

Dumbledore was silent for a while, his eyes closed – he looked as if he had fallen asleep, and suddenly very old. There was no peace in his features; he looked tormented, grieved. He looked like Severus felt. They were juggling with a dozen burning pins all at once, and they had long lost control. This would never work out, never, they'd all die, and sooner rather than later. The Dark Lord hadn't even yet begun for real, and god have mercy with them if he did. Potter – _Potter_ – wouldn't be able to stop him. He had no extraordinary magical talent, he wasn't even that exceptionally bright – he didn't even manage to keep the Dark Lord out of his own _head_! How was _this child_ supposed to stop him out there in the real world? A few nice defensive spells, a talent for flying on a broomstick, and an Invisibility Cloak – that wouldn't keep the Dark Lord at bay for long. It was a mystery that they had even got that far, all of them.

"You don't believe in this, do you, Severus?"

Dumbledore had opened his periwinkle-blue eyes again, and as benign as the question sounded, as sharp was the look of his eyes there. Severus shrugged once more. "Believe in what, Dumbledore? In the kid? No, I don't believe in him. But then, I never believed in the bloody prophecy concerning him either. The question was never what _I_ believe in or not."

"That's not what I meant, though."

"So what _did_ you mean, then?"

"The greater picture, I reckon… That good can vanquish evil, that –"

"I don't believe in good and evil to begin with, Dumbledore. You know that."

The old Headmaster sniggered. "A little faith would do you good."

"I _am_ faithful," he retorted much more forcefully than necessary, and Dumbledore's smile widened.

"And now you're wilfully misunderstanding me. What I meant was… What would you call Lord Voldemort, then, if not evil?"

"He's a bloody lunatic, if you'll really ask _me_. Completely bonkers." Severus made a spinning gesture with his hands to underline his statement.

"And did you ever contemplate why he is that?"

"Does it matter? I suppose losing one's body for one and a half decades might have that effect on someone. He wasn't that crazy, then… Crazy – but not _that_ crazy… Anyway – are you trying to sell me he's mad because he's evil? That's oversimplifying the matter, don't you think?"

"No, as a matter of fact, I meant no such thing. Not at all." Dumbledore got up and fetched two glasses, and a bottle of Ogden's, but Severus declined. "You see – I wonder about your place in all this. Don't take it amiss – I do know indeed how faithful you are. But I also know that you always claimed you do not belong in Hogwarts, and you say you do not belong in the Order, and I know that you are doing all of this for the memory and honour of a friend who is long gone. What if…"

Severus' pulse was quickening and he felt a little sick, with the mere _mention_ of Lily, as indirect and tactful as it was. He suddenly felt like accepting the drink, but battled the urge down. "What if what?" he spat belligerently.

"What if things were different? What if Lord Voldemort suddenly decided to let Harry live? What if – for the sake of the example, and to clarify my point – what if the boy changed sides, and _I_ suddenly wanted to see him dead? In short – if the situation was reverse?"

"_What?_"

"I'm trying to figure out what you're fighting for, Severus. That's all."

"The boy shall _live_, Dumbledore," he said through gritted teeth. "_That's_ what I'm fighting for, if you truly want to know, and don't know already! And don't you worry – he won't be changing sides. You see, I reside in his head these days – far more than I care for, incidentally – I _know_ what's going on in there. He's as morally upright as you could be dreaming of. It's almost ridiculous how righteous he is!"

"You dislike him even in the aspects where he doesn't resemble his father to a tee?"

'Oh, here we go again!' Severus thought and made a grimace. "Nothing of this _matters_, Dumbledore! I needn't _like_ the boy to do my job and protect him. What matters – to _me_, anyway! – is that… That… _She_ wanted him to live. She died so that he could live. I once swore to her that I would make up for – for everything – and in _my_ eyes, that includes that I'll look after her child, since she can't look after him herself anymore, due to _my_ failure. I swore the same to you once, if you'll remember! I'll do what _she_ would have done, it's as easy as that. If that's not enough of a moral compass for your standards, well, I'm sorry, but that's just how it is! I guess you needn't worry though – she was a thoroughly good person, the _best_. Doing as she would have done, I shall not go wrong."

"I know that," Dumbledore said quietly, almost tenderly, and the tiniest bit moved, if Severus wasn't mistaken. "And don't _you_ worry – it's more than enough for me."

"So why do you even ask!"

"Because dangerous times lie ahead, Severus. You know that even better than I. The war hasn't even started yet. When it comes rough, shall I rely on Molly Weasley to do what it takes?" Severus gave a little snort, and Dumbledore continued with a little smirk, "A good heart alone won't suffice to get through this. When the worst comes to the worst, I must know how far all of you are willing to go."

"I'll go through with this until the end, Dumbledore. Until the _very_ end. Be it the Dark Lord's, Potter's, or mine. I owe her that."

The smile on Dumbledore's face was so radiant, Severus couldn't quite account for it, and looked back in something like bafflement. They talked about some other things – so common, it appeared almost surreal. That they still had a school to run, in the midst of impending chaos! He was on the verge of leaving when he remembered something else he had meant to talk to Dumbledore about, and sat down once more.

"Please, remind me – _why_ is it necessary we're sending the boy back to his aunt every summer? With Black living in Headquarters now, I mean?"

"Petunia Dursley is Harry's only living relative that he's connected to by blood. He cannot be touched in her house."

"By the Dark Lord, you mean?"

"By anyone."

"You should reconsider that assessment, Dumbledore! His uncle – oh, where to start! The entire family! I mean, I knew that there's no ghastlier Muggle than dearest Petunia – _we_ know each other of old! But seriously, Dumbledore! Let him go to Headquarters next time. He can't be harmed there, either. As a matter of fact, he's likely to suffer _much_ less harm _there_!"

Dumbledore appraised him over the rim of his half-moon spectacles. "What d'you mean?"

"What I _mean_? Look, I always thought it couldn't come much worse than with _my_ Muggle father, but boy, I was wrong! They're – Molly Weasley wasn't exaggerating, you see? Don't you _know_ what these people are doing to him? What they did to him for fourteen years? They – he's been beaten, kicked around, underfed, penned in, humiliated in _every_ possible way! Really, I don't know how they managed to hide this maltreatment from the Muggle authorities, because even in the Muggle world, _that_ is bound to be illegal!"

"Must be very bad indeed if _you_ of all people –"

"Oh, _shut up_, Dumbledore! If you truly believed that – why did you make me a Head of House! I might not be the most compassionate teacher. Or the nicest. I'll win no popularity contest either. And I wouldn't want it any other way. At least the little buggers obey me and learn _something_ in my classes. But never – _never_ – did I mistreat _any_ of my students! I know what that's like! I know how it is to be beaten into submission! And he can't even defend himself against his aunt and uncle, because he's not allowed to do magic outside of school! _I_ at least had the chance to raise my wand when my… Never mind now. Seriously, you must do something about this, or you'll have the next trial against him for doing magic. Not even I would blame him if he cracks one day and curses the hell out of his uncle!"

Dumbledore promised to think about it, and that, yes, there was no real reason to send Harry Potter 'home' to his vicious uncle and malevolent aunt, if he could stay just as safely in Headquarters. He walked Severus to the door, a wry grin twisting his lips. "Severus, Severus…"

"What?" He glowered at him, knowing what the old man was about to say, and daring him to speak it. But of course, Dumbledore wasn't to be impressed by some grim looks, was he?

"In case we do decide that Harry needn't return to the Dursleys this year… Would you mind me mentioning that it had been your –"

"Don't you dare it," he growled and yanked on the door handle. "Good night, Headmaster!"


	67. Enslaved

Kreacher ist he first in his family _not_ willingly serving

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**- 3.17. -**

Enslaved

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_Dabit ira vires._

_SENECA – Troades_

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Kreacher has served The Noble House of Black for all his life, and as far as he is concerned, he will stick to it until his last breath. He is the last of his family, who have all done the same, serve The Noble Family as good and faithful as they could, and his ancestors watch out for him to follow their footsteps. This isn't just a phrase, they do look after him, one by one, his mother, his father, their mothers and fathers, his brother Kreamer, his uncles, they are all lined up in the staircase, he can feel their eyes on him, and he's most anxious to please them, even though they're all long gone. But this doesn't mean they wouldn't speak to him, Kreacher can hear their voices; he might not _see_ them speak, but he listens attentively still. Just like he listens to his Mistress, My Lady who's dead for almost fifteen years, but Her portrait is very much alive, She commands Kreacher at Her will, and he is determined to obey Her until his last breath.

That is more difficult than he could have foreseen because there is a new master nowadays. _He_ has come back, after not having set a foot in his forefathers' house for more than twenty years, and rightfully so, if it comes to Kreacher's humble opinion. He has been a most ungrateful son, a filthy traitor of his own blood and heritage; he has broken his mother's heart and partaken in driving his father to an early death of shame. Rotten, wicked, friend of the foes, a murderer they called him, he has been sent to Azkaban for it, and although Kreacher doesn't care much about the wizard who has been killed, and not at all about the Muggle victims, he finds that 'murderer' is still a just title for that man he is now forced to answer to. He and his dirty common friends, the comrades of the Mudbloods, and some of them even distanced – and despicably unworthy – relatives to The House of Black! Mudbloods have invaded Milady's house, werewolves – he shudders when he thinks of it – and countless blood traitors! What will they bring next? A vampire? A troll? A filthy goblin? What?

'My godforsaken flesh', the Mistress calls Kreacher's undeserving new master, and very rightly so. Her 'godforsaken flesh' is even more unbearable than in his youth; self-righteous, insolent, ungrateful for his mother's sacrifices, ungrateful in general, for his noble birth, the claims of being a pureblood, and not just any pureblood but a _Black_. Would there be a throne to English wizards, it would rightfully belong to the Blacks, oh well, yes, all right, actually, it would belong to the Malfoys, but the Blacks are clearly the second most important family, stewards so to say, or perhaps brothers to the king or so… Kreacher isn't entirely sure how these Muggle titles of peerage work, it's a mere saying anyway. Who cares for what the Muggles think!

His Mistress disturbs his fantasies at that point by asking him to take care of Her tapestry in the upper drawing room – 'you shall guard it with your life, Kreacher,' She instructs him, and solemnly, Kreacher gives his word to let nothing ever happen to the sacred tapestry. He gives Her his word every other night; in fact She's more afraid for Her family tree than for Her own portrait.

"I'm just a product of my family, Kreacher, one among many," She has explained to him, "but what _truly_ counts is the _dynasty_!"

Yes, yes, the _dynasty_, My Lady is right – of course She is! – the dynasty stands upon every other matter, only that Her leftover son seems to have no idea about _that_. He doesn't care for the old values of the family, the obligations of his blood – if he hadn't got the typical Black features, everybody must believe him being a cuckoo's egg, mixed up in Saint Mungo's at the day of his birth or something, so little his temper resembles his forefathers. No, not his _temper_, Kreacher corrects himself, his temper's pretty much a true Black indeed, but how he's holding himself. His pride and self-esteem know no shame. He has got pride, but it's of the wrong sort, he has been sorted to _Gryffindor_ then – how poor My Lady _wept_ that night, She had wished to conceal this sad fact from others, but how could She have when a hundred excited students must have gleefully written home that very same evening, 'Dear mom, guess _who_ hasn't made it to Slytherin?'

At least that had been the exact words of young master Sirius, too; Kreacher had secretly read his letter when he was told to burn it, and it confirmed everything he has ever thought about the boy. He lacked every quality, but made up the double in ill traits, he tormented Kreacher even as a little boy, so very unlike his younger brother Regulus. Yes, Master Regulus… The dear young master has gone much too early; The Mistress so suffered from his disappearance, unwitting it was in fact a premature death… She cried her eyes out, desperately wishing their places might be traded, with master Sirius gone, and Master Regulus strong and healthy as ever. Oh sweet Master Regulus, quem di diligunt, adulescens moritur, master Orion in his grief said then, the good ones die first, isn't this what they say? Even master Sirius seemingly agrees, although for entirely opposite reasons, and one day, when passing his mother's portrait in the hall, Kreacher heard him spit, "The ones we hate last forever, eh, mother?"

"Indeed, master," Kreacher has whispered in return, eyeing him in utmost contempt. What does _he_ know? _He_ isn't tied to a master so unworthy, _he _isn't bound to this house like Kreacher is, if he doesn't like it, why doesn't he simply leave and never come back? Ah, right, because every Auror in the country is looking out for him, and if they could get a hold of him… Sweet dreams of vengeance rule Kreacher's dreams at night. The Aurors will rip the rotten man to pieces, and his white-bearded friend won't be able to help him out of _that_ dilemma. The Aurors will catch him, yes, and then, only then, Kreacher will be allowed to find a little bit of peace.

Dark times it is, he can tell, all the old glory of The Name of Black is dimmed and diminished, and although he's left the house only a single time since his Mistress had passed away, he's well aware what's going on out there. There is a war out there coming, between pest and cholera, between the re-arisen Dark Lord, who his Mistress has not been too fond of in the last years of Her life, and the _others_, who follow the white-bearded wizard who commands the lot around Kreacher's new master. Dumbledore, the friend of the dirty bloods, whom his Mistress has despised even more. And these people have got hold of his home, too, by aid of his Mistress' left son, who somehow managed to escape Azkaban and return here. By the eyes of his father, Kreacher has prayed he wouldn't see him again, but his hopes have been disappointed too bitterly. The young master _has_ come back, and poor Kreacher's duty is to serve him, bound by the ancient laws of the house-elves, and not even his beloved Mistress could now spare him from _that_ dire. They have set up their 'Headquarters' in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, and worse, they did _things_ to the house, things that his mistress did not at all approve of, and he couldn't do anything about it, could he?

He _has _tried his best – he's seized the first possible chance to escape for a few hours, and turned to Milady's niece, Miss Cissy. Oh, Miss Cissy! How he envies the elves working for _her_! Malfoy Manor is only secondary to Black House, and in Malfoy Manor, the _old_ _customs_ are still valid. It is _heaven_ for a house-elf – some of the servants there are thrice removed cousins of Kreacher, because Miss Cissy has taken her personal elf-in-waiting with her after getting married to Master Lucius. Kreacher's turned to Miss Cissy, he's _begged_ her for help, and she in her grace has told him she'd do for him what's possible, and even allowed poor, undeserving Kreacher to talk to her husband. He still trembles with the memory. Master Lucius – oh _dear_ – Master Lucius is _the_ purest, _the_ utmost noble wizard in all England, there is no family older, purer, or more distinguished. Merlin, Kreacher would give his remaining eyesight if he was allowed to serve in Malfoy Manor, too…

The Mistress hasn't been too fond of Miss Cissy in life, She used to say that her niece was cleverer than could be good for her, and proud, _too_ proud considering her family's branch going down, with her elder sister having married a Mudblood. Kreacher has punished himself many times back then for the dreadful thought that My Lady shouldn't be too harsh with Miss Cissy's pride, since Her own flesh and blood has left home at the age of sixteen to do whatever he pleased and was likely to bring just as much shame upon his family as Miss Andy had inflicted on hers. Kreacher didn't know then how right he should be.

Nowadays, his Mistress openly confesses that She has erred in Miss Cissy, who is by now the only living offspring of The Noble House Of Black honouring the name. _Now_, The Mistress is ready to admit that Miss Cissy is a true heiress to Their blood and title. She has a son of her own, Kreacher has overheard how some of the bastard children talked about him; they hate him and obviously, he hates them as well, which is more than enough to endear the boy to Kreacher, if it wasn't for his innate nobility in the first place. It's absolutely unintelligible to poor Kreacher how those very two, one the child of traitors and the other one of dirty blood with no magic roots of her own, could even _dare_ to detest the latest heir of both the Blacks and the Malfoys, a boy wizard purer and nobler than his own parents even, by crossing their two lines.

Every now and then, Master Lucius sends Izzy, one of his servants, to keep Kreacher informed about the present state of the affair, and each time, Kreacher hurls himself at the feet of his cousin thrice removed and kisses them, imploring him to end his misery, but Izzy keeps on saying that it's not time yet, the plan is on its way. Kreacher doesn't grasp what exactly the plan is about, but far be it from him to doubt Master Lucius.

So – Miss Cissy and Master Lucius have given their gracious consent to help him if they can – bless them – but so far, nothing has happened, and the awful brat arrogating to be the last descendant of the Noble Lineage is continuing to desecrate the house in every way he can think of. Only to annoy Kreacher and mortify his ancestors, he's made a stable out of My Lady's bedroom – Kreacher cannot suspend the tears whenever he thinks of it. He's thrown out all the photos, all portraits that he could remove, the precious crystal cabinet in the grand parlour – Kreacher still remembers how proud Master Orion was purchasing it… He even put on Santa caps onto the heads of Kreacher's ancestors – he gave them _clothes_ – humiliated them even in death! Kreacher sneaked out one night to remove them, only to find the filthy things back on his family's heads in the next morning, this time fixed with Sticking Charms. There is no end to the litany of every sin the nasty, nasty man's committed.

There is but one luck – The Mistress has been so wise as to glue Her own portrait, and the tapestry of the Family tree, with permanent Sticking Charms to their places, so the wicked brats couldn't remove them. _She_ won't desert Kreacher, his only solace, they can't take _Her_ away from him, he will forever serve his Mistress until his days are gone by and the line of the Kreas has run out. It's good that it is like that, for nothing in the world, Kreacher would want to go on following the new master and his brood; that would mean betrayal of everything his ancestors have stood for. In the night, he sneaks up into the hall and cautiously pulls away the curtains covering Milady, that those maledicted scoundrels have hung upon Her, and then, She _whispers_ to him, and Kreacher answers to Her, feeling as happy as he could be. The Mistress is softer in death than in life, and by now, She talks to Kreacher like She has never done before, _so_ gentle and kind, knowing that he is the only one She has left loyal to Her.

Habitually, he hits himself with the frying pan for this heretical thought – he has no right to demand The Mistress to be anything, let alone kind, to him, Her unworthy servant. The Mistress talks in a low voice, She tells Kreacher where the important things are hidden, and what he ought to do to protect them from the intruders. Nasty little buggers, only recently, they threw away the Family photographs, but Kreacher has saved them, and his Mistress has allowed him to take them to his place under the sink. They're all there, the old Master, Milady, young master Regulus, and then, the more distanced relations, Miss Bella, Miss Cissy, lovely, gracious Miss Cissy, their mother and father, and a fine miniature of their grandfather, master Severin, all of them now guarded over in his hide-away by himself. Each night, he crawls into his den and sheds hot tears, swearing to them that he'll make things right again. My Lady – Master Orion – Master Regulus – Miss Bellatrix – and also Miss Cissy, lovely, gracious Miss Cissy! – he'll do whatever it takes to stand up to their expectations. He glimpses at her photo, quivers under her cool gaze, and his lips form a silent, 'Kreacher won't let the Mistress down…'

"What are you doing there, Kreacher?" He hears his master's voice behind him, just when he's about to pick up one of his Mistress' scarves, that the blood traitor woman used for cleaning the windows.

"Tidying up, master," he replies reluctantly, remaining in the stooped position, hoping that the master won't see his grimace.

"Help me figure this out, maggot. How can you say you were _tidying_ _up_, when this house obviously hasn't seen a cleaning cloth in fifteen years? What exactly do you _understand_ by the term? We certainly have different ideas about the process!"

Kreacher straightens and glowers at master Sirius, pressing an answer through gritted teeth, "I dare say we have different ideas about _many_ a thing, master!"

"Hopefully!" that one returns with an ugly expression, and Kreacher narrows his eyes. A wicked worm the master is, his poor mother has cursed the day of his birth, and his father disowned him at the day he has come of age. Master Sirius grins maliciously and picks up the silky scarf, "This is what you wanted to throw away, right? Come, I'll spare you a way; _I_ will throw it away for you. Ah, I'll burn it, look how dirty it is, Molly won't use it any longer!"

That scarf was a gift from Master Regulus for My Lady's 40th birthday, made of Chinese Silk and embroidered with little silver dragons, and master Sirius knows full well how dear it has been to Her. Pure spite is gleaming in his eyes now, and Kreacher can hardly refrain from jumping at him to tear it from his hands and run, run, and hide the precious, wherever the stinking vermin cannot find it. He's shaking with anger; he can't take his eyes from the once shining, now stained fabric in his master's hands.

"Master shall not do a servant's job," he manages to utter with great effort, carefully reaching out. "Kreacher's only devotion is to serve the Noble House of Black!"

Master Sirius takes a closer look at the cloth in his hands, "What is it about you, Kreacher? My mother is _dead_, you know? She won't wear those no longer, and nobody else would. Besides, you don't think I was as silly as being tricked by you, do you?"

Tricked? If only he _could_ be tricked, if only he had come in just a moment later, so Kreacher would have been able to put the precious out of sight, he could have cleaned it, he could have removed those ugly stains of dust and dirt and dead insects, and if it had taken him all night –

"You know very well that I can't give you clothes, I'd love to set you free, I really do, but I can't. Deal with it, so must I!"

That catches Kreacher a little offhand; he hasn't even meant to achieve that – although of course it is most desirable. It'd break his heart to desert Milady, but being compelled to witness the devastation of Her home, to serve Her coffin's nail, that's more than an old elf like him could take on the long run. And since master Sirius is still fairly young, there's only little hope that Kreacher will live to see his death. Unless the Aurors tackle him… He smirks dreamily.

Yes, a glimpse of hope's still sparkling, but Kreacher won't hang his hopes too high in that department. That girl that sometimes comes here now, she's an Auror, too, and much, much worse – she's a second cousin of the master, daughter of that ungrateful Miss Andy and her Mudblood husband. Nowadays, they accept _half-bloods_ as Aurors, even the most respectful and noble trades of the wizarding world are finally polluted and overrun by those that are unworthy. _She_ is especially unworthy, an epitome of the disgrace shed upon her family by her mother's betrayal, Milady always said.

The master has ordered Kreacher to obey that witch, but he consulted The Mistress about it, and she has confirmed his notion that he needn't follow her commands. Her branch of The Family has been officially denounced, and the laws of the house-elves oblige him only to serve The Official Family. In this case, that means only the master, Miss Cissy and her clan, Miss Bella and that one's husband, to whom poor Kreacher's answerable; he also needn't listen to that fat, red-haired slug, who is so distantly related that it wouldn't really matter – otherwise, he'd be answerable to nearly every pure-blooded wizard in the whole of England. He laughed with relief and glee when telling this to the master's face in the next morning, whereas the girl in question only shrugged. "Never had a house-elf, Sirius, I reckon I don't need one anyway!"

Master's mood isn't improving, only when this friend of his appears now and then, he lightens up his gloomy features. Then, they usually sit together in the kitchen downstairs, which Kreacher finds particularly rude. The kitchen is, and has always been, _his_ territory, the master has a whole house of three floors and the attic, why does he have to usurp the only place that belongs rightfully to the house-elf? And that werewolf half-breed, occupying the place as if he was welcome – well, badly enough, he _is_ welcome, invited by the young master himself. Terrible! Odious! Kreacher crawls into his sink and tries to ignore the wizards outside as well as he could, still he can hear them speaking.

"I'd like to strangle that Umbridge woman with my bare _hands_," the master growls.

"Join the queue. I heard Scabior saying _exactly_ the same. Her latest anti-werewolf bill has quenched even the last bit of sympathy some of them might still have harboured for the wizards."

"You give her too much credit. She'd never have managed to get it through the Wizengamot – worded as it is now – if it hadn't been for dearest Lucius' influence!"

The other man sighs. "Yeah, but _his _vigour I can even _understand_ –"

"Oh, please! Are you out of your head? Only because he's oh-so-pure-blooded?"

"Nonsense, Sirius. You've been away very long, you don't know a lot of things that have happened. In this case… Must be thirteen years, or fourteen perhaps, when Greyback decided that he couldn't do better than abduct Lucius' son and heir… Lucius, with all his influence, he thought, and so famously attached to his family – if _his_ son became a werewolf, too, he'd _have_ to lobby for our cause."

"What an utterly stupid idea!"

"Yes, well, it didn't work out either. Greyback and a dozen others ganged together and attacked the boy, killing three house-elves on the side – only Greyback himself and two others survived. Lucius arrived barely in time and killed four on the spot, and didn't rest hunting them in the following months until he had found and executed six more."

"He did _what_?"

"I guess he meant to make a point – don't mess with Lucius Malfoy, _or_ his family. And I can even understand him –"

"Oh, rubbish!"

The werewolf chuckles dryly. "My own father was a very good man, Sirius. You know he was. And him I heard talking about wanting to murder Greyback, too."

"That's different!"

"Why is that _different_? Because Greyback was successful in my case?"

The master adapts a weary tone, "Because it makes a difference to be _thinking_ about vengeance, or executing it in cold blood!"

"If that's true – what about us, then? That day when we caught Peter in the Shrieking Shack, and would have killed him if it hadn't been for Harry?"

"If only we _had_ killed him! Did you ever contemplate that Voldemort wouldn't have come back at all if that cursed rat hadn't survived that night?"

"I did think about it, yes. There's a bitter irony in the thought so I choose to rather not dwell on it too much." He sounds sad, but then the tone changes. Considerably much brighter, he continues, "Blimey, is that the time? Sorry, pal, but I got to hurry!"

There's a sound of pushing chairs, and the master's bark-like voice gnarls, "Oh, _sure_. You just go, Moony. What's hanging out with an old friend if there are pretty young girls to screw with!"

"Don't be like that, I –"

"'Tis madness, Moony, and you know it!"

"I know, but –"

"You're the only butt here, man! The girl's almost a _child_ still! And incidentally, my _cousin_!"

"Well, she _is_ twenty-three, turning twenty-four next –"

"But that's not the point! Can't you see that? Moony, I know you for the better part of my life – literally, the _better_ – and trust me, pal, you're not cut out for this! A _relationship_? Gee, you're the serious type, and she's but a teenager! You think it'll last? You really think so? You're going to end up heartbroken and sore, and I don't think you could take it!"

"Come on, Padfoot, I _know_ all this, but – but… I cannot help myself! She's the kindest person I ever met. She's _everything_ a man could want in a girl!"

"Oh yes, she _is_ kind. Taking after her mum, of course. Still – let me summarise the pros and cons, okay? Pro – Tonks is kind – she is charming – she is pretty – she is smart. That's four valid pros, right. Now for the contra. Where to _start_! I hate mentioning it, but you _are_ a werewolf! If you accidentally bit her, she'd die! Females do not survive the transformation!"

"As if I didn't know that! I _won't_ bite her, we're very careful!"

"And even _if_ you're careful not to bite her, Remus… I bet Fenrir Greyback's parents had only the best intentions, and look where _he's_ gone to!"

The half-breed moans, "That was _low_, Sirius!"

"But true! And she's an Auror, can you imagine what Scrimgeour does if he ever gets wind of your affair?"

"Look, Sirius, we're having this conversation every time I come here –"

"Not very often, then!" The master sounds _very_ reproachful, and Kreacher bites into his own hand to keep himself from giggling in Schadenfreude.

"And I'm really, really sick of going over it again and again! I _love_ her. Accept that or not, but stop arguing with me about her, will you?"

No, the master does _not_ stop, and it gives Kreacher some satisfaction that the vile man doesn't even get along with his own so-called _friends_. Shows Kreacher that _he_ is at the right end of the stick! The two men argue some more, before the werewolf finally leaves, banging the doors behind himself and waking up My Lady. It takes Kreacher the better part of an hour to calm her again, filling her in on the latest details of all her son's lapses, before he's finally allowed to withdraw. 'Yeah', he thinks, 'all the young ones are rotten to the core…' What else would the filthy half-blood girl do but throw herself into the arms of a half-breed, in order to humiliate the rest of her family to the bone? 'Two of a kind, that girl and the young master,' Kreacher thinks dimly before finally falling asleep. He's got business to do tomorrow morning, because he's come up with an ingenious strategy in his ever-lasting guerrilla war with master Sirius. This one's hatching a dozen plants lately, 'to improve the atmosphere'. Ah… They shall see about _that_.

"KREACHER!"

He limps over to the parlour, comfortably, and with mock innocence, he eyes alternately the master, and the teeming _thing _in the corner. "Kreacher is here, master, ready to serve The Noble House of Black, young master… What is it, sir?"

"What it is? WHAT IT IS? _You _tell me, you little shitbag! What have you done to the Ficus?"

"Kreacher wouldn't know what a Feekus is, master," he murmurs with wide eyes, secretly bursting with laughter, well perceiving the leagues of spiders and bugs that have finished their business with the dead plant and are now up for more food. Well, the bugs eat the leaves, and the spiders feed on the bugs, in fact he has only added them to the draught because he knew that the young master dislikes them passionately.

"You don't? Well, I will show you a Ficus, or rather say – I will show you what a Ficus _was_, and you know perfectly well what I'm talking about, stinker! Clean this mess up, NOW!"

Master points at the remains of his _Ficus_, and Kreacher shuffles over, stiffly bowing down and picking up spider by spider, putting them in an open jar next to him, with excruciating slowness. He cannot but grin.

"Oh you useless git, get off there!" Master Sirius has taken out his wand and aims at the leafless tree, "_Evanesco_!"

He vanishes some more distraught insects, before turning to Kreacher again, "Don't think you can fool me, you dirty little midget! I know that this is your work, I wonder who taught you that –"

Oh, the good Mistress has; She has shown Kreacher the recipe when watering some flowers with it, that were to be sent to Miss Andy due to her wedding back then. How clever of Her! When he tells Her about his little scheme that night, She smiles broadly and praises him. "Well done, Kreacher, well done. I'm glad to see you stand up to your honour, and to the honour of my noble forefathers!"

The master has sneaked after Kreacher, now pointing his wand at Her portrait, shaking and spitting with rage.

"YOU ROTTEN FLESH OF MINE; HOW DARE YOU?"

"BLOODY OLD HAG; WHAT ELSE HAVE YOU SHOWED THE PATHETIC BEAST?"

Kreacher now yells too, "Master mustn't speak like that to Milady!"

The Mistress nods fiercely. "Exactly! You miserable worm, take a look at that house-elf, he knows more about what's right and wrong than you do, may you die in utmost agony, goddamned dog of a troll!"

"Oh shut up!" the master booms, waving around with his wand and aiming at Her. "I set you up in flames, I swear I do, I wonder why I haven't done much earlier!"

"Oh, go on, please!" She says, lurking. "Do us all a favour and try _that_!"

He lowers his wand most reluctantly and hisses, "You wish, mother! God, how I _hate_ you!"

Later, he catches Kreacher in the kitchen and mutters malevolently, "My mother has made her final and well-aimed strike with inheriting the house to me, including you. She must have thought I deserved you!"

In mock modesty, he replies, "Master mustn't flatter poor Kreacher!"

"For the first time ever, there has been some _life_ in these walls! I ought to have been aware that my mother is hostile against the whole principle of life in itself!"

Kreacher snorts indignantly, "Master likes his little joke!" Ungrateful, stinking, brat of an idiot, why couldn't he just rot away in Azkaban?

The next thing he feels is the master's hand around his throat, "_Azkaban_? When I'm through with you, you'd wish you'd be there!"

Honestly, sometimes Kreacher thinks the master can do mind-reading. Master Sirius pulls him away with might, and when Kreacher refuses, he simply lifts him up and carries him out of the room. He takes him upstairs, into Master Regulus' old room, and throws him onto the bed.

"Listen, Kreacher. You're hysterical, you got to calm down, or you'll get a heart-attack. Don't think I wouldn't appreciate this, but you know how Miss Granger's like, she'd think I had murdered you."

"M-m-miss Granger?", Kreacher moans, totally at loss what the master's talking about.

"Ah, you know her by the name 'filthy little Mudblood', I reckon, but I'm afraid she's also your only fan. Anyway, you'll stay the night here – no protest necessary, you stay, I say."

Kreacher fights as good as he can, but the master is tall and strong, where Kreacher is old and frail. He struggles in vain, and in the end, he's locked up in Master Regulus' old room, the door sealed by magic that Kreacher couldn't overcome, and he cowers in the corner and weeps, like he long hasn't wept. Milady has _sworn_ that master Sirius was no son of Hers, and he couldn't be! So cruel, so wilful, how can he punish poor Kreacher like that? Make him spend the night in the sacred chamber, Kreacher isn't allowed to be in here, he isn't pure enough to stay longer than it needs to bring fresh flowers and remove the old and faded, to do some dusting and preserve the memory installed in here for the lost good son. The bed is still exactly in the state that it had at that most dreadful day when he didn't come back… There's still a pair of robes hanging on the wardrobe, that My Lady wanted him to wear the next day. Still the open book on the bedside table…

What does the young master know what he has done to his mother? _He _hasn't been there, hasn't even attended his brother's funeral with the empty coffin, just like he has shunned his father's four weeks later. He doesn't know or care that this room, covered with black tendrils and wine-red roses, that this room is a sanctum, kept holy by The Mistress and Her faithful elf, and that locking Kreacher in here was the worst crime he could possibly commit, right after destroying his mother's portrait and the tapestry. Kreacher's mere presence desecrates the place's dignity, where should he place himself without causing too much harm, invisible to the eye, but all the more ailing poor Kreacher's soul. By no means he can lie on the bed, out of question, but neither can he lie on the same carpet where sweet Master Regulus used to sit and play, he can't sit in front of the fireplace where Master spent so many evenings, on the window sill he sat and read, and next to the bed, there's always been a pile of things for the laundry, ready for Kreacher to bring it away. Every tiny piece in this room is sacrosanct and mustn't be touched, and Kreacher gets more and more despaired, turning around faster and faster, searching for a way out of this dilemma, and in the end, he makes a compromise by crawling _under _the carpet and rest there, but his heart beats like hell, and he cannot find a single minute of sleep that night. All the time, he mutters curses against the master, wailing in hurt and rage and self-pity, and The Mistress – oh, The Mistress will wait for him in vain this night, The Mistress will think him infidel!

When the master comes back in the morning and finds Kreacher under the carpet, he goggles at him and asks nonplussed, "For Merlin's sake – what are you _doing_ there? The bed's too soft for you, or what?"

Kreacher gives him the filthiest look he can conjure, and snatches himself up. "Kreacher won't ever do a sacrilege like that, master!"

"_Sacrilege_?"

"This is Master Regulus' bed, should you have forgotten?"

The young master gives him a strange glance and shrugs, "In fact, I believed I was doing you a favour, silly rabbit, by leaving you here. But I got to see, there's nothing one could do for you."

Kreacher stalks out of the room without further comment and goes down to apologise to The Mistress for leaving Her wait that night; but before that, he jams his hands in a door three times. Bad Kreacher! The Mistress is beyond exasperation, murmuring, "If only my line was extinguished! What a disgrace this wizard is, and I brought him into this world!"

"If you had knitted a bamboo basket and set me on the river Thames after birth, I couldn't have done worse!" Master Sirius' voice sounds from behind, "Rather the opposite!"

"Ungrateful prat, gypsies must have taken my real son and left you for it!" His mother snaps back, Kreacher nods emphatically, and master Sirius growls that gypsies would have made much better parents than he has had. At this point, Kreacher bites him, he couldn't say himself how or why just in this moment, but he jumps at the master and bites into his hand with all his might. That one gives a loud yell of surprise rather than pain, and shakes Kreacher off, and this one hits his head.

"Are you _insane_, you nutty imbecile?"

No. Kreacher is the only one in this house who's got his wits together, and soon… Yes, he'll finally be rewarded for his perseverance soon. Izzy's come and told him what he ought to do.

* * *

_Dabit..._ Fury gives strength.

_Quem di..._ The good ones die young.


	68. Disgrace

Draco learns that Lucius was arrested as a Death Eater

* * *

**- 3.18. -**

Disgrace

* * *

_Contritionem praecedit superbia._

_VULGATE_

_

* * *

_

Until this morning, Draco had been pitied by his fellow house mates, for being cursed by Weasel King's vicious little sister. All right. Perhaps there had been some sneers within the sympathy, but the key term in this context was _sympathy_. Until this morning, he had been nothing but popular. He was _Draco Malfoy_, for crying out loud! Fabulous at Quidditch! Handsome to the bone! Rich beyond imagination! He was Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy's only son! That had been a mark of honour until this morning, and it was still in the boy's eyes, though most of his fellow students appeared to have suddenly changed their mind.

He had been woken up shortly after dawn by his mum. For a moment, he had thought he'd be dreaming, because his mother wouldn't set a foot into the school if she could help it, and she must know that the silly curse hadn't injured him that badly. But she was real, and so was what she told him, though he was still very much in denial. She had looked more distressed than he had ever seen her, and very quietly, she had told him that – no, he _still_ couldn't believe it!

Some other students in the Infirmary had been awake, too, and _all_ of them had stared at her in awe, because that's what she was after all – plainly awesome. They hadn't been able to overhear her dreadful communications though, or that tiny Ravenclaw Second Year would not have whispered after her leaving again, "That's your _mum_?"

He had numbly nodded, then pulled his pillow over his face and bit into it, hard. She had come personally because she didn't want him to hear the bad news from someone else – bless her – and had hurried away again to dress down the idiot that called himself their Law Wizard, and perhaps see his father. _If_ she was _extremely_ lucky. In that moment, he hadn't grasped her full meaning. Everything she had said after 'Your father has been arrested as a Death Eater' hadn't penetrated his mind anymore, he had been stuck on this bit alone.

Arrested? His father? _Arrested?_ _His father…? _Even in his state of shock, he had been aware that being arrested with a Death Eater mask, next to his infamous aunt and You Know Who himself was another _league_ of arrest than for just trespassing the Secrecy Statutes, or jinxing a Muggle. On the other hand – _come on!_ This was still the same Lucius Malfoy that all those dunces had been so keen on to admire! Anyone with half a brain could have figured out what sort of magic Lucius Malfoy preferred! And? Had they cared? No! The glamour, and what was more, the generous donations had sufficed to make Malfoy Sr. as popular in the world as his son had been among his fellows.

_Had been_. The course of the morning had shown that there was – at least – an interruption. Professor Snape had shown up to inform Vince that his father, too, had been arrested. Despite their stinging curse marks, he had asked the two boys to follow him to his office, where Theo Nott and little Belinda Crabbe had been waiting already; Snape had explained everything that Narcissa Malfoy hadn't mentioned due to the brevity of her visit. A dozen Death Eaters had broken into the Ministry of Magic, among them Draco's dad, Crabbe Senior and Mr Nott; they had tried to overwhelm Potter and some of his friends – what on earth _they_ had been doing there he could not, or would not say. Unnecessary to mention – Potter had been lucky and escaped, his mates had been injured but not very badly and would soon show up in the Infirmary as well. At some point, Dumbledore and some others had come to save Golden Boy, as always, and Dumbledore, that big fat ass hole, had cast a spell on eleven of those twelve Death Eaters. The Dark Lord had come then, making his return official, but he had not freed his followers when he had escaped again, and by now, they had all been taken to Azkaban to wait there for their upcoming trials.

Draco wanted to appear calmer than he truly was. He wished he could show the same unfathomable face as Theo. At least, he was cooler than Vince, who looked like a fish on dry land, opening and closing his mouth incessantly and slightly hyperventilating, his eyes bulging, his fists cramped. 'Get a grip, mate. You're not helping anyone like this.'

"Do you understand what this means?" Snape asked now. Theo nodded, Vince shook his thick head, little Linny was silently weeping – Draco shrugged vaguely. He hadn't come so far in his musings. What _did_ it mean? "Now that the Ministry is aware of the Dark Lord's return, we are facing war, gentlemen. You are too young to remember the last time, but I'm sure your parents have told you a thing or two. There'll be mass hysteria. A rift within the community, and fierce hatred against anyone linked to the Dark side. I'm afraid this also includes you, being the sons – or daughters – of your fathers."

Theo sniggered and sneered. "So what? I couldn't care less."

"Yeah!" Draco nodded, at last.

Snape gave him a pointed glance. "Be careful, Draco. You aren't used to universal contempt. You might not like it."

"That's all just temporary anyway! The Dark Lord will rule again and we'll achieve satisfaction!"

"I'd advise you to keep a low profile nonetheless."

"What about you, Sir?"

"Me?" He gave a little smile.

"Yes! What will _you_ do now?"

The smile kept on curling the Professor's thin lips. "Luckily, the school and all of its inhabitants are unlikely to be directly affected by the current changes. So I'll continue to be your Head of House as always. If you misbehave, I'll have to punish you."

"But what d'you _think_?"

"According to number umpty-five of the Ministry regulations, I am prohibited to share my thoughts with any of the students, Draco. I am on probation, remember?"

This was basically the end of their conversation; Draco and Vince were permitted to return to the dungeons, too, equipped with a very potent ointment for their wounds. Really, none of them had any taste to be in the same room as Potter and his buddies right now. By noon, Draco was convinced though that being in the same room with Potter and his contempt was a walk in the park, compared to _this_. What was _wrong_ with those people? This was _Slytherin_! Their alliances were obvious, weren't they?

The Daily Prophet had printed an extra issue – the Dark Lord back, Death Eater activity in the Ministry of Magic, the _names_ of everyone involved, oh, and – Dumbledore was reinstated as Headmaster. There was no student here that hadn't read it, that hadn't read what had happened to Mr Malfoy. And strangely enough, there was no more sympathy for his son, or support. No, now they stared at him, glared at him, or evaded his looks. They whispered and gazed over, and some First Year student darted away when Draco sat down opposite of him in the Common Room.

Unnerved, he withdrew to the dorm;. Greg and Vince were there, looking helpless. Greg was lucky anyhow, for some reason or other, his father hadn't been in the Ministry, and consequently, had not been arrested. Perhaps out of loyalty, he was as upset as his two friends, but _talking_ to them was no use still. They were too dumb for any useful contribution. Lunch was plainly unbearable; Draco left the table after three bites. Snape had been right. He wasn't used to such open rejection.

Back in the dorm, he jinxed the curtains shut and lied down. Snape's ointment did a good enough job, easing his pains – those resulting out of his injuries. He slowly began to realise what had happened. His dad, his own dad, was in _Azkaban_. Oh Merlin! Azkaban prison had a reputation for being the most awful place on the surface of the earth, and in Draco's head, it was getting even worse. Poor Dad! Poor _Mum_, thinking about it! She wasn't prepared for something like this, surely!

This was outrageous! How _could_ they dare putting _Lucius Malfoy_ in jail, bloody hell? So he was a Death Eater, yeah? And…? Breaking into the Ministry, attacking bloody Potter – preposterous! Just the previous night, Draco had done the same, by order of the Ministry itself! This was all a mistake, and before long, those idiots would crawl in the dust and apologise for their errors!

Dumbledore had beaten his father – Draco had rarely felt such blazing hate in his insides, and thought that this was saying something. Normally, he had exclusively reserved this sort of disgust for Potter and his two chums Granger and Weasel Bee. But for the wizard who had _dared_ to subjugate Lucius Malfoy, he would of course make a generous exception. This foolish, stupid, silly old crackpot, this blithering jerk, this… Narcissa Malfoy had set great store in her son's education, one of her points being his mindful use of language. She would never have him swear or speak foul words in her presence, so now he cursed about that as well, for lacking the proper insults to express his rage with them all, Dumbledore, and Potter, and Granger, and all the other prats that had been involved with his great father's undoing.

"Draco?"

"Get lost!"

"Open the curtains, Draco. Please!" This was Pansy; she must have been released from the Infirmary, too, but he simply couldn't deal with her now, insipid cow that she was!

"Go away and leave me alone!"

She obeyed, but returned at dinner time. He had refused to go up to the Great Hall, ignoring the funny noises that his empty stomach gave. As a matter of fact, he hadn't been eating properly since yesterday, but he wasn't hungry either. Still, when he saw her standing in the middle of the dorm, a big plate in her hands, he was a little bit grateful. She had brought sandwiches, strawberry tarts and slices of cold roast.

"You ought to eat _something_, Draco," she said tentatively.

"Says who?" he replied stubbornly, but couldn't take his eyes off the food.

She put down the plate on his bedside table, balancing it on a pile of books. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Yeah. Bugger off!"

She nodded in defeat and turned around to go, but faltered. "I just wanted to say – I've heard – I'm so sorry, Draco!"

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes. But it's going to be all right in time. I'm certain."

She looked so earnest, so sanguine, so genuinely solicitous – he changed his mind without quite knowing why. He sat down on his bed and beckoned at her to do the same, while he'd pick a sandwich and listlessly tried a bite.

"How was the mood in the Infirmary?"

"Weird… Did you hear? Professor Umbridge – it appears she's been attacked by a herd of centaurs," she said. "Try the roast, it's pretty good."

"A herd of _centaurs_?"

"Yah… Granger's had her hands in it, I've heard, but – well, I don't really know."

"_Centaurs?_ From the Forest, you mean?"

It felt good to talk about something else, to take his mind off the real disaster. She would tell him that Potter was in the Infirmary, looking devastated; Professor Umbridge seemed to have sustained a nervous breakdown; Longbottom had a broken ankle and a squashed nose… They deserved it, with the possible exception of Professor Umbridge. As soon as she was on her feet again, she'd sort out the 'misunderstanding' in the Ministry – that was what Pansy saw in it. A dreadful misunderstanding, nothing else. No one right in their mind would arrest Mr Malfoy. Draco had never liked her half as much as in this moment, when she confirmed all his own notions.

Without noticing it, he ate everything she had brought. She volunteered to bring more, or if he'd like some of the cake that her mum had sent her…? Greg and Vince had returned from upstairs, looking greedy upon the cue 'cake', and Pansy hurried off.

"This is like the first person being _nice_ today," Vince muttered, looking after her.

Greg grinned, but wiped that expression off his face at once. "I reckon she's not being nice to you or me, Crabbe."

"Oh, shut up. She's fetching cake for _you_, Greg," Draco growled, angry about the innuendo.

"And do you hear me complaining?"

"You haven't _got_ anything to complain about, mate. You're one lucky bastard!"

"Gawd, I know. How's Linny?"

Vince shrugged. Draco had the faint idea that little Belinda was by far worst off of all of them; she was only a First Year. On the other hand, he felt too crestfallen to bemoan anyone's fate but his own, and his dad's. This was all so bloody unfair!

* * *

_Contritinem..._ Pride comes before the fall.


	69. Driving Miss Cissy

Narcissa tries to prove herself, and ultimately Draco, something

* * *

**- 3.19. -**

Driving Miss Cissy

* * *

_I've got to get to you first before they do, it's just a question of time before they lay their hands on you and make you just like the rest. I've got to get to you first. It's just a question of time and it's running out for you. It won't be long before you do exactly what they want you to._

_DEPECHE MODE – Question of time_

_

* * *

_

She had ordered a car, as soon as she had arrived in London by apparition, to take Draco home. He wouldn't like this, she could foresee in perfect clarity, but he would simply have to surmount his aversion against Muggle devices. She would not break the laws concerning under-aged wizards by letting him Apparate alongside herself, like Lucius had done for so many years without _anyone_ paying the least bit attention. She had to face her own trial on Tuesday, and wasn't quite as confident as she would have to pretend she was, for Draco's sake. No, she had decided to do what her own parents had done when _she_ had been too young to officially Apparate yet. She would play by the Ministry's rules.

She arrived in King's Cross punctually, seeing the steaming Hogwarts Express come to a halt, and ignoring all the belligerent stares of the other waiting parents. These cretins, what did they take her for? Even if her husband had the day before been sent to Azkaban – did anyone seriously assume that she would take out her wand and make the train explode? Or start throwing wild curses at the people around her? She saw some witches and wizards she knew, who desperately tried to look the other way, or most of them did, for some others had no scruples to whisper so loudly that they made sure she would overhear them, "Impossible! How can they leave _that one_ walk around freely still!"

She smiled instead of scowling back at them, waiting for her son to get off the train, and was soon joined by Miranda Crabbe and Norma Goyle, who had come to fetch their own sons, too. She curtly answered the questions about her well-being by lying through her teeth how _fine_ she was, not taking her eyes from the train, but he wouldn't come, until she was eventually addressed by one of Draco's friends, the pug-faced Miss Parkinson.

"Mrs Malfoy," she said, flustered, "I think you should come…"

"Where is my son?"

"Well, that's the point, isn't it? Please, come with me – and perhaps Mrs Crabbe and Mrs Goyle want to come, too…?"

Narcissa's heart beat a little faster; the girl was serious but not overly concerned still, so nothing very bad could have happened, right…? She revised that assessment when spotting the twitching bundle on the floor of a compartment corridor, that she only recognised to be Draco by the silver blond strands of hair and the expensive robes. He had been hit by some very bad curses, so much was sure, and briefly gritting her teeth, she drew her wand and pointed it at her beloved child, to remove some of the major effects.

"Mum," he groaned, staggering to his feet and checking his reflection in one of the glass panes.

"Hello Draco," she replied quietly. "How do you feel?"

"Smashed –"

"Clearly. Where's your luggage?"

He lead her over to another compartment, she diminished his trunk and the owl cage – his own owl Muninn always flew the way back home; Narcissa disapproved of keeping or transporting animals in too small cages – slipped them all into Draco's and her own pockets and silently guided him out of the train. There were all sorts of hearty welcome scenes around them, small children on their father's arms, elder ones kissing and hugging their mothers. Most of them interrupted their felicity though for glaring at Narcissa Malfoy and her son when they stepped onto the platform.

"Smile self-confidently and keep your head up high," she said under her breath. "We'll be out of here in no time."

They both followed that sound advice, marching away in pride; she needn't even negotiate her way through the masses of people, who immediately gave way to them as soon as they noticed. Even the Muggles were less annoying this time, for none of _them_ had the slightest clue who was passing them there. Narcissa received an amount of the habitual glances that a woman of her figure, size, clothes and face would automatically attract in a public place like this, but they lacked the hostility of the wizards on the other side of the wall. They quickly left; she directed him around a few corners, across a street and stopped in front of a shining black Muggle carriage.

The driver jumped out to help them with their non-existent baggage, opened the doors for them and helped them in, and only inside, Draco asked in an undertone, "What's _this_ supposed to mean?"

"You need to get home, mon trésor. Or did you intend to _walk_ all the way?"

"But this – this," he protested, dropping his voice to a bare whisper, "this is a _Muggle thingy_! An – now what do they say… An – an _automobile_!"

"This is a Bentley, I have learnt," she answered with her normal voice. "Try to adopt the term, will you?"

"I don't care how it's called!"

"Oh, I think you should, or would you rather go by one of these the next time?" She pointed at a rusty heap of tin and metal that passed them in this moment, with more dents than she could count.

"The _next_ time?" He sounded scandalised.

"Yes, _the next time_. Until you are seventeen and as long as you are accompanied by _me_, you will accustom to the Bentley or go by foot. That's entirely up to you, sweetheart."

The driver cast them a curious look, which Narcissa returned archly. She'd have to modify his memory later on anyway, so there was no real need to whisper, something that Draco appeared to have grasped, too, for he spoke in his normal volume again.

"How was Dad's trial?"

"That depends on the point of view you're taking," she said and smirked. "But on the plus side – he held himself grandiosely. Very dignified, seeing the dire situation. Reminded me a little of our wedding, now that I come to think of it."

"This isn't funny, Mum!"

"No, it certainly isn't, that's why you've got to laugh about it in the first place, dear. Always laugh death, terror and destruction right in the face." Via the rear view mirror, she noticed the driver's incredulous expression and added, louder, "And your name was…?"

"Ian, Ma'am –"

"You surely wonder what my husband has been sentenced for, am I right?"

He was slightly embarrassed and blushed. "It isn't my place to –"

"Nonsense. You overhear half of our conversation anyway, so I can just as well give you a full account!"

"As you please, Ma'am…"

"He is a high-ranking member of an illegal organisation that wants to overthrow the authorities and install their own leader – watch the street, Mr Ian. If you kill a pedestrian, the ride will take even longer. – You are a bit pale around your nose. Did I shock you?"

"Oh, no, Ma'am, I – I am –"

"Out of your wits, yes. I can see that. Well, you see, my husband thinks that people who do not belong to _us_ – to _our kind_, you know – that they got nothing to do with us and should better be dispelled. What say you to that?"

Draco looked like fainting, but Narcissa wanted to prove herself a point here, and judging the driver's expression, she was just about to. He slightly shrugged and visibly relaxed. "Well, if you really care for _my_ opinion – your husband is surely right with what he thinks, Ma'am."

"Oh, I _do_ care for your opinion, Mr Ian. Otherwise, I wouldn't be asking, would I? And all the more since you so charmingly agree with me! So tell me – how do _you_ feel about the _others_? It is of real interest to me, you know, I hardly ever meet with – normal – people like you."

Mr Ian was either deaf for the implied deprecation, or well used to drive around posh aristocrats, for he didn't wince. Instead, he nodded and snarled, "I think they've got no business here, and should be sent back to where they're coming from. They steal our jobs, they steal our women, procreating bast-"

"Language, Mr Ian, please. I think I see your point though. You appear to have no sympathy for them. But tell me – are you alone in feeling so?"

"You're not from here then, are you?"

Narcissa sniggered and shook her head. "No, you could well say I'm not."

"There are _many_ people who feel _exactly_ the same, I assure you, Ma'am! I suppose in _your_ classes, most people are oh so _liberal_, but where _I_ come from… – It's a matter of principle, Ma'am."

"Yes, I see… Principles, hm? What principles would that be now?"

"The same as your husband's, I'd say!"

"That's comforting. Look, I don't really have an opinion for myself on this subject, and it is so enlightening to talk to somebody else. You are, I take it, for a stricter separation?"

"Absolutely."

"Because they are _different_."

"Oh, yes! Just _look_ at them!"

"Hmm. You dislike diversity? Different designs on life?"

"They can have their own designs, as long as they're not having them _here_!"

"Oh, naturally. Everything else would be too chauvinistic, wouldn't it," Narcissa said sweetly, feeling a grim satisfaction. This _idiot_, this –

"I've not gone to any of those fancy schools, Ma'am; I don't even know what you're talking about. But you and your husband are certainly right!"

Narcissa flashed her most brilliant and most false smile. "Thank you, Mr Ian! Yes, _thank you_, you have just confirmed my notions."

"You're welcome anytime, Ma'am. So what about your husband then?"

"Oh, please, give it a rest, Mum," Draco sighed and waved at the chauffeur to shut up. "This is stupid."

"And here I was, thinking that _you_ would have found it most entertaining, mon trésor!"

"Entertaining!"

"It is, after all, what your father just sacrificed his freedom for."

Draco shot the driver a disdainful glance and fully missed on his mother's ambiguous irony. All _he_ could see was a Muggle of the most repulsive sort, a racist, one who'd surely enough take pride in setting a stake on fire to burn a 'witch'. If anything, the boy thought that his father was justified to fight against these people; he was perfectly incapable of regarding that swift conversation as a sort of mirror to their own situation.

Narcissa sighed. "Quia ventum seminabunt et turbinem metent."

"Precisely," Draco growled darkly. "But Dad will be free again before long, and then they'll see what they've earned themselves!"

"I don't think it's going to be that easy."

"Perhaps not. But you've got to distinguish between what is _right_, and what is _easy_," he oracled wisely, cracking his mother up. He glowered at her. "I fail to see what's so funny!"

"You have just quoted one of Albus Dumbledore's favourites, I believe!"

"Even the old crackpot gets it right sometimes."

"I'm glad you see it this way, because we're expecting your aunt for dinner."

_This_ lightened the boy up, indeed. Narcissa sighed under her breath, enduring Draco's excited, unwitting spluttering, and when they drove up the sweep way to Malfoy Manor after more than two hours, she thought that Floo Powder had _some_ advantages to be sure. The driver gaped at the palatial building, expressing his bewilderment to have never heard of the place before.

"It's beautiful, isn't it? My husband's family has inhabited it since the eleventh century. Obviously, there have been remodelling and amplifications, but the old core is still there. See that tower?"

They had got out of the car, Narcissa had drawn her wand and pointed it at the ancient weir tower. The driver followed her gaze, marvelling, she turned towards him and said, "_Obliviate!_"

He gave a start, and she forced him to look her straight into the eye. "You have driven an elderly gentleman, from King's Cross to Salisbury Cathedral, Mr Ian. He's given you a lavish tip, and you have talked about sports during the entire journey."

"I have –"

Narcissa smiled viciously. "Then, you have got lost. When you come home, you will take a quarter of your monthly income and donate it to Bosnian war orphans. You will get a library card and diligently read –"

"That's really enough, Mum," Draco groaned, pulling her hand, and she dismissed the befuddled chauffeur without giving him any tip at all. What an _idiot_! Dumbledore and all his campaigning for _Muggle rights_!Preposterous! All these people did with their _rights _was committing heinous acts of genocide, destruction and general atrocity, if you let them! And her evening wasn't going to become any nicer, as she had some suspects why her older sister – speaking of heinous destruction! – would show up on this day.

Indeed, everything happened exactly as Narcissa had foreseen – _dreaded_, more like. In thinly-veiled horror, she had to watch in silence how Bella – oh, if only she had rotted in Azkaban! – how Bella gushed about her master, and told Draco that he was welcome, nay, _expected_, to follow his father's suit and join their ranks, too. Narcissa had known that this was going to happen; Lucius had warned her, had told her that she should try to take their son and get away, enrol him in Durmstrang for a start to get them a year's reprieve at least, but it had been too late. Three nights ago, Bella had come to the Manor and informed her younger sister of the _plan_, and had crushed her hopes with an impatient gesture. "The Dark Lord's word is law, Cissy! Draco _will_ join us, and be glad if I don't repeat any of this nonsense to the master! He might call it infidelity, and you wouldn't want _that_, would you!"

She restrained herself until her sister left them again, watching Draco's delight and pride, trying to smile at him as if he had achieved something good, something that wasn't going to destroy his whole life. But then Bellatrix was gone, and Narcissa turned around to shoot him an honest look and talk to him in all possible candour.

"This is madness, Draco," she began, but he didn't even listen, pouring himself another glass of whiskey, and by no means the first one this night.

"Brilliant, isn't it! Oh Mum, I'm going to avenge Dad! They will all see what they reap for their actions!"

"You want to consider what _you_ are about to reap, Draco! Cave quicquam incipias, quod paeniteat postea, mi fili! Joining the Dark Order is no children's game!"

He was startled, eyeing her in bewilderment. "Yes, _exactly_! No more childish games, no more talking! Now I can at last _do_ something to set things right!"

"_Do_ _something?_ Only this afternoon, I found you badly cursed, with tentacles growing out of your ears and your nose, and your hands pointing in the wrong direction! And this has only been a bunch of other _students_! What do you think will happen when you fight a _real_ enemy?"

He looked mortified at that mention. "Aunt Bellatrix said that she will teach me in the Dark Arts!"

"And when exactly will she do so? In those two months that you're here on holiday?"

"Mum, the Dark Lord wants me to become a Death Eater! I needn't go back to that silly place anyway!"

"We'll see about that, shall we?" she answered quietly, with an awful premonition. The Dark Lord was no fool – why would he want a sixteen-year-old boy to join his ranks, without any proper previous education in the Dark Arts? She thought she had some horrid ideas about _this_ question, and carefully tried to put Draco on his guard.

"Darling, being a Death Eater isn't as romantic as you imagine it to be. It's _dangerous_, it's –"

"A challenge, Mum! He wants to see if I'm up for it, and besides – you don't presume that I could decline the offer anyway, do you?"

"Offer! It's an _order_, Draco!"

"Yes, I know that. And _you_ know that one mustn't refuse an order from the Dark Lord!"

"You are no Death Eater yet, mon trésor – before giving that oath, you aren't obliged to obey him –"

He turned pale. "Mum," he said almost imploringly, "you cannot be serious! You don't want me to slight the _Dark Lord_… Do you…?"

"I want you to weigh your options, Draco! That's all. Your father and your aunt are most excellent in their skills, two of the mightiest Dark wizards I have ever seen, yet one of them has been captured last week, and the other one's just spent fifteen years in prison. This can happen, even to very experienced wizards –"

"It won't happen to _me_, Mum," he whispered, giving her a very earnest look. "I promise!"

"Don't promise things that aren't in your power to keep, mon trésor –"

"But the Dark Lord is rising to power again! He'll help Dad like he's helped Aunt Bellatrix. He will sort it all out!"

"Only one more thing, darling, and I'll have done for now – if that was really so, if the Dark Lord could truly deal with everything so single-handedly – what would he need _you_ for, or anyone else?"

* * *

_Quia ventum..._ For they sow the wind and reap the whirlwind! (Vulgate)

_Cave quicquam..._ Start nothing that you might regret later, my son.


	70. A Simple Housewife

Rita Skeeter witnesses Narcissa's trial and is among the very few capable to see beyond the façade

* * *

**- 3.20. -**

A Simple Housewife

* * *

_You see your problems multiply when you continually decide to faithfully pursue the policy of truth._

_DEPECHE MODE – Policy of truth_

_

* * *

_

I lean back in my swivelling chair, smugly – and righteously! – satisfied with myself. I was the tiniest bit anxious that my comeback as a reporter wouldn't be easy, after that ridiculous writing ban that this silly girl forced upon me. But no, as a matter of fact, the editors have embraced me immediately, warmly expressing their relief that I've returned to journalism. I explained my absence to be the result of a burnout syndrome; I've been in the business for more than twenty years, I've earned every right to claim some time for myself.

Bozo's glad too. Without my instincts, he's been pretty lost, selling only four – _four!_ – photos in twelve months. Fudge inaugurating a new wing of Saint Mungo's – _boooring_. Two pictures of the destroyed western wing of Azkaban prison – and they haven't even been that good. And finally a slurred snapshot of Tim Fawcett from the Pest Advisory Board with a pretty witch that was _not_ his wife – Bozo was so surprised by his own good luck, he dropped his camera and spent half of his earnings on the repair. But now we're back together as a team, and already, we've sold three lead articles equipped with handsome photos, and a couple of other stuff.

I'm particularly proud on my coverage on the Death Eater trials. Held in closed session, reasonable coverage was nearly impossible. _Nearly_. But not for me, Rita Skeeter! In my beetle form, I've crept into the ear trumpet of one of the Wizengamot elders – you wouldn't want me to go into the details, trust me – to get into the courtroom.

The trials were a disgrace, frankly. Not only that some of the perpetrators could have been arrested _much_ earlier – I made that interview with the Potter kid myself where he's given their names! But the board has been much less prepared than Elias Yaxley, Defence Counsel Wizard for each one of the Death Eaters. Boy, the man was _good_! And jolly handsome, a family trait, but that's another story. What does it say about the state of the nation when a dozen felons caught in the proverbial act – almost killing a few children, seriously injuring most of them, and involved in the death of one wizard, even if this one was persecuted by the Ministry, too – when those guys, each of them the Dark Mark branded on their forearms, get away with sentences for _illegal_ _entry_? They must be _kidding_! Good heavens! The maximum punishment being five years two months for Antonin Dolohov, because he's nearly murdered the Granger chick (I must say I sympathise with the idea as such). Sure, he'll be doing lifelong anyhow because of his old sentence, but still!

I've never seen legal procedures worse prepared. It turned out, for example, that wearing You Know Who's mark is no crime in itself, can you believe it? The children didn't even show up to give their testimony; their statements were merely read out. In a way, I understand that move. The kids are probably traumatised, so having them cross-examined by a bloke like Yaxley would only have made things worse. What's more, it's totally obvious that Dumbledore, the cunning old geezer, has some intelligence that he doesn't want to make public, so he's keeping the children from testifying. Gee, I'd give my left arm to know what they know. And most of all, no matter how long they _want_ to lock the Death Eaters away, You Know Who will free them again anyway.

Be that as it may, the Ministry's embarrassed itself. I had a bet running with Bozo how long Fudge would manage to stay in office after this debacle – seems we were both wrong, because he was chased out five whole days sooner than even I had guessed. Incidentally – I seriously contemplate to try and get a date with Yaxley. I'd love to find out what he knows about his clients, plus he's been working for the Malfoy Family for more than ten years, plus – oh well, let's face it, I was pretty turned on by his courtroom performance. Slick, baby! That's Venus' natural brother, no doubt about it. I spy on him whenever I have the time, and already I've gathered some sound information for another spiky article. He's still the Malfoy's Law Wizard; famous Narcissa Malfoy herself has seen him a couple of times. I tried to find out what they're talking about, but Narcissa hexed the office totally impenetrable. Trust that woman to know what she's doing, eh?

I've been to her trial as well, of course. She was tried for a whole number of capital crimes, and since hers was the only trial held in open session – at Fudge's instigation, I suspect he wanted his subjects to witness at least _one_ triumph and regain some authority – I was by no means the only one. The grand court room was cramped full with people; they sat tightly huddled together on the benches, they even sat on the stairs, and stood in the aisles. The public was hungry for seeing proverbial blood now, the room was teeming with vindictive anticipation. Everyone loves to see the high and mighty fall down, and _this _defendant was as high and mighty as one could possibly be. They wanted to see her led away in irons, I'm telling you. There's something quite kinky about that notion, now that I think of it… Anyway!

Fudge himself presided the board, and he had his heart set on a success. Frankly, you could tell what he was thinking by looking at him – and sneaking closer to overhear him talking to his two co-chair wizards was helpful, too. The first one was Aldous Montague, Head of the Department for International Affairs, the other Violet Sears from the Muggle Liaison Office. Montague kept on smirking the whole time. He's a clever guy – he clearly knew right from the start what a joke this was going to be. Madam Sears is a harmless creature, one of those uptight old spinsters who are all moral and prim. I suspect Fudge appointed her because he thought she'd detest the defendant for her lax relativism, and because plain old blue-stockings have a tendency in general to despise glamorous, beautiful, young women.

It's a disgrace if you think about it – how did someone like Cornelius Fudge become Minister for Magic, I ask you? And what's that's saying about the society electing him? I wrote a flaming article about this question once, but burnt it straightaway. I'd never sell another piece if I dared holding up a mirror to the public morale – or the complete lack of it, more like. Be that as it may – I overheard Fudge rambling for solid twenty minutes. About the 'sly shyster', about 'the old crackpot', about the 'turncoat nation' who had kept on cheering him for years, only to turn against him on a moment's notice, and about the entire Malfoy clan. Funny enough, he moaned and groaned about pretty much everything, but the return of You Know Who.

He was right, of course, in some aspects. His electorate consists of morons just as foolish as he is himself. Dumbledore _is_ a goddamned hypocrite. And the Malfoys… Goodness, I know _them_! I really do. I was in school with Bellatrix Lestrange, did you know? I was, and it's no happy recollections I have of _her_. Mental, she was, even as a twelve-year-old. And though her sisters clearly outclass her in the mental health department – hard not to, really – they're not a tad better on the whole, arrogant and self-righteous, the whole lot, _especially_ Narcissa. She's left the courtroom as a free witch, incidentally, and I'd wager half a year's income that fifty percent of the spectators went home that day thinking what a lovely, conscientious, thoroughly excellent wife and mother Mrs Malfoy is, nagging on their respective spouses, daughters or daughters-in-law to be a bit more like her. I know her better. I sort of know the entire family better than that.

The kid, for an instance. He might look like a cherub all right, but he's a sly one, a hundred percent his father's son. I've dealt with him last year; he knows _exactly_ what he wants, and how to achieve it. As for Mighty Lucius – where to _start_, really! He's been _vastly_ powerful, in each and every respect. I won't deny it, he is an awesome wizard, and his involvement with the Dark Arts has only augmented his power. There's only a handful of people who could take on him. But his influence isn't merely of magical origin; being the by far richest bloke in all Europe helps, too; he had _everyone_ in his pocket, before his arrest, anyway. _Gold_ is a mighty argument, isn't it? The _name_ in itself has often been enough to persuade people of the opposite of what they've been thinking before – if Mr _Malfoy_ thought it to be right, if Mr _Malfoy_ wanted it, well, it must be all right then, eh?

Two thousand years, nearly. How many people know _exactly_ what their ancestors were doing around the time of Hadrian, eh? Lucius and Draco Malfoy do. Although I'm sure it must have been borderline illegal. Ph! _Borderline!_ Scratch that! Who am I kidding here? You don't get so filthy rich playing by the rules, do you! And in all that time, not a single Muggle wife marred the pristine records. More – the Malfoys pride themselves to have never – in two thousand goddamned years! – married any witch who hadn't been a hundred percent pure-blooded herself in the tenth generation, at least. Beat that. Bloody hypocrites that most people are, they pretend to give nothing (well, not much, anyway) for the purity of blood, but they're still deadly impressed by something like this.

I'm not as much of a hypocrite though as most people assume. I earn my living by professing opinions that aren't necessarily my own, but I'd go mad if I didn't keep a mind of my own, so often the public views do change. I _know_ how many articles I have sold, commercialising the special air of the Malfoys – my readers are smitten to hear pretty much anything about the great, rich and mighty, and they simply don't come greater, richer, mightier or more good-looking than in that cursed family. Bozo's got a thousand galleons for one of the rare photographs of Narcissa Malfoy, when this one deigned to show herself in public, that haughty bitch. Which didn't happen too often, sadly enough for Bozo.

Where was I, anyhow? Ah, yes, Narcissa's trial. Or the sad parody of a trial, more like. It was ridiculous to indict her in the first place, but the _execution_ was even more pathetic. Mark my words, we _deserve_ to be overrun by You Know Who and his Death Eaters, seeing the mind-boggling incompetence of our authorities. They didn't even learn from their own mistakes. Five days earlier, Lucius Malfoy had been taken to court, and with him ten other Death Eaters. You'd expect that they'd be sentenced for life, wouldn't you? They weren't. But I think I already told you so. And if I didn't, you must have read it in the Prophet, naturally.

However, Narcissa decided to go without Yaxley's invaluable services, a fact that made Fudge even more suspicious. Madam Sears on the other hand, naïve as ever, chirped, "She might _want_ to go to Azkaban. She's very much depending on her husband, I've heard – perhaps she does not want to do without him?"

"That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard," Montague snapped and checked his pocket watch.

"So why does she come without a Law Wizard then?"

"She can't stand Yaxley, that's it. He's been in school with Lucius, you know." Montague was impatient. He always is. He's always got to be somewhere, it appears, and _now_. Little wonder his wife has taken on… But this isn't the point right now, is it. I'll tell you another time. Or you'll just read it in Witch's Weekly. "I've got an appointment with the Korean delegation by noon, damn it!"

"She can't stand one Law Wizard – doesn't follow to reject the entire profession, does it?"

"She's likely to know how ridiculous this whole trial is in itself. Knowing Narcissa, she doesn't want to dignify the thing by taking it serious!"

"You know her personally?" Fudge was clearly taken aback. And I know why! It's taken him _years_ to be introduced to noble Mrs Malfoy (prissy Cissy deigns to be elusive, you know), and the acquaintance is so superficial that he neither calls her by her first name, nor dared to give any real assessment on her character. And _he_ was the darned _Minister_! Can you imagine how this must have hurt his vanity? But I digress.

"My wife shared a dorm with her in Hogwarts." Fudge was content with that answer, until Montague added, "And also we met several times for dinner."

"Did you now?"

"Oh, you know, Lucius' businesses abroad. Speaking of it – I'm the poor sod to explain to the Korean delegation why their friend cannot attend our meeting today!"

As I said – Montague is _always_ in a hurry. _No_ good precondition for presiding the Wizengamot – but then, Fudge has always been foolish, no matter what he did. I dare say the outcome of the trial wouldn't have been much more favourable with a different chair wizard either. "We won't get anywhere with this accuse," he mumbled. "Bloody waste of time!"

"I doubt that you have the right attitude, Aldous. I wonder if you're suited for the responsible position that you're holding!"

"Yes… One wonders about a _lot_ of people in responsible positions nowadays."

I nearly blew my cover when hearing this – I almost choked, laughing, but luckily, Fudge was much to distraught to notice much, and so were the other two. Montague kept on checking his watch every thirty seconds, and Madam Sears is a little deaf on one ear. And then, the trial officially started. The crowd fell silent at once when the defendant was led into the courtroom, ogling her. Can't blame them. She's a true sight to be seen. Beautiful as ever, elegant as ever, and not the tiniest bit intimidated, she took her place. Her sister always used to say, I remember, 'If there's one thing that girl can do, it's keeping her countenance' – and damn me, she was right. Narcissa was accompanied by her teenage son, who sat down on the seat destined for the missing Law Wizard. Pity, I would have liked to see Yaxley again, but alas. At least, the kid looked unwell. _Seriously_ unwell. Unhealthily pale, his face stony, but his eyes, flickering between the Wizengamot, the presiding jury, the audience and his mother, betrayed his nervousness. He's got a lot to learn from his parents still. Old Lucius didn't blink during his entire trial, looking as supremely arrogant as ever. His wife took a _slightly_ different route though. She rarely makes the effort, but boy, Mrs Malfoy _can_ be charming if she pleases, and that day she did.

I got to hand it to her, she knew what she was doing, starting with her attire. She was wearing high-necked, charcoal grey robes that covered every bit of skin but her hands and face, but were just tight enough to hint what a fantastic figure she's got. Conservative, yes, but that's a good impression to make with the elder or female members of the Wizengamot, and still subtly seductive to distract the younger males. No décolletage, no legs to be seen, nothing but a promise. To enhance that effect, she smoothed the front of her silky robes, displaying the flashy diamond rings she was wearing – another sly move. The engagement ring on her right hand is a variation of the Black family crest, her wedding ring on the left incorporates that of her husband's dynasty, and every proud pureblood in the room would instantly recognise both of them. And despite recent developments, both names, Black as well as Malfoy, infuse awe on certain people, and not only the uninfluential kind. There's no real nobility among wizards, but the Blacks surely belong to what's counted as aristocratic in our circles, and as for the Malfoys… If being a Black, or a Rookwood, or a Rosier, makes you regal, being a _Malfoy_ makes you practically imperial. They don't come older, purer, or nobler than that.

When these two – Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black, I mean – announced their engagement back then… Heck, you cannot imagine the fuss. It was plain ludicrous. But that's just how it works in our business. The inexpressibly rich, handsome, latest scion of the Malfoys getting off with the famously beautiful youngest daughter of Cygnus Black, so wealthy and pure-blooded, too, whose cold, condescending air even surpassed her fiancé's… – I know for a fact that Jefferson Cuffe, editor of the Prophet in those days and father of Barnabas, incidentally, opened a bottle of the finest champagne that day, clairvoyantly predicting that the sales would be record-breaking if they featured that young couple just frequently enough. Oh, it has been a feast. I remember well how it's been then, and how everyone's tried to get hold of an invitation to their wedding. Not that any of us lesser mortals merited one, of course. Back then, I hadn't yet managed to master the Animagus transfiguration, or I might have got into there after all, but as things were, not a single member of the press was admitted.

But I'm digressing, again. The trial, yes. As I said, Narcissa is nothing if not clever and cunning, and she knows how to manipulate people. She _knows_. The bill of indictment was read out – High Treason, membership in and support of a criminal organisation, aiding and abetting in six cases of attempted abduction and attempted murder, aiding and abetting in twelve cases of illegal trespassing, aiding and abetting in one case of manslaughter. Well, Fudge laid it on thick, didn't he – I don't think even _he_ believed he'd come through with this. Then, Narcissa got up, fully displaying her tall, slender frame – in the audience, some dozen jaws dropped once more – and was asked her name, profession, age, and how she'd plead.

"My name is Narcissa Leda Aurora Eleanor Virginie Persephone Black Malfoy. I'm forty years old, married to Mr Lucius Malfoy, mother of one son –" She inclined her head towards the boy and smiled affectionately. "And as to my profession – I'm a simple housewife, sir."

There were the first laughs and giggles in the audience (and many more would follow, much to the defendant's favour); Fudge shot them a withering glance and continued, "Explain your financial situation!"

She smiled and tilted her admirable head. "For any details concerning our family fortune, you'd have to ask our Tax Advising Wizard, or my husband. All _I_ can say is that we're fairly well-off."

More laughs, even her son cracked a smile. Montague sighed and spoke now, "Mrs Malfoy, you heard the indictment. What is your plea?"

"Not guilty in all points, sir."

She held herself exceedingly well, there's no debating it. She didn't smile, she didn't wince, her posture was straight and her head high, bordering on a challenge, but only _bordering_. To Fudge's visible horror, she had exactly the kind of effect on the audience and judges that she must have intended – they could not help it but like her. Indeed, they had come here to see some severe punishment, but seeing the charming defendant, they were beginning to have second thoughts. Even Cornelius Fudge knew enough of the public morale to sense that his good stars were sinking before the trial had even properly begun. How could such a lovely person be guilty of such horrific charges? Exactly.

The evidence – thin, admittedly – was read out, then Mrs Malfoy was asked to give her statement on the matter. I reckon it was Fudge's greatest – or only – hope that someone so obviously unwitting of the rather complicated Wizard Laws, who'd additionally refused to have a Law Wizard in her defence, would simply succumb to the intimidating-sounding charges (or some of them, at least), but he really should have known better. As a child, she came to Hogwarts with the reputation of having read more than all her classmates taken together, and she's read a whole lot more since then, including her husband's law books. Actually, she must have swallowed them.

She tore the first point – aiding and abetting in six cases of attempted abduction and murder – to pieces with a few well-chosen words about accessoriness. I'll spare you the hair-splitting details, just so much – it's _impossible_ to call someone to account for aiding and abetting if the actual offenders were acquitted of the charges, as happened in the Death Eater trials. The next point was of a similarly sophistic, though base, nature – it's also impossible to be aiding and abetting in a case of negligent manslaughter, however grossly negligent the case might have been in the first place. It's simple – you can't _help_ another person to kill someone _accidentally_. Her cousin Sirius Black didn't die because of an actual curse – he fell through the veil separating our world from the world of the dead – not even Bellatrix Lestrange, who had hit him with a spell causing his fall, would be held responsible for his demise. It's so unlikely a cause of death that she needn't have foreseen it when casting that spell, and thus her sister _really_ cannot be connected to his death because it was beyond proximity.

Judging Fudge's face during her presentation, he was on the verge of eating his own hat. He, the Minister for Magic, was shown up by a complete layman. A stunningly beautiful layman, come to that. As for the audience – I doubt they fully understood the contents of Narcissa's explanations, but for them it sufficed to see the majority of judges nodding to grasp that these charges were nonsensical to begin with, and it only supported them in their transforming attitude towards the defendant. _So_ lovely, so _charming_, and also so _clever_, apparently – really, how _could_ that woman be guilty of so wicked a charge. Well, what can I say, I, too, make my living on most people's simple-mindedness and gullibility.

"Now please, allow me to address the next point first – membership in, and support of, a criminal organisation. I am no Death Eater myself, my husband is. You haven't found a single link between Lord Voldemort's –" Loud gasps, and once again I was impressed by that woman's nerve. To speak that name is generally deemed a sign of bravery among our kind, and bravery is _always_ appreciated, isn't it. What's more – she played two chords at the same time with this. She clearly had no reason to be afraid of the man – or she wouldn't have dared to speak his name – enhancing the notion that one better not mess with her. And simultaneously, she was subconsciously registered by the judges to be one of the 'good guys'. For only Dumbledore's people call him like that. I would have drawn my hat to her if I had worn one, believe me. "– organisation and me, with the exception of the undeniable fact that I am married to my husband. Understand me right – I have got married to stand by my husband at all times, and I have no whatsoever intention to change this. Yes, I have known about his commitments. I have also known that the Dark Lord Voldemort has returned to this country, and that my husband is connected to him. But what do you follow from this?"

"It would have been your _civic duty_ to report those facts, Madam!"

"Perhaps it would. _I_, however, consider it to be my first duty to be loyal to my husband, and this notion is backed up by the Book of Rules itself. Paragraph 4 – nobody must be forced to report, or testify against, or otherwise incriminate their relatives first and second grade. This rule has been confirmed in numerous cases, the most important being The Ministry versus Thaddeus Thurkell. So _if_ I had done what you call 'civic duty', I would have been forced to incriminate my own husband. You might find my omission morally reprehensible, but it was not illegal."

Looking around, I saw dozens of elder wizards and witches, in the audience as well as among the Wizengamot judges, nodding approvingly. We _are_ a conservative lot altogether, and especially the elder generation is prone to approve of a young woman sticking to the old customs – they're complaining all the time about the newfangled mores, the rising rate of divorces and all that. Barty Crouch Senior didn't make himself more popular when sending his own son to prison, ironical as it may be. Most people staunchly believe that a family must stick together under all circumstances, and disloyalty among family members is one of the worst moral breaches.

And she's exploited that bias, didn't she? Despite the fact that she prefers to keep away from the world, Narcissa Malfoy knows its mechanisms very well – she's got a whole collection of bad qualities, but you can't deny she's as sharp as a razor blade. She knows how to use her advantages to the best effect, and more importantly, she's figured out the members of the Wizengamot. The youngest of them was born in 1899; all of them have been raised in very different ways from what's considered 'modern' nowadays. Narcissa continued to unabashedly play the family card. 'Family', 'loyalty', 'tradition', and she brought her handsome, adolescent son to sit beside her. The judges couldn't have resisted her even if they had wanted. The beautiful, comparably young mother, with her angelic- and apprehensive-looking boy, insisting upon her right – nay, _duty_ – to stick to her husband – brilliant; I got to hand it to her.

"Furthermore you have censured me for not making known that I was aware of my cousin Sirius Black's whereabouts. I can see that the Chairman Montague hasn't got much time, so I'll be brief – Sirius Black was my first grade cousin. Though I admit that I've heartily disliked him for all my life, he was still _family_. You all know that the Dementors had leave to deal with him, and that the Aurors were licensed to kill him at will. For more than ten years, I believed him to have caused the death of the Potters, like everyone else – but I didn't want to be the one causing _his_ death in turn. And then, I was suddenly informed that he was innocent of the charges laid against him in the first place! Again, I refer to paragraph 4 – I cannot be sentenced for _not_ reporting a close family member to the authorities."

Fudge suppressed a groan, but recovered quickly again. "Speaking of your late cousin, Mrs Malfoy! Without your interference, he wouldn't be dead now!"

"You think so? Nah. It is true – six or seven months ago, a confused house-elf showed up in Malfoy Manor, babbling about his terrible master. That master was my cousin as I realised immediately because I faintly remembered the elf from old. I listened to him for a while, promised that I'd try to think of something we could do for him –"

Fudge butted in, harshly. "Like having that unwanted master killed?"

"Actually, I had rather thought to try buying back the family heirlooms that my cousin so carelessly disposed of. But to be honest – I soon forgot about the house-elf all together."

"That's not consistent with the house-elf's testimony!"

"Excuse me? The house-elf gave a statement about my inner motives when talking to him…?"

"He _said_ that you ran to your husband and had _him_ talking to the elf!"

"Indeed, that's right." She shot him a radiant smile. "You see, Lucius is so much better in dealing with people – he deals with our own servants, too. As for the contents of their conversation – I have no idea. If you don't believe me – in the run-up to this trial, I have offered several times that I am more than ready to give my testimony before this court under the influence of Veritaserum, Minister. That'd be an opportunity for the Wizengamot to hear about everything that my husband has, or has not told me."

She smiled and beckoned at the elders. – I should tell you that I know and heartily dislike Narcissa Malfoy, but I cannot deny that she awed even me, that day. That bitch. That cunning bitch. She knows perfectly well that the Minister would never agree to such a testimony. Merlin knows what Lucius has told his wife about all the money he is bound to have given to the Minister of Magic! Of course, Fudge would claim that these had been 'legal donations', but he must also be aware that the press – 'muckrakers', he calls us – would call it 'slush funds', and that _this_ would be the definite end of his career for all eternity.

"Using Veritaserum for depositions in such cases is not a custom with the Wizengamot, Mrs Malfoy!" he gasped with pink cheeks, making her smile ironically.

"But not unheard of, and I am quite keen to prove my sincerity. You see, I intend to leave this courtroom as a free witch, cleared of all charges – of all doubts, really. My husband couldn't have discussed his dealings with me even if he had wanted. He is _forbidden_ to do so. If you, sir –" She sweetly smiled at Fudge. "Or any of the other judges here don't believe me, I'd like to _insist_ on Veritaserum."

Her smile was so open and, let's face it, bewitching; Fudge obviously couldn't bear it to look at her. His gaze wandered to her son instead, who looked completely confused. Pity that Fudge and I were possibly the only ones to notice that look – everyone else's eyes were practically glued to the gorgeous mother.

Madam Sears, always a creature of thorough ethical standards, said fiercely, "Certainly not! Veritaserum is a highly dubious substance; evidence won by the use of such means must not be exploited!"

Montague, shooting the Minister a head-shaking glance, confirmed gravely, "Veritaserum won't be necessary, Madam."

"Very well, sir." She appeared to be utterly relaxed, almost serene, with a soft smile playing around her mouth now. "Let me continue with the last, and worst, indictment, if you please, that is, it was stated that I had actively partaken in Conspiracy and High Treason."

She gave a small, inaudible chuckle. "High Treason, the Book of Law defines it, is either an action that is designed to destroy, or damage, the very foundations of our community, or acting a part in a conspiracy that is set against the policy of the present legislation, or any other _action_ that must be regarded as destabilising, weakening, or otherwise influencing our order in a negative way. – I cannot see how, or when, I could have done such a thing."

"You mean you deny that the return of the Unspeakable was _not_ threatening our order?" Fudge spat and Montague groaned audibly.

"It surely is, but what did _I_ do to bring it about, I wonder? Paragraph 126 that you quoted to be the foundation of my alleged guilt is also my justification. The law states that High Treason can also be an act that's aimed against the present legislation's policy. You will all surely remember the last year's campaign of the Ministry of Magic, which would go as far as to punish everyone who _did_ insist on the Dark Lord Voldemort's return to England. Even Albus Dumbledore, who is celebrated by many people to be as wise as he is powerful, was persecuted and with him Harry Potter, the boy who has become famous for the Dark Lord's undoing fifteen years ago. I think you will have to agree with me that the _policy_ of you, Minister, was to silence all opposite reports. So how can you now base an accusation on this point? Audi, vide, tace, si vis vivere in pace. Because if I _had_ wanted to spread the news that none of you wished to hear, my credit and reputation would have been ruined severely. I can easily see that in the present situation you wish to claim some heads to make up for your omission, but neither do I believe that you can appease the reasonable public outrage so lightly, nor do I think it fair to be sacrificed for that goal myself."

Montague sighed and asked if there were any more contributions – there were none – and just to say _something_, Fudge pleaded for six months in prison and asked to fine her two million galleons, and then, it was Narcissa Malfoy's turn. She got up once more; she was bound to know that there was no male in the court room resistant to a body like hers.

"_Six months_, Minister? For _what_, I wonder? I know, I'm repeating myself – thus detaining all of you here, and possibly preventing some important appointments that some of the present might have – but I have not _done_ anything illegal! I _am_ my husband's wife and Bellatrix Lestrange's sister, and if _that_ justifies my punishment – go ahead, please. I will always stand up for my family under all circumstances, and accept every consequence arising from that quarter. My omissions concerning these charges on the other hand are pardoned by the Book of Rules; there are _no_ actions _or_ omissions on my side that could be considered _criminal_. There is _nothing_ that deserves _imprisonment_. If it's only for the fine – I don't care, but once more for the protocol: I haven't committed any of the crimes laid at my door."

She stood very straight, yet relaxed, her smile was open and confident, but not too much, and she let her gaze wander through the audience and the Wizengamot itself. The people looked back at her, and I could literally _see_ what was going through their heads – they thought what an enchanting creature Mrs Malfoy was, they thought her to be witty, clever, well-behaved, but what was most – a wife and mother and _nothing_ else. Now who could want to put such a sympathetic, charismatic witch, a _mother_, into that stinking dump of a prison? And for what? What had the charges been?

What a sad, pathetic, self-deluding dunce Fudge is, honestly. Did he truly believe he could win? Like _that_? It takes a _bit_ more to manipulate the public opinion, as Narcissa clearly proved that day. _She_ knew how to present herself, while he didn't have the slightest clue, and he has made an idiot of himself in front of some hundred electors. Sure, I bet he thought he could save his career like this. And what's he achieved? This should have been _his_ triumph, and instead, Narcissa Malfoy, wife and sister of two convicted high-ranking Death Eaters, was shining brighter than ever. The Wizengamot was asked for a vote, and – surprise! – with an overwhelming majority, Mrs Malfoy was acquitted of all charges.

She smiled radiantly, turned to her son, whose face was showing immense relief and wild happiness now. She whispered something in his ear, then tugged his arm underneath her own and lead him out. With the end of the official procedure, press photos were admitted again; mother and son marched away in a thunderstorm of flashlights, and to my greatest satisfaction, I spotted Bozo in the thick of it all. Incidentally – we sold the photos for two thousand galleons a piece, and my pending article cashed another three thousand!

I trusted Bozo to do his job by himself and directly followed Fudge instead, hearing him curse under his breath, "She pulled them all on her side, damn her! Damn _her_, damn her insane sister, damn her double-talking husband, and thinking about it, damn that boy over there as well! Up to no good! _No_ _one_ in _that_ family is up to _any_ good at all! _Now_ he might look like an innocent, frightened kid, but give him ten years – bah, less! – and he'll be _just_ like his old man! Mark my words! Curse that sly-talking female and the rotten House that's spawned her!"

As soon as mother and son were out of sight, the mob stormed at Fudge himself, but he refused to give any statement at all, nearly jogging away, and for the rest of the day, he barricaded himself in the room that he would soon call his office no more. In fact, Rufus Scrimgeour got appointed in his stead less than twenty-four hours later.

So much for grand Mrs Malfoy's trial. It was a textbook example, really, of utter incompetence on the one side, and moral corruption on the other. Not for a second I believe in _that_ woman's innocence. Sure, she _is_ no Death Eater. I mean – why should she be, after all? Her husband is, or was until his arrest, the right hand of You Know Who. Why should his wife take any further risks, eh? _Her_ pretty arse is covered. But something else I know, too – namely that Narcissa is perfectly in the know of whatever her husband has ever been doing. I'd bet my beetle wings on _that_. If there's one thing she's been absolutely truthful about, it's the state of her marriage, mark my words. _Everybody_ knows how much Lucius Malfoy venerates his wife. A notorious philanderer in his youth, not a single rumour has ever arisen in _that_ quarter in the past twenty years, and it isn't simply a matter of discretion. I know from well-informed sources that he's made an Unbreakable Vow at their wedding to always be faithful to her, and look at him! Healthy and thriving, is he not? – Well, not that thriving _now_, being in Azkaban and all that, but you see my point. And he never gave the impression to be suffering from that restriction, either. The other way round – well, sure, Narcissa Malfoy _is_ a cold fish. Can't be real blood pumping through _her_ veins, right? Nevertheless, in _her_ limited capacities, she surely loves her husband, too. One can tell when seeing them together, rarely enough as that happens. Ever so well-behaved and guarded when she does deign to show herself in public, there are these minuscule gestures and glances that betray her.

There were these rumours of an arranged marriage, back then. Don't you believe that rubbish, guys. It's true, Narcissa didn't give her later husband the time of day, not as long as _I_ was in school with them still, anyway. But even then… She indiscriminately shunned _everybody_, not only him. Shunned? Make that 'snubbed'. Gawd, she was a self-important cow, even as a First Year. Pretended butter wouldn't melt in _her_ mouth. Well, she's so cold, it probably wouldn't. Just in case you're wondering – she hasn't become so vain _after_ pulling the heir to the Malfoy fortune. She's never been any different. As a child, she made her oldest sister appear like a sociable person, and that's saying something. However, I know from the same well-informed sources that old Cygnus was _not_ content with his youngest daughter's choice of a husband, and does that smell of an arranged marriage now? I don't think so.

Lucius and Narcissa… They were just too good to be true, weren't they? The wet dream of every paddy whack columnist, and their worst nightmare in the same moment. _So_ glamorous and good-looking! But also so deplorably lacking in scandals! Oh well. That's not right, is it… _Everyone_ with eyes and ears could have known about Mr Malfoy's entanglement with the Dark Arts, and the Dark Order, had they bothered. Personally, I haven't nurtured much of a doubt, even though I wouldn't have wanted to mess with great Lucius for the world, before all this. Even now, I'm insecure if I can afford to write the article I'm planning – about Yaxley, about Narcissa… The guy's randy as a dog in heat for her, clearly, and I thought about dropping some juicy innuendoes in that quarter (the readers love that), but that might be taking it too far. _Now_, Lucius is in prison, but he'll come back sooner or later, and I got no taste for being in his bad books then. He worships the ground that his wife is walking upon… He won't tolerate _any_ joke at all about her, let alone –

Gnawing on my quill – I know it's a bad habit – I'm lost in thoughts, contemplating the article, when Bozo sticks in his head without even knocking. He's sallow, haunted-looking, but before I have a chance to ask what's wrong, he mutters, "There's a visitor for you, Rita –"

"Make an appointment, Bozo! Jesus, those people can't just walk in like that, I'm work-"

"No, Rita, I think you do want to receive her right now." He grimaces expressively. Her…? Bozo's no Hengist of Woodcroft, but usually, he's not that easily intimidated either, least by a witch. Goes with the territory as a scandal photographer – your skin just gets thicker.

"Oh well, send her in then. I think I need a break anyway."

I'd wonder who that visitor is, but in the very next second, Bozo's pushed aside, the door flies open and _the_ Narcissa Malfoy – England's most famous _simple housewife_ – is standing in the door frame. Clad in most exquisite black silk and laces and black gloves of fine leather, a black veil covering her hair, and smiling subtly. Nonetheless, or all the more, she's emanating a chilly breeze, beckoning her head for a fracture. "Rita –"

_What_ _the_ – "Narcissa! What a pleasant surprise! Do sit down, please! Tea, coffee –"

"I don't wish to waste your time, or mine at that instance, Rita, so spare your false niceties and let us get straight to the point." Her tone isn't actually aggressive, but calm and civil and so is her expression. "It might have slipped your notice, but you should know that Lucius owns sixty percent of The Owl. Hence the editor in chief, Mr Pilliwickle, felt compelled to consult with me about your latest contribution. Can you follow me?"

Screw you, Preston! He _swore _that it doesn't make a difference who owns the paper, damn it! Why didn't he just say, 'Hey Rita, I can't publish this, you're messing with the owner'? I force myself to smile though, and coo, "I take it you're not content with it?"

"Oh, I did relish certain parts, you see. For example – 'rarely has the rule of law been manipulated more artfully than in the case of Mrs Malfoy'. I enjoy a good phrase, Rita, don't get me wrong, and I like to have a good laugh, too. I don't care what you write about _me_. But if you think you can slander my son, you're picking up a fight that you cannot win."

"But I did no such thing! I just –"

Narcissa produces a parchment and puts it in front of me. It's my article, sure, with some purple markings. "I'm willing to make you an offer that I consider to be quite generous. I'm sure you've recognised this – read it again, carefully. If you find that you can live with the omissions that I've suggested, I give you leave to send it back to good Mr Pilliwickle. If you can't live with the changes in your work though, I'm afraid I've got to tell you that The Owl has to do without you in the future."

I can't help myself, my jaw drops to my chest. Such a blatant attack on my journalistic integrity's quite unheard of! Who does this bitch think she is? "You – you – _mutilate_ my article?"

She laughs softly. "Oh please, Rita. Don't be so melodramatic. You will see that I only cut out your mentions of our son, which is just fair if you'll ask me. He's not even of age, and bear in mind that I could also ask good Mr Yaxley to sue you, obtain an injunction, and milk you for every knut you've got. Libelling is a costly hobby, dear."

"_Libelling?_ Are you out of your mind or what?"

"I've seen you, Rita; you've been to the trial. You've seen how those judges dote on me." She grins in vicious condescension. "Do you seriously want to explain to them that a sentence like 'The boy can hardly wait to walk in his father's shoes, who's incidentally doing his three years in Azkaban presently. Already the latest offspring of the family is showing alarming signs of his father's true nature' does _not_ count as libelling a minor, hm? Also, Lucius is bound to disapprove if he has to read such things about his only child, don't you think? You've got the choice. Choose wisely." She smiles one last time, then rearranges the veil to cover her lower face and her eyes become icy. "Good bye, Rita. I hope on your behalf that we don't have to meet again."

She floats out of the office as regally as she's entered it. Bozo crouches out of his hiding place too, nervously checking if she has really left. "See? _See?_ Oh, I _told_ you! Don't you say I hadn't warned you, Rita! Messing with the Malfoys means trouble, regardless if Lucius's in Azkaban or not!"

"If that bitch thinks she can blackmail me, she's got it oh-so-wrong, boy," I hiss furiously. After the ban that this awful schoolgirl has cast on me, I'm not going to let the next best malcontent prohibit me to write as I please! Not even if that malcontent is bloody Narcissa Malfoy!

"Are you crazy? Rita! Get real! I've heard every word she's said, and mark my words, her offer _is_ more than generous! Not only that she can ruin you financially, but – but – god, Rita! I bet Lucius knows a thousand ways to eliminate you without leaving a trace! I suppose even his _son_ still knows a hundred ways to do that!"

"Well, that's exactly what I've been writing, isn't it!"

Bozo's got those scarlet blots on his cheeks that he always gets when he's extremely flustered, and wrings his hands dramatically. "For the love of Merlin, Rita! They'll murder us in our beds!"

"Keep your hat on, Bozo! They've got more pressing problems than dealing with a little reporter," I say, attempting to sound more self-assured than I truly am. "She's just bluffing; she can't afford to have another trial on her back."

"_You_ can't afford to push up the daisies, Rita! My, if you don't want to do yourself a favour, at least think of me!"

"Now _you're_ the one being a bit melodramatic, Bozo! I'm not going to let myself be intimidated by Narcissa Malfoy!"

"If not by her, think of her sister on the large! You wouldn't want to encounter _Bellatrix Lestrange_, would you! Remember what she's done with Alice Longbottom before –" He squeezes his eyes shut and whimpers.

"Don't be such a coward, Bozo! This is about the freedom of press! This is about journalistic _integrity_, about –"

"No, Rita, no! _This_ is about the question just how slow and painful you want your own end to be! Don't be so goddamned stubborn!" I scowl at him, for once at a loss for words – because he's right, in a way. I'm disinclined to be forced eating my own intestines before my death, only because of some silly remark about some silly teenager, that's one thing for sure! Bozo gains ground, continuing in his most imploring tones, "There's other stuff, Rita. _Better_ stuff! You wanted to finish that article about Fudge and those venality accusations… Or what's it about that old idea, you know, about Dumbledore and his entanglement with the Dark Arts –"

"We've pretty much missed _that_ window, Bozo! Three months ago, that would have been _the_ big whopper still, but now…"

For the millionth time, I'm cursing that wretched smart aleck of a petty schoolgirl. Oh, how that story would have hit it big! It would have made me immortal, it would have got my name right up there with the other heroes of investigative – truly investigative! – journalism, up there with Brendan Toke (when he disclosed the illicit enmeshment of the then Minister and the vampires), or Lucille Wattling, who sniffed out the goblin conspiracy only a week before they… Ah… That would have been _my big chance_. That would have been _my_ claim on immortality, on true greatness, on real business – not the kind of junk I'm selling nowadays, about petty adultery and minor corruption, about rich heiresses and drugged Quidditch pros… But there'll come the day when I pay the Granger chick back in coin, you just wait. And Narcissa Malfoy, _she'll_ get what she deserves, too!

* * *

_Audi, vide…_ Listen, look, and keep your silence if you want to live in peace.


	71. Finished

Since when did back-stabbing become a family sport, she wonders

* * *

**- 3.21. -**

Finished

* * *

_Though we may be the last in the world, we feel like pioneers, telling hopes and fears to one another. And oh! What a feeling here inside of me! It might last for an hour. Wounds aren't healing inside of me though it feels good now. I know it's only for now._

_DEPECHE MODE_

_

* * *

_

She ignites the candles with her wand, taking a last look around. Since coming home from work, she's spent the entire evening with tidying up, more or less unsuccessful. She's been on the verge of overcoming her anger and pride and sending an owl to her mother in order to help her, but refrained from this at last. Yes, Remus thinks she is a little untidy, but what would he think of her if he found out that she asked _her mum_ to clear up her habitual mess?

In the candlelight, it looks much better already. She vanishes some faded flowers from the window sill, spotting a large stain of red wine on the sofa next, rubbing it with her wand, searching frantically for Mrs Scower's Magical Mess Remover, but since she can't find it, she hides the stain with a cushion as usual. This must do.

And then he's already knocking on her door, she storms to open up to him, throwing her arms around his neck. "There you are… Come in, come in!"

He is looking grave – come on, the flat's looking good tonight, at least compared to most other occasions. He couldn't truly be displeased with _that_, could he?

"Anything wrong, Remus?"

He doesn't answer at once, stroking her head and brushing a kiss on her forehead. "No," he says at last. "Not really… But let's sit down for a start, I've bought us some good wine – how was your day?" he asks casually, pouring two glasses. She sits down beside him, making sure that the cushion is still in the right place.

"'Twas rather good, actually. We've got the results from the analysis of the poisons we've found in my uncle's house – if this Law Wizard hasn't got some more sleazy tricks up his sleeve, he's earned himself two or three years more with that."

"And the rest of the day, you've been cleaning, eh?"

She feels that she is blushing, but hopes to get away with it in the feeble light. "What makes you say that?"

"I'm missing my favourite pile of empty pizza boxes… And blimey, you haven't cleaned the window panes, have you?"

"You like winding me up, Remus," she moans, looking away.

"Nah, you mistake me, dear. It's just that you really needn't do that, if you only do it for my sake, you know? I _like_ your place, just like it is."

"So why are you always teasing me then?"

"Because I like it when you're blushing like this, dear," he murmurs, shooting her a fond look, taking his glass next to toast. "To you, Nymphadora –"

"Don't call me Nymphadora, please! It's such a stupid name!"

"I happen to like it… Anyway – to you."

"And you, Remus. Oh, I've been so looking forward to this evening, I was almost anxious that you'd be prevented from coming by some stupid incident. We've got to try and see more of each other, honestly!"

He simply smiles and sips his wine, and that awful feeling of foreboding starts curling in her stomach again. She has felt it all afternoon, for no real reason.

"Why are you so strange tonight?"

"Am I?"

"Yes, you are! So – so distant, somehow…"

"Come, try the wine. It's really good," he murmurs without looking at her.

"You're avoiding the question, Remus!"

He sighs deeply, playing with his glass. "Yes, yes, you are right… I _am _avoiding it –"

"And may I ask why?"

"You may, though – I'm afraid you might not like the answer very much…"

"The _answer_," she says breathlessly, feeling a burning sensation in her throat and in her eyes. She has known that _answer_, long before he utters it. For a while he is silent, still not looking at her, still playing with the glass, putting it down eventually and turning to her.

"Listen, Nymph- _Tonks_. I – I have thought about all this – I have thought about _us_. Frankly, I've hardly thought of anything else in the last time."

"And…? I suppose you've come to some conclusion after all –"

"Yes, I have. Look – I needn't tell you the arguments, you know them yourself –"

"I do not," she replies stubbornly, praying not to burst into tears. "I'm afraid you'll really have to tell me!"

"We don't… no, let me put it differently. You _know_ how fond I am of you – I _am_, that's not the problem. Everything else is though…" He swallows, his eyes piercing her gaze now, and she furiously blinks away the tears that are welling there. "Where to start? I'm thirteen years older than you, Nymphadora, and that's only the gap in actual years. You are a lively, young girl, you have everything before you. You are so pretty, so charming, so smart… You're anything that a man could be dreaming of. I, on the other hand… I may be thirty-seven on paper, but I feel much older – _I_ don't have much before me but misery and disappointment and hurt. I'm a _werewolf_, for goodness' sake! The last time – it was so close! What if I had bitten you?"

She vigorously shakes her head. "You wouldn't have, and anyway, that was my fault and not yours!"

He is taking Wolfsbane Potion to prevent him from losing his mind when the transformation takes place, and it works just fine. The last full moon however, she's popped into his apartment, to look after him, and perhaps get him some steaks and kidney pie, his favourites when being a wolf. He was asleep, and when seeing him lying there on the floor, she had the totally stupid idea to kneel down and stroke over his silky fur… – He leapt at her before knowing what he was doing, still almost asleep, thinking an attacker had approached him.

"But the material point is that I am _dangerous_. Can't you get that in your pretty head? Mark my words, Nymphadora, you must not take that lightly – being a werewolf is something that I wouldn't want to happen to my worst enemy. And you are a witch! I – If I bit you, I couldn't live with myself –"

"But I've learnt my lesson, Remus! I won't visit you during full moon again, no big deal, is it?"

"It's not only that, Nymphadora. Sirius was right –"

"Sirius?" she cries, straightening up. "Oh, come on, Remus, you know that –"

"I know that he had only our best in mind, yours as well as mine, dear. Perhaps he was a bit harsh in his chosen words, occasionally, but he's been right nonetheless. We do not _suit_ each other. We can only be bad for each other –"

"So now I am bad for you," she snarls, suddenly angry. He reaches out for her hand but she withdraws it, glaring at him. "Mind telling me why I am so _bad_ for you?"

"You're not bad for me, dear, you know that! You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, but –"

"But?"

"But we're in war, and if I had to lose you – if I – if you – if something happened to you, if you were torn from me like that – that _would_ be bad for me, it'd be as bad as it could get –"

"So you rather tear me away yourself, do you!"

"That's different," he mutters, indeed looking much older than his thirty-seven years in this moment. "I could still see you, still know you're there –"

"I am a bloody Auror, Remus. I hate to tell you, but that's no exactly tranquil job, even in better times than now! And if my ruddy aunt ever gets hold of me… What darned difference does it make whether we're together then or not!"

"For me, it'd make a huge difference! Besides – if my cover was blown, if Greyback ever found out what I am truly up to – he'd take revenge on me by taking it on you, my girlfriend, the only person I truly love –"

She can't help it, a single tear emerges from the corner of her eyes, rolling down her cheek and dropping on her bosom. She is speechless, a painful knot in her throat – he has never told her before that he _loves_ her – why must he say it now, in the very moment when he's pushing her away –

"And if _I_ got killed," he continues calmly, not taking his gaze away. "You're too young for that, Nymphadora."

She summons all her strength, all the breath she got left in her to hiss, "So what you are saying is that losing someone is better when one's older, are you? When one's spent half of one's life with the other one, perhaps!"

"Of course not… But let me go on. Sirius wouldn't be – he would still be – he…" He swallows, harder yet, closing his eyes for some seconds. "I have neglected him, I knew how awful he was feeling, but still my priority was being with you, with my beautiful, sexy lover… I don't get over this, the guilt's eating me up. He wouldn't have been so restless if he could have relied on his oldest friend –"

"But that's _rubbish_!"

"It's how it feels."

"It's not _your_ fault he's dead! It's been my aunt who's killed him, and if any of us was guilty in any other respect, it'd be me, _I _have failed to beat her, _I_ let her escape and duel Sirius instead –"

"We've _both_ set wrong priorities, Nymphadora, but trust me, my blunder was much worse than yours. I have the experience to know – to understand –"

"Oh, will you stop that! Don't you treat me like a little child, I might not be in my thirties, but I haven't crawled out of my egg shell just yesterday either!"

"I haven't said that, have I? Anyway, I didn't mean to imply it either. There is but one matter in which I indeed feel like your senior, like being the more mature one of us – namely the ability to acknowledge the impossibility of this affair. It's no good, Nymphadora, and maybe you will one day be able to see it like I do –"

"And if I become a hundred years, I won't see it like you, I bet you _that_!"

"This really isn't the time to – to… Perhaps we could have had a chance some other time –"

"So I will just wait for you then. Until this war is over! Mind you, we might even win it and –"

"I don't _want_ you to _wait for me_. Waiting for someone means not being open for other people – to still be tied – vulnerable –"

"You _cannot_ be serious! I've never heard such nonsense!"

"When was the last time you've talked to your mother?"

"What's this got to do with it, eh?"

"When did you?" he insists, fumbling with his glass again. She shakes her head in a lack of understanding.

"I reckon that must have been at Sirius' obsequies."

"That's more than two weeks ago," he says quietly.

"You know how busy I've been, I've hardly had a night off in an entire week, and if I had, I rather tried to meet you –"

"Talking of odd priorities, my dear…"

"Nah, I've had some little argument with her, after the funeral – I don't mean to pop in for a mere half an hour after this. I'd rather wait for a better opportunity than that," she says, straining to sound careless and casual.

"I know you've argued. She's told me."

Her jaw drops. "When did _you_ see her then?"

"There were some things to sort out about Sirius' legacy, we met accidentally."

"What did she say?" she asks sharply, adding hurriedly in a softer voice, "And why didn't you tell me?"

"It was – well – somewhat embarrassing, you know…"

"What _did_ she say!" Her heart, which has been close to stop beating only some minutes ago, is now racing hard. Her mum wouldn't have – she _couldn't_ –

"Oh, she was very amiable, as always. We've had a cup of tea afterwards, and had a very interesting, good chat… She asked me about you, you know? Mentioned that she's not heard from you, and that she was afraid that you had mistaken her the last time you've been talking –"

She is squirming, incapable to answer, half hoping that she _has_ misunderstood her mother, half praying that he would just drop the topic at once. She doesn't _want_ to discuss this, not now, not under these circumstances.

"She asked me how serious I was about her daughter," he says now, smiling strangely, and Tonks catches her breath. Oh _no_!

"So you've simply told her that you're going to dump me anyway," she snaps, bearing in mind the old Auror rule that an attack can be the best defence in a serious moment – a moment like this.

"No, I didn't," he replies quietly, showing no offence. "She has asked what we were going to do about my – problem."

She couldn't bear it to look at him. She knows what her mother must have said to Remus, at least she got a vivid imagination. Her mum wasn't too pleased with her daughter's werewolf lover, and Tonks has hurled some pretty rude things at her, about being a bloody hypocrite, and having no right to mess with her daughter's life either… She regrets some of the _phrases_ now, but not the _message_ – she _wants_ to be with Remus, no matter what, and that he is a werewolf has no impact whatsoever on her feelings in that quarter.

"You've told her about the Wolfsbane Potion?"

"Yes, I did. But that wasn't what she had in mind, it appears. – Look, it's only natural she's worrying for you. If we – if we were to stay together and perhaps you want to have a child one day – you don't know what would be with it –"

"So we'll adopt a kid if we want one, for goodness' sake! I cannot _believe_ she's dared to bother you with _that_!"

"You must see that your mother is a very sensible woman and only wants your best, Nymphadora. If even _she_ warns you – you know how liberal a person she normally is – is it really too much to ask that you weigh the arguments unprejudiced?"

"Unprejudiced! Ph! My mother's run away with my Muggle-born Dad, and she's not given a _damn_ about her family's disapproval. How can she criticise _me_ for feeling the same now?"

"You mother has married a _wizard_, Nymph-"

"Yeah, and what are you then, no wizard?"

"I'm only partly _human_, dear. You cannot compare that to your parents' situation. However, I have thought about that meeting for some time. Your mother and Sirius have not been talking together about this, but still they were saying the same. Doesn't that make you think?"

"That my pureblood relatives are indignant when I come home with someone partly from another species? If she's got nothing better to say, my mother can spare her good weather liberalism," she snipes, draining her wine with one big sip and refreshing her glass. "And the same goes for Sirius! He's been _jealous_, that is all! Because you and me have had a life, while he was condemned to sit in that ruddy house. That we were happy, even in all this!"

"Don't speak of him like that –"

"But it's true," she almost shouts. Anger, disappointment and fear to lose Remus are almost overwhelming her, and the very next time she's going to meet her mother she'll –

"I don't want to argue with you, dear. I'm just saying how it is – how I feel about this. I trust you will come to understand my point of view."

"What you feel – what is it that you _feel_, Remus? You've given me half a dozen reasons linked to sense – or what you call like that anyway. But what about _your_ feelings? I love you, my heart will be breaking about this, and you? Do you feel nothing?"

He looks her straight into the eye, unblinkingly, openly, and she knows that this is the end, even though his words are so gentle and tender, even though she's not going to accept it just now. "I love you, Nymphadora Tonks, more than any other woman I have ever met with. And _because_ I love you, I want us to give this up, I want you to go back to your old life and lead the sort of life that's right for a…" He has taken her hand, pressing it. "That's right for the funniest, sweetest, smartest, and overall prettiest twenty-three-year-old girl in the world. You deserve better than me, Nymphadora. I love you far too much to be wanting to condemn you."

She has tried to bite them down all the time since he has started with his little speech, but now she can no longer hold back the tears, they're streaming down her cheeks, blocking her throat, she can't speak – she can hardly breathe, and in her lungs something painfully clenches. This couldn't be – how could he – why – he must not – _why_…

He leaves quickly after this, and as soon as Tonks has scrambled enough of her wits to dare Apparating, she's off, too, to confront the true culprit – or the only person she can blame and scream at in this moment, anyhow.

"How _dare_ you!"

Her mother has hardly closed the front door, looking confused. "Hello sweetheart – nice to see you, too!"

"Don't give me this shit, Mum! Spare your false nicety!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Congratulations! You've done it!"

"What?"

"Remus's broken up with me. _Thank you_, Mum! Very well done!"

Realisation dawns on Andromeda's even features; she sighs and ushers her daughter into the kitchen. "I didn't – I'm sorry, darling, I had no –"

"You didn't – you had no – cut out this rubbish! _You_ told him that he wasn't good enough for your precious daughter, you –"

"I said no such thing! I –"

"I know very well what you've said! Who do you think you are, Mum! _You_ of all persons! Why don't you turn Dad out, too! He's totally substandard – and so are Lenny and I, thinking about it, being his kids!"

"Now hold your tongue, Nymphadora!" Andromeda has put her hands in her sides, infuriated. "Who do _you_ think you are, talking to your mother in this fashion!"

"I talk to you like you deserve! You've got to reap what you've sown! Oh, I can imagine how you've lulled him in, always so charming, aren't you, Mum? So understanding, so reasonable! You've simply pointed out the obvious, haven't you?"

Her mother's cheeks have flushed. "Indeed, I have! He is a man of thirty-seven years, for goodness' sake! And he _looks_ even older! And why is that so? Because he is a _werewolf_, can't you get that into your stubborn head! He's not a Muggle – I wouldn't mind a Muggle for one second and you know that! He is a potentially murderous _beast_!"

"Be quiet!"

"He can kill you! He can mutilate you! And it's not only that!"

"Oh, isn't it," Tonks gnarls, glaring at her.

"Lupus pilum mutat, non mentem!"

"What?"

"As you yourself keep on repeating, we're on the eve of war! He's got a mission to accomplish; you've got a full-time job, _and_ your order work! And what are you doing? Spending your time with some boyfriend, spending _his_ time, and endangering the both of you! What if one of his – his – fellow sufferers – observes him? Or sniffs him out? Literally? I'm sure they can do that, wolves got a fantastic sense of smell, much better than humans!"

Although Andromeda may have some material points there, Tonks is utterly disgusted by her nonetheless. "You are – God, Mum, you're even worse than _them_! And I thought Uncle Lucius was a bloody –"

"Don't you dare comparing me to that wicked man!"

"You've practically begged for being compared to him! And you know what, Mum? You're even worse, because Lucius is honest, at least! _He_ doesn't pretend to believe in equality, or be oh-so-tolerant like you!" She puts on a mock voice, "_I'm sure his fellows can sniff him out, they're crafty like that_ – Merlin, I wish you could _hear_ yourself!"

The scarlet has vanished; now her mother's face is paper-white. "You've got me wrong there, Nym-"

"No, _you_ are wrong there! And you can't even acknowledge it, can you! No, not _you_! Andromeda Tonks is _always_ right! That's the hereditary right of the Blacks, though she doesn't like to mention that, because her vile family was not content with _her_ choice of a husband!"

"Shut up! _Shut_ _up!_" In this moment, they're interrupted by the door bell. Andromeda exhales and her shoulders slack. "Pull yourself together; your brother and Mirabella are coming to visit us."

"Oh, so _Lenny's_ half-blood girlfriend is welcome to this house? Or are you just waiting for the right moment to have the talk with _her_, too?"

Her mother gives no answer but goes out to open the door. There's bustling in the hallway, a lot of 'hellos' and 'hola'; Andromeda announces that Tonks is there as well, and Lenny shrieks out and storms into the kitchen to embrace his older sister. "Dory! Hey! Oh, it's so good to see you, I thought you wouldn't have the time!"

"Hey Lenny," Tonks mutters far less enthusiastically. She's glad to see him, sure, but her overall mood's just too gloomy.

Lenny holds her at arm's length and appraises her. "Now that doesn't sound good. What's wrong, sis?"

"Tell you later – hey there, Mirabella! How are you?"

Mirabella, Lennart's girlfriend, enters the kitchen, hugging her as well. Andromeda has called their father, who's coming down, too – more hugs, more hellos, but before her mother can lull herself into a false sense of security, Tonks tells her quietly, "You and me, Mum, are _finished_!"

Lenny has overheard her nevertheless, raises his brows and asks, "What's the problem?"

"Yes, Mum, please inform Lenny what's the _problem_," Tonks snarls sharply.

"I have absolutely no intention to bring up this topic _now_, Nymphadora. Lennart and Mirabella have only just arrived. You'll allow them to sit down at ease and have a cup of tea before you start pestering them with –"

"_Pestering_, eh? That's it! Fantastic! I had no mind staying here anyway! – Sorry, Lenny – Mirabella – I should have liked to talk to you some longer. Have a good time. Oh, and Lenny – you ought to be careful of leaving Mum alone with Mirabella, or you might not see her again. Bye, Dad!"

She can hear the 'what's' and 'why's' behind her, marching out and slamming the front door shut. Inside, Andromeda slouches onto a chair, covering her face with her hands. "Good lord," she whispers.

"What's wrong, Mum?"

"Her boyfriend's split up with her –"

"And how come she figures that this was your fault?"

"I – she – he – pour me a scotch, Ted, will you…"

Ted Tonks, who's been silent all this time, does as he's told, but groans, "I told you, darling. It's none of _our_ business, she –"

"None of our business? _None of our business?_ Whose business is it if not ours! We're her parents!"

"And she is a sensible girl of twenty-four years who knows what she's doing."

"Oh, and since when! The last time I've looked, she was sending me owls, asking how to bake a pie!"

"You cannot compare that, dear, she –"

"Would anyone bother to inform me what the heck's going on here? What are you talking about?" Lennart asks with a frown. Andromeda chuckles mirthlessly.

"In short? Your sister's thrown herself into the arms of a _werewolf_, and I stand by my opinion! He's _not_ good for her! End of discussion!"

"You're kidding!"

"No, indeed I'm not! A fully-fledged werewolf of thirty-seven years! Mind you, he's only five years younger than _me_! _And_ a werewolf! And _you_!" She stabs her finger at her husband, glaring. "Don't you pretend you had been happy about it! I won't be the only villain in this piece! _You_ said yourself that her choice was – now what did you say? _Unwise?_"

"And I stand by saying it is _unwise_, still I don't believe that it's up to _us_ to interfere," he replies, slightly vexed.

"Mum, did you consider that you're not the most credible authority, seeing you've run away from home to marry Dad?"

"I didn't _run away_, silly boy! I was _thrown_ _out_, lock, stock and barrel!"

He raises his eyes to the ceiling. "I _know_, Mum! I know! Gee, even _Mirabella_ can retell the story by heart! Anyway –"

"Anyway nothing! We're going to have a cup of tea now, and I've prepared a lovely roast for dinner. I don't want to hear another word on this unholy topic!"

* * *

_Lupus..._ The wolf changes his fur, not his mind.


	72. An Old Friend Of The Family

Whom to turn to when even your closest relatives let you down?

* * *

**- 3.22. -**

An Old Friend Of The Family

* * *

_The Prince of darkness is a gentleman._

_WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE – King Lear_

_

* * *

_

Frankly, who would have found peaceful sleep in her place? She hadn't slept properly since Lucius' imprisonment – in more than twenty years of marriage, she hadn't slept without him. She didn't know how to lie comfortably, where to put her head, her hands, and without the steady rhythm of his breathing, she couldn't fall asleep either. Additionally, her anxiety was eating her up – when would she see him again, what was going to become of them all… And now _this_! Draco – join the Dark Order – be a Death Eater – it was _ridiculous_! What was he supposed to do, eh? Throw a leg-lock curse at an Auror in combat? What if anyone saw the Mark? It was summer – he'd never be able to wear anything without long sleeves again in his life, which might be advantageous in matters of style, but after all he was just a teenager! And after Quidditch practise – should he take a shower in his robes to conceal the treacherous branding? She dearly loved her son and had the highest opinion of him and his gifts, but how he could be so incredibly short-sighted was unintelligible to her.

She tossed and turned in her bed in her usual insomnia this night, unwilling to take a sleeping potion though. Maybe her little angel would want to talk to her when he got home, perhaps the ceremony would make him realise after all what he was in for. She'd have to be fit then. But the minutes and hours ticked away, and no noise in the large house announced his coming home. Every ten minutes, she looked at the alarm clock – one o'clock – one thirty – two o'clock – two fifteen – how long did the ceremony take anyway? She had never asked Lucius. Good Lord, there were so many things that she had never asked him.

Eventually, she did hear steps in the hallway, low voices – Bella must have taken him home – and finally, at last, the long-expected, quiet knocking on the door of their bedroom. She sat up at once, ignited the candle on her bedside table and called him in. But it wasn't Draco – it was her sister, wearing an expression of enthusiasm mingled with something else. For a second, Narcissa wondered whether she was looking anxious, but _anxiety_ really wasn't like her elder sister.

"You're still awake, Cissy?" she asked and grinned wryly. "You really should take your sleeping potions!"

"If I had, you wouldn't have been able to wake me up just now. Anything wrong with Draco?"

"No! No, he's fine. Blimey, he held himself good tonight, I must give him that. I've seen grownup men faint during the ritual, but he would not shrink away."

"I'm very pleased to hear it," Narcissa replied dryly. "But surely you haven't come to tell me _that_."

It _was_ anxiety on Bellatrix' face, and with a slight sigh, she shook her head. "Perceptive as always, are you. No, as a matter of fact, I've come to talk to you… Strictly speaking, I shouldn't even be here, so don't you dare repeating anything of what I tell you now –"

Narcissa was torn between the natural sentiment of a mother who'd want to know whether there was anything wrong with her child, and her old reluctance to know more about the Dark Lord's dealings than she had to hear of. She waited for Bellatrix to go on, her heart beating a little faster.

"You see, Draco really is a very good boy, is he not?" her sister murmured after a minute. "He is very skilful, and once he's trained up a bit…"

"What then," Narcissa said sharply, straightening up some more. Bellatrix sat down next to her, avoiding her glance and stroking over the covers.

"You will be glad – nay, _proud_ to hear that the master has great trust in your son's talents. Not only that he has given him the honour to become a proper Death Eater at such a young age –"

Narcissa's feeling of dark foreboding rummaged in her guts, growing to downright dread. Bellatrix' eyes were still fixed on some point in the corner of the mattress, the flickering light of the candle made her face appear like a skull.

"He's been given an assignment. A great, important assignment that will obtain him fame and honour beyond words if he's successful…"

"Assignment?" Narcissa didn't bother for the shrill tone in her voice, her pulse began to race.

"Oh, yes. I was proud to be his aunt, I can tell you. He will be greater than any of us; honestly, I am even a bit envious for the honour he's been given –"

"Don't beat about the bush, Bella!"

"First you must give me your word, Cissy. You must swear that you will not speak to anyone about the thing I tell you now. I'd be in terrible difficulties –"

She didn't care for her sister's difficulties, she didn't care for anything, if only Draco wasn't in danger. Besides, whom should she talk to about Death Eater affairs, eh? Did Bella assume that she'd incriminate her own son, the next time she'd come across someone from the Ministry? Impatiently she cried, "For heaven's sake, Bella, out with it! _Of course_ I won't endanger Draco! Or you."

"Good, good… It's just that – I was afraid that you might not see the magnificent prospects at first – you are always so hesitant… Anyway, your son has been distinguished to fulfil a very responsible task – it _could_ appear dangerous to _you_ on first sight, but –"

"_Dangerous?_"

"Tone down your voice, Cissy! Draco must not hear that I am talking to you!"

"Dangerous?"

"Well, it _is_, a little bit – oh well, it's pretty dangerous actually, but I will train him personally and –"

Narcissa caught her breath, unable to utter another syllable. Draco was supposed to catch or kill the Potter boy, she knew it – oh Merlin, oh _god_ –

"And you know that I _am_ vastly gifted with the Dark Arts. We will manage to make him a true proficient. I think he's been chosen for the job because none of us others – _almost_ none – is as close to the target as he is –"

"I thought the Dark Lord wanted to kill off Potter himself," Narcissa whispered almost inaudibly, immobile with horror.

"Potter?" Bellatrix made big eyes, enhancing the similarity to a skull yet. "Who's speaking of _Potter_? I mean Dumbledore!"

"_WHAT_?" If Narcissa Malfoy had _ever_ lost all countenance, _this_ was the very moment! Bellatrix hurriedly drew her wand and hexed the room soundproof, shushing her sister, but this one had already jumped out of bed and summoned her clothes with her own wand. "ARE YOU _CRAZY_? HAVE YOU _TOTALLY_ LOST YOUR FREAKING MIND NOW, YOU MAD COW?"

"Get a grip, Cissy!" Bellatrix shouted, too. "Bloody hell, keep your wig on!"

"I will _not_ get a _grip_! If anything, _you_ have lost yours! Trapping Dumbledore, I – I – oh Jesus, Mary and all saints! The boy is _sixteen_, how on _earth_ is he supposed to lure _Dumbledore_ into an ambush!"

Bella turned slightly paler and muttered, "We will see about that… However, you have mistaken me – slightly – because he's not – not supposed to lure him into an ambush in the first place –"

Narcissa calmed herself far enough to lower her voice from 'screaming' to 'crying'. "Now that's a relief! I had already believed you had gone nuts –"

"Actually, he will have to kill him –"

For a split second, the world around her went black; Narcissa wasn't the type for faints, but everyone has their limits. She couldn't hear anything but the thunder of blood pumping through her veins, every muscle in her body was frozen with terror, she could not breathe, she could not speak, and perhaps she would have sunk to the ground at once, if Bellatrix hadn't jumped forwards and shaken her.

"Cissy? Cissy – you all right?"

She slapped her around the face twice, hard, and Narcissa regained some of her senses, enough to break free and point her wand at her sister. "Stay away from me! Get off! You – you – how could you let that happen! You! His aunt! If nobody else in the Order, _you_ should feel responsible –"

"It is an _honour_, you silly twit! Salazar, I _knew _you'd overreact!"

"_Overreact_? Oh, I haven't even started! I don't _believe_ this! Killing Dumbledore! If that was possible, he'd have done it himself decades ago!"

She stripped off her night gown, put on some robes and put the wand into a pocket. Bellatrix goggled at her. "What are you doing? Why are you getting dressed?"

"Go away, Bella! You've done enough for one night, now you better leave me alone, or I will do something we'd both regret!"

"You're getting hysterical, Cissy. You must calm down –"

"Shut up and go! _Go! _I trusted you! God, I can't believe I really trusted _you_! How could I be so stupid? You and all your 'oh, _I_ will look after my nephew, not to worry!' _That_ is what you consider to be care?"

"Pull yourself together, Cissy!"

"Leave me alone, Bella!"

"What are you doing?"

"I will go and save my son, you deluded freak!"

"Save your –" Bella hesitated, giving her sister a bewildered glance. "What the heck are you talking about? Wanna go and kill old Dumbledore yourself or what?"

Narcissa took a deep breath and glared at the other one. "Bella, just so we do not get each other wrong – what if – likely enough! – Draco fails to kill him? What then?"

Bellatrix broke eye contact and turned away her face. "You know that –"

"_No_, I obviously _don't_ know that! Will he be punished? Tortured? What?"

"He will be executed, Cissy," Bellatrix murmured with a soft quiver in her voice, but straightening up in the next moment. "But that will not happen. I promise. Look, Cissy, I don't mean to flatter myself, but I _am_ brilliant in the Dark Arts – I'd say only our master is better than me and I will make sure that Draco is prepared for the task. He'll be knowing everything he needs to know –"

"Don't talk such nonsense, Bella! Why did the Dark Lord never attack Hogwarts, back then, even though he knew that it was the only last bastion of real resistance against him, eh? Why, I ask you! Because he didn't dare to tangle with Dumbledore!"

"Don't you speak about the master like that!"

"I have long enough been silent! And _you_ know that I am right!"

Bellatrix seemed to think it better not to answer directly, and asked again, "But where will you go now?"

"Can't you guess? I will go to the only other person in this world that does care for my son and is _not_ imprisoned!"

"What?"

Narcissa stormed out of the room without another word, just groping her cloak and putting it on in running. Bellatrix rushed after her, trying to grab her robes and hold her back, but failing. Malfoy Manor was an uncommonly large house; in fact, it was a complex of several buildings, all of them Apparition-proof, with only one exception – some vaults in the dungeons underneath the ancient castle-part. But if any intruder should have ventured to give it a try and Apparate inside _there_, they would have got stuck immediately. Only four living souls knew how to get in or out of the dungeons, without falling prey to the ghoul or the crups guarding the exits, or being hit by one of the many security curses. This was were Narcissa was heading for now, her loudly protesting sister close behind her.

"You don't think of going to Snape, do you? He's a traitor, Cissy! He –"

"Rubbish! He's not a traitor, or your master would have found him out by now!"

"He's not to be trusted, mark my words," Bella insisted, panting, running twenty feet behind her sister who had already reached the castle-part. "Don't be silly! You'll bring us all into trouble, me, Draco, and not at last yourself!"

Narcissa gave no reply, hastening on. Bellatrix caught up slightly when her sister had to stop before the entrance to the dungeons to undo some spells. "You are forbidden to talk about it! You've given me your word!"

"I've given my word not to endanger Draco, but what I'm about to do now is quite the opposite!"

"The Dark Lord will punish you if you go against his express wishes –"

"Then don't tell him!"

"I regret I ever mentioned it!"

"Now that's no one's problem but your own, is it? _Reducto Infernalis!_" Another obstacle vanished and Narcissa hastened on. Bella followed her; she knew the secret passages, too, but not nearly as well as Narcissa, and she had difficulties to catch up.

"What do you think Snape could _do_, anyway?" she panted. "_He_ won't be as stupid as to disobey his orders!"

"None of your business – _Deflecto Incendio_ – now shut up and leave me alone!"

They went on quarrelling all the way; Narcissa tried to shake her off, anxious to talk to their old friend by herself, but Bella _was_ like dry rot – impossible to get rid of. Once, she even cursed her, without success though, for she was still hurrying behind her, simply a few steps further behind. Severus Snape's house had once belonged to his parents, or rather: to his father's part of the family. He had bought it from the money he got for his first patented potion, but _why_ he had bought it must forever remain a mystery to Narcissa. It was a Muggle house in a Muggle street, in the most unmagical town of Birmingham; Narcissa hardly noticed the shabby surroundings, but so much the more did Bella, not concealing her disgust.

Severus was surprised to see them, and Narcissa wondered whether he really couldn't guess why she had come, but then again – it didn't really matter. Severus was her only chance. Lucius had said that she should turn to Severus Snape if anything ever happened that she couldn't deal with herself. He needn't have told her that. Unfortunately, that disgusting little man was with him, the rat-faced Peter Whatshisname – speaking of dry rot – but he dispelled him. What was he doing here anyway?

She drank the offered wine with one big sip; it didn't relax her as it should have, and she quickly drank her second glass, too. – Still no effect, still the same burning fear in her stomach. – While Bellatrix was arguing with Severus, possibly for the hundredth time, Narcissa couldn't say, she reconsidered her plan once more. Plan – now that was a bit of a euphemism – this wasn't really a plan, but an act of sheer despair, and if it didn't work out… The Lord might save them all.

"Now… You came to ask me for help, Narcissa?"

She awoke from her silent reverie, shooting him an imploring look. "Yes, Severus. I – I think you are the only one who can help me – I have nowhere else to turn. Lucius is in jail and…"

Bellatrix gasped, but Narcissa's tears weren't as fake as her sister assumed them to be. She _was_ desperate – she was out of herself, and even though she hadn't been shedding tears of grief in many, many years, even after Lucius' arrest, crying appeared like the only way to relief herself right now. Without looking over, she continued quickly, "The Dark Lord has forbidden me to speak of it. He wishes none to know of the plan. It is… Very secret. But –"

"If he has forbidden it, you ought not to speak. The Dark Lord's word is law," he replied glumly.

Her courage sank; why hadn't she managed to shake off Bella, without _her_, Severus would surely have listened to her… Indeed, her sister cried in considerable satisfaction, "There! Even Snape says so – you were told not to talk, so hold your silence!"

Narcissa couldn't remember to have ever felt so horrible in all her life; the death of her parents, Lucius' imprisonment – it all seemed like a very soft warm-up for the bottomless grief and horror she was experiencing in this minute. He had been her only hope, and he let her down.

Severus Snape himself was flustered, to say the least. He hadn't expected to see Narcissa, and worse, Bellatrix, and he was in no mood at all to have another useless argument with the latter, least with that mangy rat lurking around! Narcissa was out of herself – of course she was. She and Lucius had believed to be on the safe side, had not taught their son the Dark Arts because they had believed that would keep the boy out of the actual warfare for some more years due to his lack of experience, and they had erred. Severus had warned them, had tried to put them on their guard, unsuccessfully so. Narcissa was too rational a person to reckon with the unpredictable moves of someone like the Dark Lord… But what did she want from _him_ now? A hug? A few empty words of solace? What?

"It so happens that I know of the plan. I am one of the few the Dark Lord has told… Nevertheless, had I not been in the secret, Narcissa, you would have been guilty of great treachery to the Dark Lord," he said flatly, his gaze fixed on Narcissa, hoping she'd understand. He wouldn't put it past Bellatrix to snitch on her own sister!

Narcissa's expression was simply heartbreaking. "I thought you must know about it! He trusts you so, Severus…"

While he was still thinking whether she meant the Dark Lord or her husband by that, Bellatrix blurted out, "You know about the plan? _You_ know?"

"Certainly." He gave her a challenging look before turning back to her aggrieved sister. "But what help do you require, Narcissa? If you are imagining I can persuade the Dark Lord to change his mind, I am afraid there is no hope, none at all."

Good lord, she was crying. Narcissa was actually _crying_ – it really got the best of him; he couldn't remember to have ever seen her cry, apart from her wedding day, but _that_ had been tears of joy and movement! "Severus… My son – _my_ _only_ _son_ –"

Oh _god_… Her words hurt him like piercing daggers, and he had no clue how to answer, but luckily, Bellatrix spared him the reply for the time being. "Draco should be _proud_! The Dark Lord is granting him a great honour. And I will say this for Draco – he isn't shrinking away from his duty, he seems glad of a chance to prove himself, excited at the prospect –"

Foolish child! Oh Lucius, what did you teach your son! _Excited at the prospect_ – of what? Of getting himself killed? Did that sixteen-year-old kid truly believe he could beat _Dumbledore_? Tears were streaming down Narcissa's even cheeks in abundance. He couldn't bear to see her like this.

She was sobbing, gasping for breath – and he might choose to look away, but he could still hear her. Poor Narcissa; he had waited for the straw that would finally break her back. It had been an awful lot for her lately. And even a woman like her could only take so many blows before breaking down. "That's because he is sixteen and has no idea what lies in store! Why, Severus? Why my son? It is too dangerous! This is vengeance for Lucius' mistake, I know it!" She shivered. "That's why he's chosen Draco, isn't it? To punish Lucius?"

Of course it was, he thought bitterly. Yes, it _was_ meant as a punishment for Lucius' failure to retrieve that stupid prophecy, and for losing the diary, and for being the disloyal egoist that he was. No offence – Severus had always admired his older friend vastly, and not at last for his capability to stop at nothing. It took a certain nerve to be as determined as he was. But Lucius had miscalculated his chances – Severus was sorely aware of his own part in bringing _that_ about. _He_ had sent the rescue squad to the Ministry that night, and with good reason! Still, Narcissa and Draco were the ones to pay now, and he squirmed with that notion.

"If Draco succeeds, he will be honoured above all others," he muttered, hating himself for that hollow attempt on 'comfort', but Narcissa couldn't be comforted, of course. She knew as well as he that her child – her only son – had a death sentence pronounced upon him. God, he had been here before! He had heard the same about his oldest friend's only child, and now the only other people he had ever considered to be his friends were going through _exactly_ the same! And again, _he_ was to blame. He loathed himself more than ever – he had betrayed Lily, and to make up for that, he had betrayed Lucius and Narcissa, and their child – and the kid's worst crime was being a cocky brat sometimes!

"But he won't succeed! How can he, when the Dark Lord himself –" She was interrupted by Bellatrix, who was hissing and shooting withering looks at her youngest sibling, but Narcissa wouldn't stop. "I only meant – that nobody has yet succeeded – Severus… Please – you are, you have always been, Draco's favourite teacher… You are Lucius' old friend… I beg you – you are the Dark Lord's favourite, his most trusted advisor – will _you_ speak to him, persuade him –"

He knew what she was thinking of, they were clearly both thinking of the same. He was frightened that Narcissa would speak it out, and said as quickly as he was firm, "The Dark Lord will _not_ be persuaded, and _I_ am not stupid enough to attempt it! I cannot pretend that the Dark Lord is not angry with Lucius. Lucius was supposed to be in charge. He got himself captured, along with how many others, and failed to retrieve the prophecy into the bargain. Yes, the Dark Lord is angry, Narcissa, very angry indeed."

Wasn't there any possibility to get rid of Bellatrix? He could drop this entire charade if he were to be alone with Narcissa; they had always been more or less open with each other. Well, more or less, really. With that filthy piece of shit lurking in the hallway, none of them ought to try their luck – but they could deal with Ratface easily enough. If only Bellatrix wasn't here…

"Then I am right, he _has_ chosen Draco in revenge! He does not mean him to succeed, he wants him to be killed trying!" Narcissa looked as if she would keel over with agitation in the next moment, only Bellatrix remained unmoved. Compassion was a foreign word for this lunatic! Severus himself was at a loss for words, Narcissa's final downfall was too painful to look at. If he had thought it couldn't come much worse, he had been wrong though. In the next moment, she had thrown herself at him, clutching his lapels and literally begging him, "You could do it. _You_ could do it instead of Draco, Severus! You would succeed, of course you would, and he would reward you beyond all of us –"

She wanted to flatter him into agreeing to assassinate Dumbledore, and although Severus had already promised the old man to do it, he still wasn't entirely sure. He had never killed anyone, not in anger, not in cold blood, and killing a man that he almost regarded as a _friend_… However, Narcissa's strategy, if it was one, worked – he was touched; Narcissa surely was the sort of mother that would stop at nothing to protect her child. He couldn't have helped himself. Of course, he would help her. He had failed to protect one mother with her child. He wouldn't allow that to happen again. He wouldn't endure to see another family torn apart due to _his_ betrayal!

He grabbed Narcissa's wrists and forced them away from himself, struck by the expression in her glistering eyes. "He intends me to do it in the end, I think. But he is determined that Draco should try first. You see, in the unlikely event that Draco succeeds, I shall be able to remain at Hogwarts a little longer, fulfilling my useful role as a spy…"

"In other words, it doesn't matter to him if Draco is killed!"

Her voice was barely a whisper, she was as white as chalk and her dark blue eyes appeared almost black in the feeble light. Severus wasn't easily touched, but this was one of those rare occasions – he'd do anything to have her regain her countenance. He felt like a monster for continuing to torment her, but with Bellatrix present, he had no other choice. "The Dark Lord is very angry. He failed to hear the prophecy. You know as well as I do, Narcissa, that he does not forgive easily."

She finally did sink; she fell to her knees – Severus closed his eyes – he would never forget this sight – and he had partaken in bringing it about… "My only son… My only son –"

Bellatrix, on the other hand, showed no sign of mercy; instead she gnarled, "You should be _proud_! If _I_ had sons, I would be _glad_ to give them up to the service of the Dark Lord!"

He believed it at once, glaring at her in something bordering on hate. Narcissa had begun to whimper by now, pulling her long hair in unspeakable pain. This was enough – he would endure this not a second longer – he lifted her up and almost carried her over to the sofa. He urged her to drink another glass of wine to soothe her poor nerves; he doubted that it helped much, but he needed half a minute to recompose himself, too. He had come to a decision. Narcissa trusted him, Narcissa would also trust in Dumbledore – Lucius would put up with pretty much anything to protect his only son – and Draco practically worshipped his parents, the kid would do whatever his parents told him. Yes. Yes, Dumbledore would help them, right? Of course he would.

"Narcissa, that's enough. Drink this. Listen to me. It might be possible – for me to help Draco," he said carefully, anxious not to meet Bellatrix' gaze. They'd hide the boy, and Narcissa as well, possibly, and they'd see what they could do to protect Lucius… Wars were won with people like Lucius fighting on one's side and not the enemy's.

"Severus – oh, Severus – you would help him? Would you look after him, see he comes to no harm?"

"I can try," he murmured, thinking that Dumbledore wouldn't harm the boy anyway, and relieved to see her plucking up both courage and composure.

Or at least that's what he had thought, for in the next second, she was back on her knees, seizing his hands and kissing them. Good Lord! He really wasn't fit for this sort of thing. He'd gladly face a whole bunch of dragons if only he could get away from this at once.

"If you are there to protect him… Severus, will you swear it? Will you make the Unbreakable Vow?"

"The Unbreakable Vow?"

In this second, he realised what she _really_ had come for… She didn't want him to hide her son… Of course – because that'd mean Lucius' life was forfeited, and Narcissa would _never_ risk _that_. How could he have been so stupid! How could he have thought for a second… Every fibre of common sense inside him protested – _roared_ – at him to retreat. The Unbreakable Vow – how could she do that to him? – she must be kidding! But of course, she wasn't. His mind was racing. Making an Unbreakable Vow was the stupidest thing he could ever do, it'd bind him more effectively than any other enchantment. It'd kill him if he broke it, and since he still hadn't finally made up his mind if he could do it – kill the only person in the world that knew him for _real_…

'You've got one last chance to get out of this,' a voice in his head whispered urgently. 'Say no! No, no, _no_, NO , _NO_ –'

"Aren't you listening, Narcissa?" Bellatrix jeered, with her usual air of complacency. "Oh, he'll _try_, I'm sure… the usual empty words, the usual slithering out of action – oh, on the Dark Lord's orders, of course!"

He wanted to slap her around the face, if that was enough – as a matter of fact, he'd rather have cursed the living daylights out of her – and in this very moment, the small voice in his ear had lost its battle. He would do it, yes, he would make the vow, he wouldn't stand by watching another family destroyed _on the Dark Lord's orders_ and with Severus Snape's contribution! He couldn't let Narcissa down, he had once let Lily down and regretted it for the rest of his life, which was worthless ever since anyway. Dumbledore's life was forfeited, too… Perhaps they could at least save Draco's. They'd simply have to come through for one more year. Dumbledore would die this way or that, and in that very moment, Severus would abduct the boy and hide him, and go back to the Dark Lord then, claiming that Draco had done it, but that the Order had caught him before he could flee. That'd mean that Narcissa and Lucius were comparably save, and once Lucius was out of Azkaban, they'd hide them, too, and…

"Certainly, Narcissa, I shall make the Unbreakable Vow," he murmured, weakly; his common sense was screaming, but otherwise without the means for further resistance. "Perhaps your sister will consent to be our Bonder."

He knelt down opposite of Narcissa, unable to tear away his gaze for once, and took her right hand. 'You fool, you terrible fool, get up at once, throw them _both_ out of your house' – to dispel the nasty pangs of remorse and because he hated her guts, he said with particular coolness, "You will need your wand, Bellatrix. And you will need to move a little closer."

To have this witch of all persons speechless, just once in her lifetime, should be worth all the rest, but it wasn't. He could feel cold sweat in the scruff of his neck. 'Be sensible,' the voice in his head whimpered, '_sensible_' –

"Will you, Severus, watch over my son Draco as he attempts to fulfil the Dark Lord's wishes?" Narcissa asked solemnly.

"I will."

"And will you, to the best of your ability, protect him from harm?" Her face was shining in the deep red glow of the spell work, rendering her to look a bit more like herself again, and not the paper-white bundle of despair that she had been only a minute ago.

"I will." Of course he would, it wouldn't have taken the Unbreakable Vow to secure this particular promise.

"And should it prove necessary… If it seems Draco will fail –"

'This is your last chance, you moron, remove your hand _now_ – it's not too late yet – idiotidiotidiot' – no, he would pull this through. For the first time in his life, he was acting against his better judgement, and he couldn't help it but think that it might also be the last thing he'd ever do. He knew what she'd ask of him next, and his mind was racing to find some loophole –

"Will you carry out the deed that the Dark Lord has ordered Draco to perform?"

He was fond of Draco, Lucius and Narcissa were the only people alive that he had ever considered to be his friends, and there really weren't many people in this world that Severus had ever been fond of. And the only other living – yet – man he, by now, considered as a friend, almost… Now he would have to kill him for real – he had hoped he wouldn't have to do it… But Dumbledore was right, better Severus than the boy himself. Draco still had a chance to live, and live happily… Severus had lost every chance for that long ago. He merely lived to atone for his betrayals, of old, of recent times – Narcissa wouldn't be _here_ now if it hadn't been for Severus, and he owed her to do everything in his power to save her child.

"I will," he whispered, unblinking. He had just done the most stupid thing of his whole life; he should feel down-cast, or desperate, or angry… Maybe it would come later, right now he felt simply hollow. He _was_ no idiot, he understood very well that Narcissa's entire visit had been for one reason only, to hear these words, and he couldn't even blame her. She wanted to protect her child, that was more natural than anything _he_ had ever done in the course of his life. She was a mother standing up for her son, even if that meant betraying the Dark Lord himself… The world would be a very different place if every child had a mother like her, or Lily.

Not ten minutes later, both witches were gone – Bellatrix hadn't uttered another word after she had performed the spell – Narcissa would have thrown herself at him once again in utter gratefulness, but he had successfully prevented this by getting up at once and freshening up their glasses once more. He did need a drink now – as a matter of fact, he'd need an entire bottle, and it better be harder stuff than _wine_. He claimed he had something urgent to do and almost pushed them out of the front door; they weren't gone for more than thirty seconds when Wormtail showed his ugly face.

"What on earth did _they_ want?"

"I'd tell you if it was any of your business, Ratface."

"You think you were such a great guy, bat-man, but when it all comes down, you're nothing but a sentimen-"

"_Silencio!_" Severus had drawn his wand and hexed his unwelcome flatmate. "You rotten piece of filth, you mangy rat of a treacherous maggot, you _disgust_ me, you'd disgust everyone who's ever come near you – there is a place in hell just waiting for you, Ratface!"

Wormtail was mutely glaring back, and to vent some of his anger and despair, Severus cursed him some more, Obliviated him and left him then, twisting and twitching on the floor.


	73. Faithless

Draco is deeply disappointed by his mother

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**- 3.23. -**

Faithless

* * *

_Ea caritas quae est inter natos et parentes dimini nisi detestabili scelere non potest._

_CICERO – Laelius De Amicitia_

_

* * *

_

"Now will you finally _concentrate_, or we'll stop at once," she bellowed angrily. "Honestly, this isn't exactly _difficult_!"

Sure, when one was a mad killer on the loose, it must be the easiest thing in the world to kill by will, Draco thought in some frustration, but for the rest of the world it _was_ difficult. He had failed to kill the bug before him for the forth time in a row, and frankly, he couldn't imagine he'd manage in the next hour either. He was tired, worn-out and his skull felt like bursting. Before practising the Killing Curse, his aunt had taught him Occlumency for three solid hours, meaning she had rummaged through his brains like she had pleased, and he hadn't been capable in any case to stop her.

She flicked her wand with a lazy movement, and muttered in an utterly bored voice, "_Avada Kedavra_ – there you go. You've got to _mean_ it, that's all!"

The bug in the jar had suddenly stopped twitching; he cleared it away and fished a new one out of another, bigger glass. At first, they had tried it with spiders, but since Draco happened to be rather fond of spiders, they had decided to use bugs instead, because his aunt thought that to be easier. She gave a loud sigh now, asking in exasperation, "Are there any beasts that you really, really loathe? Beasts you want to see dead as soon as spotting them?"

"I very much dislike Hippogriffs," he muttered, making her laugh unpleasantly.

"Yes, I've seen _that_, boy! But for once I don't know where to get a Hippogriff now, and then it would be quite defeating the object. The more complex a creature is, the harder it gets to bewitch them. You should know that from your Transfiguration class. What _we_ need here should not be more intricate than an ant for the time being. Or a toad, perhaps. You like toads?"

"I do not mind them, if that's what you mean –"

"You really are your mother's son!" She rolled her eyes. "Blast it. I'd say we'll take a mosquito – but they keep flying around, and seeing your performance so far, you'd be sure to miss them, and hit me accidentally."

He knew he was blushing and cast down his eyes. "Well, let's try it with maggots then, Aunt. I do dislike them, and they're not very fast."

"Brilliant! Why didn't _I_ think of this? A maggot it is then!" She conjured one and dropped it into the training jar. "Go on! Give it a try!"

He took a deep breath, stared at the wriggling maggot, that had a sickening resemblance to the finger of a small child, all rosy and soft, he pointed his wand at it and practised the movement a couple of times before saying the words at last. "_Avada Kedavra!_"

Yes! YES! The maggot had stopped moving – it was dead – he had _done_ it! Thank heavens! His aunt appeared to be not quite as happy as he was. "Let's do that straight over," she said, unmoved.

She conjured a solid dozen of maggots at once, he managed to kill one after the other, and at last, she _was_ satisfied with him, ending their session for tonight. He went up in very high spirits; he would indulge himself and have two or three glasses of Whiskey before going to bed. Even his mum had to be content with him today. He found her in the library; she was lounging in a great armchair, a cashmere plaid spread over her long legs, looking up from her lecture when he came in.

"I did it, Mum," he spluttered excitedly. "I managed to kill off all the maggots!"

She arched a brow. "Did you? Oh, well…"

"Aren't you pleased?"

She gave him a faint smile. "Oh, yes. Yes. I am very pleased. Excuse me, darling, I am a bit tired, I suppose."

"They were only maggots, Mum," he said, a little more subdued. His mother was a Vegetarian, she disapproved of killing animals in general – but she _had_ to approve of his advances, right? "It's not as if I had slain a cow and put it on the barbecue…"

"Just because you would not eat a maggot, they're living creatures all the same, Draco. Besides – they _are_ eaten in some cultures – considered to be a true delicacy in fact… However – I'm sure you've been very good. Was your aunt content?"

"She appeared to be, yes! We'll try frogs tomorrow!"

She twisted her face, but did not comment this, shutting her book and getting up. "Come on then, darling. Let us celebrate your success. Care for a midnight snack?"

"Oh, yes! I'm _starving_!"

They rang for Ziggy to fetch them some sandwiches, and he told her about the Occlumency debacle. That he simply couldn't do it, he even acknowledged the utter humiliation to have Bellatrix discover each and every of his most well-kept secrets, like when he got slapped by Granger back then, or losing against Potter every time they met on the Quidditch pitch, or when he had run out of the Forbidden Forest like a little girl…

His mother smiled benignly. "I've taught your dad how to do it, darling, and he is the world's worst liar, upon my honour. Showing _you_ some tricks will be a walk in the park!"

She stayed up with him all through the night, not faltering before he had managed to keep her out of his head five times in a row. God, he was so relieved. And grateful. And _bloody_ tired… The following night, Aunt Bellatrix had brought a box full of frogs and toads. He managed to kill two out of five, which wasn't too good, but not too bad either. At least, he had improved so much in Occlumency – that his aunt had softened up a little, commending herself for her teaching abilities, and Draco couldn't bring himself to tell her the truth.

"We'll try something bigger tomorrow night," she said now, disposing the dead frogs. "A crup, or a cat. We've got to get on with mammals now."

"We can't take one of the crups, Aunt. Mum's been very upset about the one that I made kill itself under the Imperius," he objected timidly, bracing himself for another one of her fits. Predictably, she rolled her eyes.

"How can my own sister be such a cry-baby, for heaven's sake?" she barked.

"Don't say that, she –"

"Oh, shut up, boy! Sometimes I think she's almost as bad as that other wretched sister of mine!"

"Leave her alone!" Draco had said it before he could have stopped himself, shocked with his own fierceness now, and adding hastily, "Please, I didn't –"

She had jumped up, glaring at him, snatching his arm and dragging him with her. "Oh, we'll sort this out, once and for all. Come on, Draco! We will have a word with your dear mummy now, and clarify a few points!"

He tried to placate her anger, but no chance, she didn't even listen, madly cursing under her breath, and burst into the Music Chamber like a stampeding Hippogriff. His mother stopped playing the piano and cast them a look, half indignant, half spiteful. "Yes…?"

"What _are_ you up to, Cissy?" Aunt Bella snapped. "Am I to teach your precious son or not?"

"I'm afraid I do not understand –"

"If I _am_ to teach him, like I was under the impression, you've got to stop disturbing us!"

"_Disturbing?_" Narcissa got to her feet, showing an angry expression now, too.

"You won't have us practise with some silly crups, I've heard?"

Narcissa gave a swift, unpleasant little laugh. "Oh, so this is what this is about? Yes, indeed, Bella, I won't have it that you're murdering our watch-crups, it's crude, it's barbaric, it's –"

"And _you_ have dared to reproach me for gambling with your son's life, have you! You really have a nerve, Cissy! How's he supposed to learn anything, with his mother fussing about some insects, more than him advancing in the Dark Arts like he's supposed to be!"

"You are tainting my son, you make him murder some animals that he's grown up with, that he's familiar with since his infancy, and you don't even realise what you're doing!" Narcissa cried heatedly.

"Mum!"

"Oh, _shut your mouth_, Draco! You'll go to your room now; I've got business with your dear Aunty here!"

"I'm not a child anymore, Mum! You can't just send me away!"

"I can't? We'll see about that, shall we?" She had drawn her wand so quickly that he was dumbfounded, even more so when she hit him with a Full-Body Bind and sent him to the floor. "_Levitate_! And off to your room!"

The immobilised body of her son hovered out of the room, and Narcissa sent one of the elves to follow him, bring him to bed and lock his room. She turned back to her sister, calmer on the outside now, but the long suppressed rage boiling inside her. "How _dare_ you arguing with me in front of him!"

"Perhaps it'd be good for him to see what a total wimp his own mother is!"

"Oh, I find my son clever enough to understand who in his family is or has been in Azkaban and who is not, and come to some conclusions about the reasons!"

"You want to be very careful with what you say, Cissy," Bella snarled, barely able to keep her fury at bay. "That might easily be mistaken as doubts in our cause!"

"I _doubt_ everything that alienates my son from me! Me, his mother! For _you_, he is nothing but another fighter for your master. But for me, he is my _baby_, my only child, _nothing_ in this world is more important to me than that!"

"That's treachery to the Dark Lo-"

"No, it isn't! I'm no Death Eater; _I_ haven't got _any_ duties that could lead to _treachery_! _My_ duties are that of a mother!"

"Yes, I see," Bella retorted coldly. "Your duty! As a mother! I take it you feel obliged to protect your son, do you? So how can you seriously object him from following his master's orders, knowing what will be the consequences? What about your duties as Lucius' wife? You know what will happen if the master gets even more annoyed with him!"

Narcissa couldn't argue with that point; her chest heaving, she glared at her oldest sister, who returned that look just as belligerently. They stared at each other in silence for some minutes, until Bellatrix snarled at last, "I reckon that this is settled. Be glad if I do not forward your lapse to the Dark Lord, Cissy. You are after all my sister, and _I_ know which _duty_ arises from that fact. But you want to make sure that I am not forced to decide between my allegiances to my family, and my loyalty to my master… You'd regret it bitterly."

She cast her sister one last, warning glance and left then, and Narcissa hurried over to Draco's room to have a word with him. Her poor darling, tugged up in his bed, still paralysed by his mother's spell. She lifted the enchantment and he darted up, yelling, "And _what_ the ruddy hell was _this_ for?"

"Watch your mouth, Draco!"

"How could you humble me like that in front of my aunt?"

"You wouldn't have gone deliberately, and I wished to talk to her in private, that's all." Narcissa spoke calmly, as if nothing serious had happened, but he wasn't so easily placated.

He positively shouted now, "And therefore you make me look like a total idiot? As if I couldn't parry some ridiculous Stunner!"

"As a matter of fact, you didn't –"

"Because I did not expect _my own mother_ to attack me!"

"I am sorry, Draco. I _am_. But I thought it was necessary. Now let us speak in candour. If you haven't got a plan yet, Draco – _tell me so_, and we'll think of something!" she said, almost pleadingly. "I will help you as good as I can, your aunt never needs to hear about it. And Professor Snape will help you, too –"

"Snape? Aunt Bellatrix doesn't trust Snape!"

"You might find that your dear aunt is slightly paranoid. The Dark Lord trusts him, that should be good enough even for you and dear Aunty Bella!"

"Aunt Bellatrix says that the Dark Lord simply hasn't killed Snape yet because he wants to have a foot in Hogwarts."

"Draco, have you considered that a spy that you don't trust is close to useless? He _explained_ everything at great length to her – don't you turn into _her_, dear Merlin!"

"When did he do that?"

"In the same night when I went to ask him to support you –"

Draco turned paler yet and spat, "_What?_ You – you – you have more faith in _him_ than in your own son?"

"Stop being so silly, Draco, this has nothing to do with my _faith_ in you!"

He was mortified and glared at her. "You don't believe I could manage it, do you?"

"As a matter of fact, I don't – _spare your breath and let me finish!_ We're talking about _Dumbledore_, Draco! Greater wizards than you could possibly be at your age, have failed to harm him! You can do with all help that you can get, my dear boy, like it or not!"

"I cannot _believe_ you've betrayed me! Running to old Snape – _him_ of all people!"

"Until quite recently, you've had the highest regard for Professor Snape!"

"That was before I knew him to be a traitor! He's not even a pureblood! Aunt Bellatrix says –"

"Oh, give it a rest, Draco! I don't _care_ what _Aunt_ _Bellatrix_ says! Have you got the faintest notion what will happen if you screw this up? Has your aunty told you _that_, too?"

"I _won't_ screw it up, Mother! I have a _plan_, a _brilliant_ plan and I –"

"Then _tell_ me about that plan, for heaven's sake!"

"So you can run to Snape again and give it away?" He pursed his lips in contempt – he meant Snape, not her, but she was mistaking him and gave him her iciest stare in return.

"I won't permit you to ruin your whole life, Draco! Like it or not, I am still your mother, you are still under-aged, and you will obey me!"

"I will not! The Dark Lord doesn't mind me being under-aged, _he_ trusts me, _he_ doesn't treat me like a child! I am a Death Eater now, and I will not permit _you_ to ruin _my_ great success! Can't you see what Snape's up to?"

Narcissa drew herself up, facing her son eye to eye. By now he was slightly taller than her, but he had no share of her intimidating air. "Professor Snape's given an Unbreakable Vow to protect you, Draco! You know what that means, yes? He'd rather _die_ than letting you down, and that's more than you should presume of your aunt, or anybody else in the Order!"

"What do _you_ know about the Order, anyway? You've never even bothered to join! Aunt Bellatrix says that it's bordering on disgrace that you make no efforts to distinguish yourself."

"Aunt Bellatrix makes enough efforts to distinguish herself that it will suffice for two witches! I will simply ask her to share a bit of her glory with me then," Narcissa said scornfully.

"You sound as if you envy her," he said triumphantly, making his mother sneer.

"Yes, indeed, I'd much rather have spent the past fourteen years in Azkaban, coming to think of it!"

"It would have been an honour to be imprisoned for the Dark Lord's sake," he replied, and Narcissa couldn't but stare at him in horror. What had happened to her otherwise so clever son? How could he talk such appalling nonsense? "Father should have done his duty, too!"

"Oh, right! Yes, surely your father and I should have gladly gone to Azkaban, instead of being your parents. You would have been taken to your Aunt Andromeda then to grow up there, and seeing your utter ungratefulness, you would have deserved it full well!" She winced back with her own words.

Draco was infuriated, his diamond grey eyes narrowed, his nostrils quivering. "Don't you talk to me like that! I've got enough of that, really! Because, _if_ Snape was loyal to our master, you know what he'd do? Push me aside and do it himself! Use _my_ idea to ingratiate himself with the master –"

"Stop talking such nonsense, Draco! You might think it a romantic thing to be incarcerated in Azkaban for the Dark Lord's cause, but let me assure you – it isn't! Trust me, your father would rather be here than there, if he had a choice!"

"I'm not going to be incarcerated!"

"Because you are so superior a wizard, and your father just has no clue, right?"

"I said no such thing!"

"But you've implied it! Like it or not, but Dumbledore is a great wizard, perhaps the great-"

"Don't you say that he was the greatest wizard of all, Mother!" he cried forcefully. "Because he isn't! He's a silly old man, perhaps he was great once, but his time's over –"

"Only three weeks ago, he's managed to overwhelm a dozen Death Eaters, one of them your father, Draco! I give you that he's quite silly, but that goes only as far as his heart is concerned. In his skills, he's pretty much what he's used to be, and I'm sorry to tell you the truth, but you are no patch on his powers!"

"It's not as if I'd try to overwhelm him in a duel, blast it!"

"Language, Draco!"

His white cheeks turned slightly pink with that silly reprimand, he took a deep breath and went on coldly, "My apologies, Mother. I got no taste to continue this debate. It's absolutely pointless. The Dark Lord has assigned me to do it, and nothing you say can change anything about it!"

"Are you truly that naïve? Or has your aunt's madness rubbed off? You're going to _die_ if you –"

"Speaking of taking risks, Mother – am I right, or were you supposed to keep it all a secret to begin with? If _anyone_ has gambled with my life, it's been _you_ when you've gone to Snape! _You_ have risked my mission, _you_ have turned to a possible traitor, entrusting him with your only child's safety! Don't you dare calling _me_ naïve!"

* * *

_Ea caritas…_ The love between parents and their children can only be disturbed by a crime.


	74. Women!

If his mother won't support him, Draco has got to look for female support elsewhere

* * *

**- 3.24.-**

Women!

* * *

_Taisez-vous, ignorante! âme toujours ravie!  
Bouche au rire enfantin! Plus encor que la Vie,  
La Mort nous tient souvent par des liens subtils._

_Laissez, laissez mon cœur s'enivrer d'un mensonge,  
Plonger dans vos beaux yeux comme dans un beau songe  
Et sommeiller longtemps à l'ombre de vos cils!_

_CHARLES BAUDELAIRE_

_

* * *

_

His mother delighted in ignoring him, but Draco didn't care. He wasn't a baby anymore! And if he gave in now, she'd never realise that! All right – he had hurled some nasty things at her, things he hadn't really meant. But only because she had provoked him! This was _her_ fault, not his, and anyway, she had the wrong attitude to begin with!

The branding was hurting awfully still, but he couldn't admit this. She'd only sneer and tell him that he had practically begged for this pain. He was wondering what on earth had got into her. She had never been anything but loving and caring and tender with him, and now? Where was her support when he needed it? His father wasn't there, okay, but could that change a person so thoroughly? Shouldn't they stick together _more_ in such a situation? If only the Dark Lord liberated Azkaban soon! Everything would hopefully be back at normal when his dad was back! That whole replace-the-man-in-the-house thing did her no good!

Since the start of the holidays, Pansy had come over a couple of times – and since their argument, he regularly invited her to annoy his mother, because she didn't approve of visitors. And Pansy had been delighted to come. She was great, honestly. She was like the only one he could rely on – Vince was too dumb to be of real help, and Theo wasn't to be trusted in the first place. But Panse was there, encouraging him, praising him, saying all the right things – that his father's imprisonment was a scandal of justice, that he'd be released soon, that everything would end just fine, and how much she admired Draco's stoical endurance.

He had slept until far after noon, missing breakfast and lunch, and he might have slept some more if it hadn't been for his mother, who knocked, stepped in, opened the curtains with a swish of her wand and announced laconically, "There's a visitor for you, Draco."

"Who is it?" he muttered sleepily.

"You might want to get dressed. It's a young lady."

She walked away without another word, and cursing, Draco got up and put on some robes. It didn't need much sagacity to guess which 'young lady' had come for a visit, just that he wasn't very keen on meeting her right now. He had been practising with Aunt Bella until dawn; he was exhausted beyond expression. He glumly strolled down into the parlour, finding his suspects confirmed – Pansy was waiting for him with an expectant expression, beaming at him as he came in.

While the whole country complained about the bleak weather, Malfoy Manor was spared from the Dementors' breeding, so Pansy was extremely happy when he suggested a walk through the gardens. She crooned how beautiful everything was – which was undoubtedly true, and under different circumstances, Draco would have commended his mother's abilities as a garden designer – but as things were, he merely nodded. At some point, she had linked arms with him and he had let her – knowing that she fancied him, he had never allowed her something like this before, but in this moment, it felt good. She was there; she was on _his_ side unconditionally. She chatted away about meaningless issues, robes she meant to buy, friends she had met, songs she had heard, and his mind trailed away most pleasantly. She did everything in her power to distract him from all the dreadful things that had happened, he only had to nod and hum occasionally.

He gazed at her from the side. She did look cute, didn't she? All these years, he had never really looked at her, and if he had, he had merely found that she wasn't the sort of beauty that he'd go for. She was tall and skinny – no breasts, no waist, no bottom – but now, he thought that it befitted her well. Her hair was coffee brown and sleek and glossy, and her features were those of an overly cute doll. Perhaps he ought to give it a try? Give _her_ a try? She wasn't the brightest light in the evening sky, but – it struck him that he had always believed the only adequate match for him was someone resembling his mum. As beautiful as her, as brilliant, and elegant in mind as well as in style. But what good had all her qualities done his mother? And what sort of spookily oedipal notion was this to begin with?

"…and with all the restructuring, he's finally been promoted. Mum's so glad, he's _so_ deserved it."

"Hm?"

"My dad. The promotion to the Goblin Liaison Office."

"Oh! Oh, of course. Send him my congratulations, will you."

She beamed at him. "Thanks! He'll be very pleased."

He didn't really think about what he was doing next. He unlinked their arms and fully turned towards her, brushing a kiss on her forehead. His voice was rather hoarse when saying, "You're great, Panse."

Four weeks ago, he'd have died laughing at the sight of her face right now. She looked _bedazzled_ for some seconds, and literally jumped at him next. She whirled her arms around his neck and kissed him quite forcefully. It was a bit more than he could handle, but not unpleasant – the opposite of unpleasant really. He had no clue what to do, but fortunately Pansy had, and in no time, they were snogging as if they had been practising this for years.

When they made a break to catch their breath, he chuckled. "Where did you learn this?"

She blushed up to her ears. "I – uhm… Well, you might remember that I went out with Ivor Warrington back then…?"

He did – that little affair had been the laughing stock of Slytherin House. "Bless him."

"You're not… You're not angry or so?"

"Why would I be _angry_?"

"Because – look – but I did break up with him in an instant, because I was really in love with you…"

As if he had given a damn, but this was hardly the moment to confess it. Instead, he pulled her close again and ruffled her hair. "Well, everything's fine then, isn't it?"

Narcissa saw them returning to the house from out of one of the Music Chamber's windows, tightly enwrapped. For some seconds, she didn't believe her own eyes – Draco? With the Parkinson girl? Hand in hand? With _her_ of all persons? He had always said that he didn't like her that much! Was this just another level of his teenage rebellion phase? Better than the rest, anyway, but… Either he was finally taking after his father, or he was throwing himself away. Well, it didn't really matter, did it, after he had thrown his whole _life_ away already!

Out of pure spite, she went into the hallway to see the beaming young couple, putting on her falsest smile. "Look who's there! Miss Parkinson!"

"Good day, Mrs Malfoy!"

The girl actually _curtsied_, and Narcissa bit her lips to stay serious, the more since she saw Draco's awkward grimace. "What a pleasure to have you here, Miss Parkinson. You'll stay for dinner, of course?"

The girl smiled radiantly, but Draco exclaimed quickly, "I reckon Pansy's parents will expect her to dine at home, Mother."

"Oh, that's all right. They know where I am –"

"And if they didn't know, we could send them an owl," Narcissa said brightly. "It is so _nice_ to have an addition for dinner. Isn't it nice, Draco, dear?"

"Very nice, Mother," he retorted defiantly, tightening his grip around the girl's shoulders.

"Miss Parkinson, have you any special wishes? Or allergies, perhaps?"

"Oh no, Ma'am – I'm fine. I eat everything – literally, _everything_. My mother keeps saying I was quite an umnivour."

Draco groaned under his breath, and seeing his mother grinning like a shark made it all the worse. She was pretty fussy about food, and Pansy's confession was bound to confirm every prejudice Narcissa Malfoy could have about her. 'Pigs are omnivores,' she used to say, 'and we are no pigs'. Meat of any kind was an absolute no go. Fish – oh well, a difficult matter. Conventional sugar – no way. Conventionally grown vegetables – inedible. Fast Food – despicable. And so on, and so forth. Pansy had just put her foot in it.

Narcissa vanished to order a very intricate meal with half a dozen courses. She was half aware that she misused the unfortunate girl to vent some of her own bad mood, but it was worth it. She felt elated with glee, and ordered some of Draco's favourite dishes that were certain to puzzle little Miss Parkinson.

The ridiculously long dining room table puzzled her, too, especially because Narcissa had arranged for her and her son to sit at the ends, and their guest right in the middle, forty feet away from anyone else. She goggled at the five different forks, the six knives and two spoons, but kept on smiling bravely. Maybe her seeming bravery was rooted in mere felicity, Narcissa thought, because she had made such a lucky, lucky catch today. The poor, deluded girl.

The soup at the beginning was easy enough, but then came lobsters for the youngsters, and by the time of the roasted chicken, little Miss Parkinson had used the slice of lemon in the finger bowl for the lobsters and looked both confused and bashful. Narcissa almost pitied her – _almost_ – because every time she looked back at her son and his self-righteous expression, she couldn't care less whom she was taking her outrage out on!

"So, Miss Parkinson – what else are you doing?"

"Else, Ma'am?"

"Yes, you know – have you got any hobbies? Something to distract you from the boring school work?"

Draco shut his eyes for some seconds. Had his mother chosen this subject to humiliate the girl, and subsequently himself, or did she truly believe that Pansy could have anything useful to say on that head?

"I read very much!"

Narcissa had put on her most dangerous face – all sweetness on the outside, but a hard edge in her eyes. Draco had come to see this particular look _a_ _lot_ lately. She didn't bother to entirely keep the scorn out of her voice either. "Oh, do you! So what's your favourite lecture then?"

"My mother's a great fan of Queen Maeve, Wenlock and Agrippa," Draco said quickly, hoping that Pansy would pick up that hint, but of course, she didn't. Instead, she beamed at his mother, twisting a strand of her hair.

"Witch's Weekly, naturally, and whenever I can, Teen Witch. So many useful tips, you know… Vanity Belle, Fair 'N' Fancy, and I'm trying to improve my French by reading French fashion magazines – I'd like to become as good as Draco, frankly!"

"I see," Narcissa replied with a little smirk. "_Reading_ fashion magazines – a very wholesome reading, no doubt. Je suis très heureux ce que mon fils a trouvé une fille comme ça – très bien, Draco! Elle est – ah bon – elle est impressionnante, n'est-ce pas?"

"Laisse tomber, Mum! She said she was very impressed, Panse," he groaned, shooting Narcissa a swift scowl. Pansy was too thick though to get the real meaning, alternating between gazing fondly at Draco, or admiringly at this one's mother.

"Any other interests, Miss Parkinson? Draco, for once, is very apt in potion-making."

"So am I, Mrs Malfoy! I have a knack for beautifying potions – it's such a shame that they weren't tested in our OWLs."

"Oh, _absolutely_. And what classes are you going to continue with, Miss Parkinson?" Narcissa asked remorselessly.

"Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology and Divination, Ma'am."

"That's not very much, is it?"

"Well…" The girl blushed. "I would have continued Potions, but Professor Snape will only accept an 'O', and I'm afraid I haven't got one."

"Pity. But Divination sounds tempting enough. Do you enjoy it?"

"Leave her alone, Mother," Draco gnarled and glared over at her. He knew that Narcissa thought Divination – at least the way it was taught as a subject in Hogwarts – was a bad joke.

"But what did I do, darling? Have some more chicken, Miss Parkinson."

"Divination is fairly interesting indeed, Madam. I'm not very good at it – I've never predicted anything that's become true, but Professor Trelawney says it's okay. It takes years of steady practise."

"Oh, I'm sure! Or anyone could do it."

"Exactly! My grades weren't that good last term, because that centaur was – weird, you know. He didn't do it like Professor Trelawney."

"Yes, yes, those centaurs. Just imagine, they think they're the only ones truly capable of deciphering the future. Very peculiar creatures."

"Yes, I _know_! My father has worked for the Centaur Liaison Office until last week."

"Must be a very – _busy_ – man, your father. What's he doing now?"

"He was promoted to the Goblin Liaison Office."

"Isn't that nice. Isn't it nice, Draco?"

"Excellent," he said through gritted teeth. "Pansy and I talked about this already."

In the end, he was unspeakably glad when the meal was finally over, and after taking Pansy to the only fireplace in the estate that was connected to the Floo Net in the dungeons, he furiously marched into the Music Chamber, slamming every door on the way only to annoy his mum.

"You must be so pleased with yourself, Mother!"

She didn't stop playing, she didn't look up. "Is that so? I wonder why."

"Why the hell did you do that?"

"Language, darling."

"Come on! Tell me this! Does it give you any personal satisfaction to humiliate someone who has never done you any harm? Who's been nothing but polite to you, even admiring?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You've made her look like a fool!"

Now she did stop and turned around to him with a serene smile. "_I_ didn't make her look like a fool. She did that all by herself."

"Because she wanted to please you!"

"You better advise her to stop that habit then. It is enough if she pleases you."

"And she does please me, like it or not!"

"What is it going to be, dear? A spring wedding? Or perhaps Miss Parkinson ought to take a look at her crystal ball to determine the date?"

"Oh, be quiet!"

She silently nodded and began to play again. He stared at her, at a loss for word, and when he turned on his heels to leave, angrier yet than before, he heard her say, "One last thing, Draco – you want to make sure that the little Miss never gets to see your left arm."

* * *

_Taisez-vous..._ Ah, yes, be silent, ignorant girl, always so gay,

Mouth with childlike laughter! More than Life, I say,

Death has the power to hold us by most subtle ties.

My one fictitious comfort, kindly, let me keep:

To plunge as into dreams into your lovely eyes,

And in the shadow of your lashes fall asleep.

From: Charles Baudelaire, translated into English by: Edna St. Vincent Millay, NY 1936

_Je suis... _I am very glad that my son has found such a girl. Very good, Draco. She is very impressive, isn't she?

_Laisse…_Cut it out!


	75. Casanova And The Virgin

Whoever said love was easy?

* * *

**- 3.25. -**

Casanova And The Virgin

* * *

_It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife._

_JANE AUSTEN – Pride and Prejudice_

_

* * *

_

Once or twice a week, Draco met up with Pansy, at her place or in Malfoy Manor. He was intrigued by those meetings, for they didn't yield the wished result – instead of growing fonder of her, he was frequently unnerved, and as far from being terribly in love with her as he had been in the previous five years. Or perhaps this was just love after all? Did occasional ennui belong to true affection in everyday life?

He didn't have to think much about this, the answer appeared to be rather easy. His parents weren't like that, they never argued, they were never tired of each other. He knew the way his dad would look at his mum, filled with pride and devoted admiration. Draco could say with conviction that he didn't see anything in his girlfriend to elicit _pride_, let alone _devotion_. He supposed that even a hard strike on his skull wouldn't change much about his perception of Pansy.

Whose fault was that? Hers, definitely, for he knew how badly _he_ was trying to get a crush on her. If she was only a little less insipid, a little more funny, less submissive, more sophisticated. He detested himself for the gross notion – if only she was a bit more like his mum.

Last Saturday, she had, rather out of the blue, suggested that they should sleep with each other, and though baffled by her bluntness, Draco had been far from declining. He was still sneering with their hypocrisy, for he could tell that she had put on as much pretence as he had. _He_ wouldn't have acknowledged for the world that he had never slept with another girl before, although that lie was so feeble that not even Pansy could possibly have bought it. Whom should he have shagged, eh? If it had been anyone in school, she would have been bound to hear of it. And that he hadn't touched some random Muggle girl needn't be explained in the first place.

Pansy on the other hand had _sworn_ to be a virgin still, that she had waited for him only. He didn't care much, but he would rather have eaten his own broomstick than trust her on that head. In the previous year, she had dated Warrington from the Quidditch team for some weeks – to make Draco jealous, as she frankly admitted – and Draco knew enough of Warrington to comprehend that this one didn't go out with a girl to be holding hands then. She was also far too apt – that girl had exercised on the gear, no doubt about it.

However, the event in itself had been shockingly unremarkable. He didn't deceive himself – he hadn't exactly been Casanova, although Pansy had put up a great act, panting and writhing and swearing her undying love afterwards, and that she had _never_ felt _anything_ so _awesome_. Yeah, _right_. He had pretended just as much – as a matter of fact, he had imagined it to be far more exciting to have sex with a girl, but was tactful enough to claim the opposite.

So that was that. He came to suspect that he liked the _idea_ of Pansy much more than the girl itself. When they were _not_ together, he was looking forward to be with her, to embrace her, spend an afternoon in bed, eyes closed, silent, just holding each other, but it never was like this. Pansy either assaulted him, dragging off his clothes – he had a bandage around his left arm, claiming some serious Quidditch injury, to hide the Dark Mark that nobody must see, not even Greg, or Vince – and pressing him to have sex. Or she wouldn't stop wiggling her tongue, which was hard to endure. Her conversation was so boring, so utterly useless, revealing her to be every bit as dull as his mother thought her to be.

He could tell that she was already making plans for their future – she pictured herself to be the next Mrs Malfoy, and it wasn't merely his vanity suggesting this. Pansy wasn't exactly subtle. Sometimes, she pointed at some curtain in the Manor, suggesting that it might be replaced, or she described to him in painful detail what sort of jewellery she liked. Rings, naturally. He didn't know how to tell her that he was closer to propose to her roommate Millicent Bulstrode, than to herself. At least, Millicent was clever, and had a sense of humour that Draco could understand. If he thought about a future with _Pansy_, he thought that a life in a monastery was way preferable to spend years on end in _her_ company. He was aware that this wasn't the right approach to one's girlfriend, but he couldn't help himself feeling so nonetheless.

His mother, nervous and irritable these days, wouldn't have her son sleep at his girlfriend's place – they had a very heated discussion about _that_ topic; Draco found she was being ridiculous and told her so, but had to give in after all. Neither would she allow Pansy to stay in Malfoy Manor, which didn't come as a surprise either. Almost every evening, Draco met with his aunt to practise the Dark Arts, and having a strict mother was a welcome pretext for concealing this from the ever so curious Pansy. That didn't stop him though from quarrelling with his mum. It was the only sort of communication they had together these days.

"Mum, I cannot _believe_ what a fuss you're making about this!"

"Well, you better start believing it, my dear boy. Because you will stay _here_, where I can see you."

"_What?_"

"You know what I mean, Draco."

"You don't trust me, do you?"

"I trust you to be inconsiderate. End of discussion, Draco, or I'll have a word with your aunt."

He knew that Aunt Bellatrix thought that he shouldn't be doing anything (if possible, stop sleeping even) but diligently studying the Dark Arts. He principally agreed, but thought that meeting up with Pansy every now and then didn't keep him from advancing with any serious matter. Rather the opposite, it distracted him from the gloomy thoughts that kept haunting him, despite all his fervour. From thinking of his dad in Azkaban, his mum's filthy mood, his aunt's frequent fits –

In this moment, there was a faint knocking on the door, and Bobby looked even more solemn than usual when entering the breakfast parlour now, wheezing, trembling, but holding a letter all the same. Somehow, Draco just knew what this letter meant, so did his mother, who gave him the first encouraging smile in a fortnight.

"Go on, Draco!"

"Well, if it's really bad, I still have the comfort that Dad's not here to get a fit, right?" he tried to joke, but his mum didn't find this any funny, judging her expression. She signalled once more that he should open the letter, and taking a deep breath, he broke the seal and stared at the parchment. It took him a few seconds to realise what he read there.

_Ancient Runes__ O_

_Arithmancy__ O_

_ Astronomy__ O_

_Care of Magical Creatures E_

_ Charms O_

_ Defence Against the Dark Arts O_

_ Divination__ E_

_Herbology__ O_

_History of Magic O_

_ Muggle__Studies__ E_

_Potions__ O_

_Transfiguration__ O_

He opened his mouth and shut it again, quietly passing the parchment on to his mother for confirmation. This one skimmed the letter, lowered it then and smiled impishly. "What have you done with my son, stranger?"

These were his OWL results – he could not _believe_ this. Nine 'Outstandings'? In his OWLs? And for the first time ever, his father was _not_ here to – to… Well, _congratulate_ his son, _praise_ him, for once not curl his lips and say 'You can do better for your mum's sake, can't you?'

But his mum was still there, giving him her most radiant smile. "Well done, darling! Very well done indeed! Your father will be so proud with you! _I_ am so proud with you!"

"I – I… Uh –"

"Speechless, mon bijoux? Ah!" She called for Bobby to bring them champagne, poured two glasses and toasted. "To you, my darling! Come on, make a wish. I'll get you anything. You want a – what's the name – a Firebolt, right? You'll beat Potter easily when you've got a Firebolt as well!"

"Er –"

He was stunned – literally stunned. He had got _nine_ 'Outstandings'? Okay, he had been aware that he hadn't done badly, but he had smashed that goblet in Charms – surely they must have deduced points for that – he looked at the parchment again, just to make sure. Potions had been a sure thing; he was excellent in Potions, History, Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. But in Transfiguration, he hadn't been that good in his classes. He didn't like McGonagall, and she positively despised him. The same was true for Care of Magical Creatures. On the other hand, one couldn't do so bad in that subject anyway, it was far from complicated… And his mark in Divination? This must be a joke. He had only taken the whole exam as a kind of joke!

Pansy came over to the Manor, shortly after noon, and not quite as high-spirited as Draco was. She had only taken eight classes for her OWLs, got no 'Outstanding' at all and only three 'Exceeding Expectations' (Herbology, Astronomy, Care of Magical Creatures) and messed up utterly in Potions and Transfiguration. His mother smiled pitifully and said, "Well, it's a _real_ shame then that they didn't test beautifying potions, isn't it, Miss Parkinson?"

Pansy nodded bashfully, but rallied herself and murmured, "But _you_ have done so well, Draco. I knew it. Blimey, I don't want to know how Professor Snape will look when he hears about my Potions result…"

True. Pansy had only ever done well in Potions because Draco had helped her, mainly because he wanted to spare her the humiliation to be as bad as Potter and Weasel Bee. It turned out that he had done her no favour. She was delighted with _his_ results though, and caressed his vanity by gushing how awfully clever he was. "I bet not even Granger's done better this time, Draco!"

"I wouldn't put it past her to have received nothing but 'O's'. You know what she's like."

"She's a _cow_," Pansy said forcefully. "What sort of person gets nothing but 'O's' in their exams, really?"

Draco smirked. "My mum, she's got only 'O's' in her time in school, my –" He bit his tongue; he had almost said 'my aunt told me', and Pansy mustn't know that he had talked to her. Instead he added quickly, "My father's told me."

"Oh! Oh, obviously I didn't mean – your mum's different, of course –"

He had believed that Aunt Bellatrix would be pleased as well, but she merely shrugged. "Who ever cares for OWL results? There are far more important things than that. Have you exercised the Thumbscrew Jinx?"

"Yes, I have." And they called for one of the house-elves, so Draco could show her. Nobby was squealing miserably after a few rounds, and thinking that he mustn't injure their principal butler, they exchanged him.

"The Thumbscrew Jinx," Aunt Bellatrix lectured, "isn't half as effective as the Cruciatus, naturally. But it's good to know it nonetheless, for victims who only need a little push to give you the required information. Besides, the Cruciatus can lead to unwanted side-effects – it's no use when the victim passes out and cannot talk at all, or breaks, and never talks sense again."

Draco squinted at Izzy, the gardening elf, who was so dead-pale that it looked like fainting as well, and thought that his aunt took some odd lines on the subject. He wanted to prove his point and said, "Izzy, when would be the right time to re-pot Snargaluffs?"

"Gnawuhmstarofeberyyeek –"

"_Finite_ _Incantatem!_ Come again?"

No use. Izzy had passed out cold. His mum would _not_ be content.


	76. Road To Perdition

Draco has got ingenious plans, if only he could get rid of his mother to put them into practise

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**- 3.26. -**

Road To Perdition

* * *

_Und bist Du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt._

_JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE – Der Erlkönig_

_

* * *

_

Nothing of this was believable. Nothing! At first, his aunt had given away the secret – and to his _mother_ of all persons – how could she have done this? And then his mum, her fierce opposition, her urging him to abandon his plans and rebel against the Dark Lord – preposterous! But most of all – _worst_ of all – her slapping him the previous night. She had never done as much as raised her _voice_ in anger against him. And now this! And only because… Well, it had _started_ because of the silly gardening elf! And _he'd_ be all right again in a few days!

After finding out that Izzy would _not_ attend to the gardens again any time soon – Narcissa took that oddly personal, Draco found – of course, she was proud of the splendiferous gardens and took utmost delight in them – but she was so seriously displeased, he couldn't account for it. She accused her son of being unfeeling, deliberately cruel, and stated with a disillusioned kind of look that she didn't recognise her own child in him any longer.

Mortified as he had been, he had shot back that _he_ didn't recognise his own mother, too – because _his mother_ would _never_ have acted so disloyal. "_Disloyal?_" she had hissed in return, acerbically, "Who's acting _disloyal_ to everything he's grown up with?"

"And who's disloyal to her own husband?" he had retorted.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You think I'm blind? You think I'm stupid? Dad is hardly out of the fucking – oh, give it a rest, Mother! – he is hardly out of the house, and what are _you_ doing?"

"What am I doing then," she had growled, her eyes narrowed.

"You're running to _Snape_!"

"_Professor_ Snape, Draco!"

"See? _See?_ He's already taken Dad's place with the Dark Lord, and now you're doing the same!"

"What the heck are you _talking_ about?"

"You can stop pretending, you know? Aunt Bella told me everything!"

"Oh, if _Aunt Bella_ says it, it must be true. I'm glad you've found yourself someone doing the thinking for you – I should have been sorry if you'd let Miss Parkinson do that for you, too!"

"At least Pansy stands by me under all circumstances!"

Glowering at him for half a minute, she had visibly forced herself to be calm, and snarled at last, in her most condescending manner, "Remind me, sonny, what _did_ your dearest aunty tell you then?"

"You're replacing Dad, too!"

"I'm doing _what_? Are you out of your mind?"

"If you want to distinguish yourself, stop being such a coward and do something _for the master_! Don't simply sell yourself to the next best sucker who's got the hots for you and who happens to be highest in the Dark Lord's favour!"

In the same split second when he had become aware what he had just imputed on her, she had already exploded and smacked him. Of course, his adolescent male pride had been hurt severely. Being sixteen, one did not get _slapped_ by one's mother without feeling utterly humiliated, all the more when she had _never_ slapped him before in all his life! He had been so furious, he didn't remember to have ever been that furious with her before. Fuming, he had stormed out, barricaded himself in his room and got worked up, muttering wild curses under his breath and swearing to pay her back for this outrageous mortification.

Lying in bed though, other thoughts conquered his brains. Even in all his rage, his conscience reprimanded him that he shouldn't have talked to his mother in such a fashion. He was aware that she only wanted his best, although she had absolutely no idea how this was to be achieved, and how it could never be achieved at all. She was _ignorant_, but not indifferent, and no, a son must not speak to his mother like that. Calling her 'weak', calling her a 'coward' – if she told his father about the incident, Draco could already brace himself for the second slap he'd get, if that was enough.

Well, tomorrow morning, he would simply go and apologise, under the condition that she excused herself, too. He was certain that she would realise her blunder – not merely the slap, but all the awful things she had said before _that_. His mother was a rational person after all. All right, so the thing with the elf hadn't been that good. But her reaction had been way overdone, too. She must realise this.

The next morning came, but Draco had to see that his calculations wouldn't work out. She had returned to her cold, resentful silence when he met her at the breakfast table, curtly informing him that they were to go to London together to buy his books. He told her that he could very well go by himself, but she wouldn't hear of it, insisting to go with him.

"You need new robes as well, Draco."

"So what?"

"You are a boy of sixteen years; you have no idea about patterns and fabrics."

Unfortunately, there was nothing to disagree in the statement, although he badly wanted to. He _had_ no clue of these things, undoubtedly. He could impossibly allow her to accompany him though; for a start because he was still angry, and then, he intended to pop into Borgin and Burke's and have a look at the Hiding Cabinet. She must not get wind of that, her attitude in the previous night had only underlined this necessity.

"I can buy the robes next week. Pansy wants to go to London anyway – trust _her_ to know about fabrics."

"One glimpse at Miss Parkinson's clothes suffices to prove the opposite."

"What have you got to criticise about her _clothes_ now?"

"Only that her taste and my own appear to be very different. De gustibus non est disputandum, and therefore, you will allow me to prefer my own style. I will come with you."

"We'll see about _that_," he muttered under his breath, buttering his toast.

"Beg your pardon?"

"Nothing."

He tried to escape her violent care, but without success. When he had sneaked down the servant's staircase to slip out of one of the back entrances, he got a bad shock when feeling her tipping on his shoulder. "Very clever, my son, but not clever enough. So you are ready? Let's go then."

"And may I ask _how_ you want to get to London in the first place?"

"By car, of course."

"I will _not_ go by _car_, Mother!"

"Oh yes, you will. It's already waiting outside."

"You cannot force me!"

"Want to give it a try?" She smiled like a shark, waving with her wand. Normally, he would have believed her to be kidding, but lately, he didn't put anything past her. She dragged him to the sweep way where a shining, black carriage was waiting for them, equipped with another of these liveried Muggles.

The man was still gaping at the house when they arrived, inclined his head, and exclaimed with audible awe, "Good morning, Ma'am, good morning, Sir. – This is an incredible place –"

"Good morning to you, Mr Grant, and thank you very much," she cried warmly, giving the Muggle her kindest smile, as if she wanted to annoy Draco on purpose. "We like it very much, too."

"You want to go to London, right? Which part of London?"

"Close to King's Cross. You can drop us just there, we can walk the rest by ourselves."

"We will be seen," Draco muttered hopelessly. "We will be _seen_."

"I'll take you anywhere you like, Sir."

"What about Iceland?"

"Don't listen to him, Mr Grant, he is in a filthy mood," Narcissa Malfoy said brightly and manoeuvred herself and her son into the back of the car. The chauffeur closed the doors and off they went, and once again, Draco needed half of the journey to get accustomed to the weird, sickening feeling. They spoke no word; his mum had taken out a book, and he observed the landscape that flew past. All this looked _much_ better from the air.

"This is so ridiculous," he growled when getting out of the car after a ride of more than two hours, two streets away from the Leaky Cauldron, just to make sure. "I can't believe you're doing that to me!"

"Have a good day, Madam. I will wait here for you," the driver said, stealing a glance on his pretty client, who nodded absent-mindedly. Draco thought he had never been truly aware just _how_ good his mother looked, and that he was very likely the only male on the entire _planet_ who didn't want to get off with her. He shot the Muggle his filthiest glare, but this one didn't pay attention to anything but her.

Narcissa kept on smiling absent-mindedly and muttered, "Yes, yes, Mr Grant… And you, Draco – stop making such a fuss, will you!"

"In case you haven't noticed – it's not _I_ making a fuss here!"

"And equally stop being cheeky with me. Spare your pert comments for your friend Miss Parkinson."

They went over to the Leaky Cauldron, and Draco was gratified to see that the pub was nearly empty. Only a handful of witches and wizards were gathered around a table in the corner, and upon him and his mother coming in, these people hurriedly got away too, throwing some coins on the table and mumbling their excuses to the hunch-backed barman.

"Idiots," Draco hissed and looked after them, before glaring at the hunch-back as if this was all his fault. "And you – quit staring at us!"

Narcissa lifted her eyes to the ceiling and went on, dragging her ill-humoured son with her. "Don't behave so childishly, for goodness' sake."

"Well, why shouldn't I, seeing that my own mother treats me like a baby!"

"Maybe I'd treat you differently, if you were acting your age and position!"

She tapped the bricks in the wall of the backyard, working on the mechanism to open the hidden door to Diagon Alley, he took one last, deep breath and straightened up. This was going to be a disaster, he could tell.

"You're only so mean-spirited because you don't want to be here. Don't take it out on me," Draco remarked scornfully. His mother _hated_ to go to London, so why would she impose herself on him, when he could use his time much more usefully without her!

She didn't deign to answer, and they began their shopping trip in Madam Malkin's robes shop. The old lady, polite and efficient as ever, hurried around them, presenting 'dear Madam Malfoy' this and that, and pushing Draco in front of the large mirror to fit on his new set of robes. He wished himself miles away.

"Will you please stop nagging?" Narcissa hissed quietly, after he had snapped at the shop keeper for the umpteenth time. He knew, Madam Malkin was the last person on earth he could be reasonable angry with, but he was too dispirited to bother whom he was quarrelling with. If only he could get rid of his mum somehow – Knockturn Alley was so close, he needed no more than ten minutes –

She strolled into the back of the shop, inspecting some buttons and ribbons; he could still see her from his position, and he was sure that she had gone there because she could keep an eye on _him_ as well from there.

"Hurry up, please. We've got to go to Florish and Blotts, too, and you're going to be late for meeting Miss Parkinson," she reminded him as he was struggling so much that the tailor couldn't do her job properly.

"You go then! You've got the list!"

"I want you to accompany me, as you well know."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, I am not a child, in case you haven't noticed, Mother! I am perfectly capable of doing my shopping _alone_."

"Now, dear, your mother's quite right, none of us is supposed to go wandering around on our own any more, it's nothing to do with being a child –"

"Watch where you're sticking that pin, will you!"

He saw his mother massaging her temples, wondering whether she had a headache and if he could talk her into going back home, or if she was simply unnerved. He went over to the mirror to take a look at the robes, but what he saw in the mirror, right behind him, was more than enough to spoil the last tiny bits of good humour he had ever had. _Them_. Just how bad could a day get!

"If you're wondering what the smell is, Mother, a Mudblood just walked in," he drawled, and saw her shut her eyes in distress for a second.

"I don't think there's any need for language like that! And I don't want wands drawn in my shop either," Madam Malkin cried, while his mum pretended to take excessive interest in some gloves in the rack before her. She _was_ a coward after all! Curious, he took a closer look at the infernal trio before him. Granger looked as if _she_ had been beaten up last night, too – that couldn't have been Weasley, could it? He was a brute after all.

"Yeah, like you'd dare to do magic out of school. Who blackened your eye, Granger? I want to send them flowers."

"That's quite enough! Madam – please –"

Most reluctantly, Narcissa Malfoy came out of her cover, wearing her coldest sneer, and in this moment, Draco truly pitied her. She strongly minded talking to strangers, and now she'd have to face the worst set of these people –

"Put those away," she snarled, drawing herself up to her full height to scowl at Potter. "If you attack my son again, I shall ensure that it is the last thing you ever do."

He loved his mum, really. She was holding herself fabulously, not betraying the tiniest bit of her uneasiness, her face cold and superior. In the meanwhile, Granger tried to bridle her chums, but without any success at all; they didn't seem to hear her even.

"Really?" Potter sneered. "Going to get a few Death Eater pals to do us in, are you?"

"Really, you shouldn't accuse – dangerous thing to say – wands away, please!" Madam Malkin whimpered, while Narcissa forced herself to smile at the impertinent boy.

"I see that being Dumbledore's favourite has given you a false sense of security, Harry Potter. But Dumbledore won't always be there to protect you," she replied with forced calmness.

"Wow… Look at that… He's not here now! So why not have a go? They might be able to find you a double cell in Azkaban with your loser of a husband!"

Apart from his own feelings, frankly, fairly unconnected to them, Draco wanted to plunge at Potter and strangle him, simply for seeing how his words had hit her. No one else had noticed it, probably; one had to know her quite well to distinguish the miniature movements in her face when she was holding onto her composure. In this case, her dark blue eyes had gone nearly black and she had caught her breath for a second, and Draco knew how mortified she must be with that insult of his dad.

He had stepped forth and stumbled over the overlong hem of his robes, making that moronic Weasley titter. "Don't you dare talk to my mother like that, Potter!"

"It's all right, Draco. I expect Potter will be reunited with dear Sirius before I am reunited with Lucius," she said smoothly and put a hand on his shoulder, with an unexpectedly firm grip. Granger did the same with Weasel Bee and Potter, who struggled to break free, ignoring her urgent whispering. Madam Malkin gave her best, too, returning to work on Draco's robes as if nothing had happened, when in some panic he realised that the tailor was going to push up his left sleeve. Good Merlin and all warlocks –

"Ouch! Watch where you're putting your pins, woman! Mother – I don't think I want these any more," he cried, just in time to prevent the worst from happening. Had Granger noticed? The other two were as thick as wooden logs, but _she_ was one clever bitch. She could count two and two –

He stripped off the robes and threw them away, registering his mum exhale. "You're right, Draco. Now I know the kind of scum that shops here… We'll do better at Twilfitt and Tatting's!"

They marched out of the shop, as regally as they could, Draco's pulse still fast, but once they had passed that idiot Hagrid and were out of earshot, she turned to him and snarled, "Was that really necessary? Good heaven's, I thought I would sink into the ground, Draco!"

"Now what did _I_ do wrong?"

"Why on earth did you have to insult that girl? Nothing, _nothing_ would have happened, we could simply have left without a word, but _no_, you had to make a scene! You _know_ how I despise these things!"

"You should be glad that I was so ready-minded to keep Madam Malkin from revealing my Mark," he hissed back, reaping a scornful smirk in return.

"_I _should be glad? _You_ should be glad, or you'd sit straight in the next delivery for Azkaban!"

"Who wanted to go and buy robes, anyway?"

"Oh, if you want to look like a Weasley, I will no longer care. Go out and about, with half your ankles showing; who knows, perhaps it becomes fashionable! Why don't you ask your petty little mistress, she's a fashion expert!"

"You know what? I've got enough. You can stay here if you want and take a lovely joyride with your Muggle chauffeur, _I_ will go and see Pansy!" Brilliant idea – why hadn't he thought of it sooner!

"Not so hasty, young man! I haven't finished yet!"

He had his hands in his pockets, tightly gripping his wand and flicking it out now. "_Confundus!_" He took a deep breath. "But _I_ have finished, Mother. Have a nice day. Perhaps I'll come home tomorrow! Or maybe not."

He knew he had crossed the line, yes, but what else should he have done? He turned on his heels and marched away, making it appear as if he was heading for the Leaky Cauldron, but as soon as he was out of sight, he slipped into a side street, took some more corners, made a wide berth for any location his mother might go to, and made his way over to Knockturn Alley, right into Borgin and Burke's. The shop owner gave his best, but he was clearly not too pleased to see 'young Master Malfoy', so much was safe. No need for niceties, Draco thought, pointing at the Cabinet straightaway.

"Have you sold this already?" He surveyed it with narrowed eyes, spying for similarities to the one in Hogwarts. At first sight, they didn't look much alike, and his heart sank – but then he spotted a small engraved detail on the handle – a helmet with wings, a symbol for Hermes – and he knew it was the right one.

"There have been several prospective buyers – it is a magnificent piece of work, and –"

"Have you, or have you not sold it," he snarled, trying to make his voice sound as crisp and self-confident as his father's. Borgin shook his head, and Draco sneered condescendingly. "Very well. _I_ want it."

"Of course, Master Malfoy," Borgin said with a stoop. "A very tasteful choice, I must say, you are showing the same fine taste as your –"

"Yes, yes, my father. I know I have taste, so spare your breath." He forced his gaze away from the handle. "Listen, I don't have too much time. I've got another one of these, but it's broken. Would you have some tips for me how to repair it?"

"Broken? You mean – like – fallen apart…?"

"No, obviously not, or I could mend it with a simple Repairing Charm. What do you take me for? It's – well – the hiding function does not work. It's – jammed, somehow – you can easily get in, but it's all but impossible to get out again. You understand me?"

Borgin moistened his thin lips, attempting to look intelligent, but missing 'smart' for 'bewildered'. "I'm not sure I –"

"Okay, I will repeat this very slowly. My own Cabinet. Is not working. You can go in. But you can't go out again. With me so far?" The old man glared at him, but Draco knew that he had got him hooked. Borgin knew enough of his dad not to dare messing around with his son, and Draco put on his best show to enhance that impression yet. "What I want to know now is how to fix it."

"That will be very complicated, Master Malfoy –"

"Ah, we're getting on here! So you know how to fix it?"

"Possibly, I'll need to see it though," Borgin said slowly. "Why don't you bring it to the shop?"

"I can't. It's got to stay put; I just need you to tell me how to do it."

Borgin licked his lips again. "Well, without seeing it, I must say it will be a very difficult job, perhaps impossible. I couldn't guarantee anything!"

Somehow, he had known that he'd say that. But Draco was well prepared for this minor obstacle, sneering and pushing up his left sleeve. "No? Perhaps this will make you more confident."

He relished the frightened look upon the guy's face. So this was what being a Death Eater was like – people paid instant respect, once they spotted the Dark Mark – oh, how he wished to show it to the rest of the world and scream at them, tell them that their time had come! "Tell anyone, and there will be retribution. You know Fenrir Greyback?"

Sheer horror was flickering in Borgin's narrow eyes with the mentioning of the name – well, Draco couldn't blame him. He knew that Borgin had a grandson, a boy of eight or nine years – too old to qualify for Greyback's usual prey, but the old man didn't seem to think about that. Parading around powerful people never failed to do the job, after all, and with relish, Draco continued, "He's a family friend, he'll be dropping in from time to time to make sure you're giving the problem your full attention."

The old wizard swallowed hard. "There will be no need for –"

"_I'll_ decide that… Well, I'd better be off. And don't forget to keep _that_ one safe, I'll need it."

"Perhaps you'd like to take it now?" Borgin looked hopeful.

"No, of course I wouldn't, you stupid little man, how would I look carrying it down the street? Just don't sell it."

"Of course not… Sir," he added hurriedly. Draco shot him a grin, of the 'I got your life in the palm of my hands' sort, and Borgin automatically bowed. He had always liked being his father's son, but for the first time, even this one's imprisonment was paying off.

"Not a word to anyone, Borgin, and that includes my mother, understand?"

"Naturally, naturally –"

He left the shop in much higher spirits than he had been feeling all day; a certain spring in his step, he turned around some corners before calling for the Knight Bus. He wouldn't dare to go back to the Leaky Cauldron and travel by Floo Net – he could accidentally bump into his mum… He wasn't sure what to do next; he dreaded to face her after hexing her, he thought he needed some excuse for his absence, and following a whim, he simply repeated the destination that the elderly witch before him in the queue uttered – "The Three Broomsticks, please."

He needed roughly a minute to understand why his mum would reject using the Knight Bus. Good heavens – was that driver blind? This ride let even the ruddy Muggle _cars_ and drives appear like an eligible alternative! He bumped his head several times, on the window and the head-rest before him, he got increasingly sick – but it was nothing compared to his growing uneasiness. He shouldn't have cursed his mother, he really, really shouldn't, even if it had been the only way. Blast it! But then… She had practically asked for it, hadn't she – he needed to get on with his assignment, and she wouldn't let him, so it was her own fault, really… Of course, she was unlikely to see it like that.

Well, they'd see who could go on with this longer – him or her! They hadn't been talking to each other for the greatest part of the holidays anyhow, and seeing her attitude so far, he didn't think she'd be giving in soon, _especially _after today's debacle. But Draco wouldn't give in either, the only concession he was going to make was continuing to conceal the rupture between them from his aunt. Narcissa would be in awful trouble if anyone in the Dark Order got wind of her disloyalty.

Entering the Three Broomsticks at last with a slight headache, he received the usual amount of mistrustful glances from the other guests and staff. He arched a brow and settled at one of the tables in the back, ignoring their stares and whispers. He was slowly getting used to this. For a start, he dashed off for the bathroom, to execute an idea he had formed on the very bumpy ride in the bus. He conjured a strip of clothes and whirled it around his arm like a bandage. He was a Quidditch player, wasn't he? So what could be more natural than wearing a bandage around his arm, as if he had been injured during practise? He'd got away with this concerning Pansy, the ancient Mr Twilfitt wouldn't be suspicious either. After all, he was going to buy Quidditch robes as well.

He returned to the barroom and asked for a cup of coffee, for a start. He was deadly tired after the last night, which he had mainly spent riling about his mother. "Your coffee," Madam Rosmerta, the landlady of the pub, said coolly. "That's four knuts, please."

He threw a sickle onto the table. "Keep the rest."

"No, thank you very much," she replied curtly, nestling with her purse and returning his change. He glowered at her, taking the offence just like she had meant it. She would sell him a drink and be paid for it, but she would accept nothing further from someone like him. Very well. Without touching his cup, he got up and left the tavern, feeling a dozen gazes piercing his back.

It didn't get better in the street, he could _feel_ that countless eyes were following him, more closely than he liked – he _was_ his father's spit and image, everybody knew who he was at once. But what the heck, he had come here to buy some pairs of _robes_, that wasn't illegal now, was it? He dropped into the shop, pleased to find it empty apart from the old tailor and his barely younger assistant, who both possessed the courtesy to wish him a good morning and smile.

He ordered a set of new school robes, some for Quidditch, a pair of evening robes, half a dozen new pyjamas and several other pieces. It all went smoothly; Mr Twilfitt gave his best to keep the conversation both trivial and friendly, and worked with secure, quick moves that showed the experience of possibly eight decades of making robes.

"Now for the buttons, Mr Malfoy – you can choose from horn, Bakelite, fabric-covered, mother-of-pearl, amber, ivory, silver or opals. We can of course order anything, in case you wish for something else."

Good Merlin, now he knew what his mother meant when claiming that he hadn't got a clue about these things. "Opals," he muttered, looking down himself. "Only the Quidditch robes should rather have fabric-covered buttons… You would agree?"

"Of course, Sir!"

"No, I mean _honestly_. I don't know what is usually taken…"

"Opals are a very good choice, Sir, though I might recommend silver clasps for the evening robes. And as for the Quidditch robes – I'd rather go with horn or Bakelite there, it's more resistant."

"I don't even know what Bakelite _is_, Mr Twilfitt. Make it horn then. And the silver clasps sound good, too."

"Would you like to wait, or shall we deliver?"

He was on the verge of going for the second option, he had little taste for lurking around the village any longer than he'd have to, but was struck by an idea then. "How long would it take if I chose to wait?"

"No more than an hour, I guess."

"Very well, I'll wait then. I can purchase some other stuff in the interim."

He strode out of the shop, wondering whether he could bring about the plan that had begun to form in his mind. That haughty bar lady – not only did she deserve some retaliation for her arrogance, but she could turn out to prove quite useful, couldn't she? Once he'd be back in school, he'd depend on owls for all sort of communication, and knowing both Filch and the old Headmaster, they'd have a close eye on these from now on. An ally in Hogsmeade would be invaluable, even if he'd have to get that ally by force.

Up to now, he hadn't yet attempted to use an Imperius Curse on a struggling human victim; he was very good with all sorts of animals, and had practised on Greg how to do it on human beings. But Greg had voluntarily submitted – would that make a big difference? For if it would _not_ work, he'd be doomed. Resisting the Imperius was technically possible – Potter had become almost famous for his achievements in that quarter, and his aunt had explained to him that a particular strength of mind was required for this. The weaker in mind, the less intelligent, the more credulous or distraught a person was, the more prone they were to fall prey to the curse.

He fathomed how smart or resilient Madam Rosmerta could be. Not very, he decided after a short evaluation. What weighed more – she was just _perfect_ for the job, being a barmaid, she came to hear all sorts of things that might be interesting to hear. And since she was everybody's darling, she wouldn't easily be suspected to be in league with the Dark Side.

He went into Honeydukes, indiscriminately buying this and that and insisting to have everything wrapped individually. He balanced the pile of boxes back to the Three Broomsticks, once more ignoring the hostile looks he got and marching straight into the bathroom. He made sure he was alone in there, carefully placed one of the packages on a window sill, just so it wouldn't necessarily be found by another guest, waited a minute, collected all other parcels again and left.

This time, he ordered a butterbeer, and took place at the bar. Madam Rosmerta scowled at him, but didn't have the guts to send him away, once again refusing to accept the tip. He made some effort to smile as friendly at her as he could, slowly sipping his drink, every now and then glancing at his watch, and observing her from the corner of his eyes. Once she did go into the bathroom, but another guest had just gone there in that moment, too, and he resolved to wait.

He was lucky – the witch came out again, informing Madam Rosmerta that one of the washbasins was broken, and with a sigh, the barmaid went back. Now or never, he thought, hesitating a minute, gliding from his barstool and going into the bathroom as well, but not to the gents. Instead he slipped into the ladies, his wand hidden in his sleeve, Madam Rosmerta was bowing over the basin, trying to fix it, not seeing him, not looking up, and with a quick, learnt move, he brought down his wand and whispered, "_Imperio!_"

To try out whether he had been successful, he made her hit her head against the tab – yes, excellent. She was under his command, and she hadn't even seen her attacker. He hurried back to the gents, fetched his parcel and returned to his place at the bar as if nothing had happened, holding the box for everyone visible. Pretending to read some leaflet, he waited some longer until he let the bar lady come back, rubbing her forehead and telling her colleague that she had hurt herself.

'Act like you always act', he suggested to her in his mind, and in the next moment, she was scattering away with some customer, about the bad weather – she even returned to glare at him in the most unpleasant fashion. He rummaged through his wallet, taking out a galleon and looking at it pensively. If the Mudblood Granger managed to bewitch a coin, so would he, right?

But he couldn't do it right here and now, with all eyes in the room fixed on him. Well, he'd simply do so on his way back to Twilfitt and Tattling's, and pay with the galleon after coming back to the tavern. Easiest thing in the world. He tried not to grin too broadly. An Imperius Curse might be _unforgivable_, but it was certainly not _difficult_ to do. His aunt would be delighted with him.

* * *

_Und bist Du…_ And if you're unwilling, I'll use force on you.

_Degustibus…_ One cannot argue about taste.


	77. Delusions Of Grandeur

Draco gets even

* * *

**- 3.27. -**

Delusions Of Grandeur

* * *

_Inexpertis enim dulcis est pugna._

_SVEGETIUS – Epitoma Rei Militaris_

_

* * *

_

The evening of September 1st had for some years now been an occasion for grievance on Narcissa Malfoy's part. After having her baby at home for eight weeks, she had to part with him on this day, and each new year it had been as hard as in the previous. This time, it had been even harder. When she had formerly been comforted by her husband's presence and soothing words, she was all on her own now, trying her best not to be depressed, but failing.

She was eaten up by anxiety, wondering whether she had made deep enough an impression on her recently so stubborn son. She hoped he'd be sensible, that he'd do nothing rash, that Severus would watch over him. The sheer madness of this whole scheme offended her greatly; it was so obvious that it would never work out, no matter what, no matter how. Either Draco would be killed by Dumbledore when this one defended himself, or he would be executed by the Dark Lord for failing. No optimistic soul by nature, Narcissa utterly despaired now. She wanted to help her darling, but there wasn't anything she could do.

Another thing that mortified her had been Draco's cold good-bye. He had insisted to have his trunk sent to London and go by Floo Powder himself, undoubtedly to prevent her from coming with him. She had opened her mouth to say that she would, if he would really have it that way, but he had interrupted her, drawling, "Do not trouble yourself, Mother. I know how much you despise going by Floo, and you can trust me to find my way to the station by myself. I'll see you again at Christmas."

Instead of hugging her, he had bowed, beckoned, and was gone in the next moment, stepping into the fire as if he were just going over to Gregory's place for a game of cards. Either he wasn't aware that this might well be the last time for them to meet, or he didn't care at all; whatever it was, it had only increased his mother's anguish. Severus had promised to keep her informed, bless him; as things were now, she'd sooner receive a letter from his Head of House than from her own child.

In the last two weeks, she had tried to lure him into telling her what he was up to, but he hadn't betrayed his designs with a single word. Hopefully, he _had_ a design to start with and didn't merely boast – if he imagined he could face Albus Dumbledore just like that, he was as good as dead already. The Dark Lord himself would not dare to face Dumbledore, as she had preached over and over again… Oh, if only he had listened!

While his mother was fretting for his sake, Draco was perfectly at ease. Pansy was grooming his hair and had just fed him with grapes and strawberries, he was going back to Hogwarts, where he would accomplish what no one before him had accomplished – in short, his life was _great_, and _dare_ someone claiming anything else!

Zabini returned from that petty little meeting with the new Potions teacher. He must have had some nice glasses of Scotch there, because coming back, he could hardly walk straight and toppled, crashing into Greg. Draco squinted over, blinked, and giggled.

"Oi, watch your feet, mate!" Greg grunted and twisted his face.

"Take your hand away, you big fat oaf!"

"Who's the _oaf_ now, prettyboy?"

Draco thought he had seen something – a butterfly? A _big_ butterfly – or a Wrackspurt? Whatever. "So, Zabini, what did Slughorn want?"

Zabini gave a dispirited little snort. "Just trying to make up to well-connected people. Not that he managed to find many!"

Haughty son of a bitch! "Who else had he invited?"

"McLaggen from Gryffindor –"

"Oh yeah, his uncle's big in the Ministry."

"– someone called Belby, from Ravenclaw –"

"Not _him_, he's a prat!" Pansy cried, rolling her eyes and accidentally plucking one of Draco's hairs. He winced back, both with the little tug, and the notion that such a complete nonentity as that Belby twerp counted as 'well-connected' these days!

"– and Longbottom, Potter and that Weasley girl."

Oh, _come on!_ He pushed Pansy's hand away. "He invited _Longbottom_?"

"Well, I assume so, as Longbottom was there."

One of these days, this arrogant prick Zabini would get what he deserved, too. "What's Longbottom got to interest Slughorn? – Potter, precious Potter – obviously he wanted a look at the _Chosen One_… But that Weasley girl? What's so special about _her_?"

"A lot of boys like her. Even you think she's good-looking, don't you, Blaise? And we all know how hard you are to please," Panse said, lurking. God, that girl was _so_ easily seen through!

"I wouldn't touch a filthy little blood traitor like her whatever she looked like!"

What. An. Idiot. Not because of his assessment of little Red Riding Hood – but Zabini truly thought he was a gift for every pretty girl coming his way. To annoy him some more, and also because the topic strangely stung him, Draco drawled indifferently, "I pity Slughorn's taste. Maybe he's going a bit senile. Shame, my father always said he was a good wizard in his day. My father used to be a bit of a favourite of his. Slughorn probably hasn't heard I'm on the train, or –"

"I wouldn't bank on an invitation. He asked me about Nott's father when I first arrived. They used to be old friends, apparently, but when he heard he'd been caught at the Ministry he didn't look happy, and Nott didn't get an invitation, did he? I don't think Slughorn's interested in Death Eaters."

Yes, Zabini was _definitely_ on the list of people to deal with! Draco laughed angrily. "Well, who cares what he's interested in? What is he, when you come down to it? Just some stupid teacher. I mean, I might not even be at Hogwarts next year, what's it matter to me if some fat old has-been likes me or not?"

Predictably, Pansy wasn't exactly happy with that statement. "What do you mean, you might not be at Hogwarts next year?"

"Well, you never know. I might have – er – moved on to bigger and better things." Gee, his mum wasn't _always_ wrong – he'd sooner or later have to learn to keep his mouth shut, damn it!

"Do you mean – _Him_?"

What the hell. Everybody in that wretched school thought he was the up-coming Prince of Darkness anyway. "Mother wants me to complete my education, but personally, I don't see it as that important these days. I mean – think about it – when the Dark Lord takes over, is he going to care how many OWLs or NEWTs anyone's got? Course he isn't. It'll all be about the kind of service he received, the level of devotion he was shown."

"And you think _you'll_ be able to do something for him? Sixteen years old and not fully qualified yet?"

"I've just said, haven't I? Maybe he doesn't care if I'm qualified. Maybe the job he wants me to do isn't something that you need to be qualified for," Draco said in cold reserve and shot him a withering glance. If Zabini wanted to stand in for Narcissa Malfoy, he'd have to rehearse his lines a bit better! "I can see Hogwarts. We'd better get our robes on."

They all rummaged for their trunks, and above their heads, Draco thought he had heard a kind of cough. For a minute, he thought this had been Zabini's cat, but Aoki wasn't there. He had an idea… But – no, he wouldn't make a paranoid fool of himself in front of the others. Everybody left; he sent Panse away, let down the blinds and took his time. He whirled around like his aunt had shown him, hurling a Petrification spell into the general direction of the luggage rack. And oh, sweet victory – he had been utterly right! Because Potter – of all people! – crushed down from the rack, half-wrapped into that Invisibility Cloak of his.

"I thought so! I heard Goyle's trunk hit you – and I thought I saw something white flash through the air after Zabini came back… 'Twas you blocking the door when Zabini came back in, I suppose?"

He had Precious Potter at his mercy – bless the Dark Lord, bless Aunt Bella – but within the elation, he wondered if… No. "You didn't hear anything I care about, Potter. But while I've got you here –" With an incomparable feeling of entitlement, he stomped onto Golden Boy's face. The sound of the breaking noise was quite disgusting and so was the blood, but boy, the elation was worth it!

"Now let me see…" For a moment, he contemplated to take Potter's cloak – an Invisibility Cloak was something very special and he had harassed his dad for ages to get him one. But he could be expelled for stealing, and an expulsion was the only thing he could not risk by any means. Instead, he pulled the cloak over his immobilised enemy. Yes, yes, the idea was _brilliant_!

"I don't reckon they'll find you till the train's back in London – see you around, Potter… Or not."

He inhaled deeply, with relish, aimed well to walk over Potter's hand on his way out, and felt better than in any other moment since his dad's arrest, including when screwing Pansy. _This_ year was going to be _his_ year, oh yes!

* * *

_Inexpertis..._ The inexperienced crave combat.


	78. Decapitating JeanBaptiste

Malfoy Manor is raided

* * *

**- 3.28. -**

Decapitating Jean Baptist

* * *

_And he sent and had John beheaded in the prison._

_MATTHEW 14.10_

_

* * *

_

She had always prided herself to be in perfect self-control facing strangers, but right now, she was on the verge of really losing it. For the second time in only three month, a whole squad of Ministry wizards and Aurors had burst into her house without warning, turning it upside down, and if it was only that! If they only made a mess, she wouldn't have complained too loudly. But these complete idiots would tear paintings out of their frames, rip ancient books to pieces, one of them had even dared to deconstruct her piano!

Down in the hall, Bobby was throwing a tantrum, wrestling with some wizard and screeching. "Must – not – distress – Milady –"

"Let go of him at once!" Narcissa exclaimed in exasperation, gazing over the banister and fastening her morning gown's belt.

The wizard sneered and panted, "I would, it's the elf who won't let go of me!"

"That's enough, Bobby. Leave the man alone."

Naturally, the elf obeyed instantly, falling to his knees and sobbing now. "My mistress – Bobby couldn't stop them – he tried – they would not listen, My Lady –"

"Yes, I see. It's okay. Let them do their job."

She saw a familiar face and marched straight to him. "Arthur," she snarled, unable to keep the tremble out of her voice. "What on _earth_ are you thinking!"

Arthur Weasley was the Head of this mission, and Narcissa thought she finally had to change her mind about this one. While Lucius had always despised him, Narcissa had believed him to be a harmless moron, someone who was fascinated by the most boring Muggle devices, with romantic ideas and unlucky family connections. Someone that would never –

"We've received a tip, Narcissa, and we have to check up on it."

"Step aside, Mrs Malfoy," one of his colleagues said, his wand drawn.

"Excuse me?"

"Step _aside_," he repeated, roughly pushing her aside and with a slashing move of his wand, he beheaded the statue that Narcissa had stood in front of. She gave a muffled scream.

"You _idiot_! That – that is a _Rodin_, you lunatic! It's an object of _art_ –"

"For all I know, there could be something hidden inside, Ma'am," he gnarled and investigated the remnants of the invaluable piece. Arthur gave a sigh and pulled her away; she struggled and resisted, but he was stronger than her.

"Be sensible, Narcissa –"

"I _am_ sensible, but I appear to be the only one here that is! You – you've been here only a few weeks ago, you've torn everything apart and – what the heck do you believe I could still be hiding _now_! Lucius is in Azkaban, and I –"

"This got little to do with Lucius," Arthur said calmly. "For all we know, you or Draco could –"

She felt her blood freeze. "_Draco?_ What do you mean by _that_?"

"I mean that we have received a hint that Draco was hiding dangerous artefacts, that's all," he said in a tone as if he was speaking about the weather. Narcissa glared at him.

"Don't be _ridiculous_, Arthur! _Draco_ – for heaven's sake, he's _sixteen_. He may be hiding frog spawn, dung pellets, or vintage pin-up pictures of Celestina Warwick, but what else do you expect to find?"

"Don't treat me like a fool, Narcissa. You know perfectly well what I mean," he said a little sharper.

"Indeed I do not! Your son – which one was it, Ronald or Percival – is in that same year, and although they surely couldn't be more different, you don't seriously mean to imply that a boy of that age –"

"I'm simply doing my job, Narcissa, now please stop hindering us from doing what we're here for."

They had decapitated Jean-Baptiste. She would have meant that a really good joke, if it hadn't been so appalling. Damaging an original Rodin statue – was there nothing sacred? And worse – what was he babbling there about Draco, and that he had received a tip, eh? Who could have tipped them off? And what the hell could it be that they were searching for?

Before having swallowed that shock, she caught her breath seeing what they were doing next. Two wizards had taken down a large painting by Caravaggio and Narcissa jumped at them not to dare pointing their wands at it. She was a great art enthusiast, and no matter what people thought of her, she had a great esteem for Muggle works as well as magical ones. Lucius had given her loads of wonderful paintings and statuettes, and these Ministry morons didn't even _see_ what they were looking at, let alone show the reverence they ought to be showing in the face of true art and beauty.

"So what do you suggest we do to have a look, Mrs Malfoy," one of the wizards grunted.

"If you absolutely must, let me do it," she groaned weakly, drawing her wand and carefully severing the canvas from the frame. "This is incredibly valuable – irreplaceable, really – it's taken me a whole day of careful repairing the last time you've been here…"

"But this is a _Muggle item_," the wizard said blankly, observing her cautious moves. "Why do you make such a fuss about those?"

"I don't _care_ that it's a Muggle item; it's done with artistic mastery, that's all that matters to me!"

He mumbled something that she couldn't hear and vanished after examining the inside of the frame. This was such a waste of time and effort, she sighed to herself, but the cramp in her stomach just wouldn't go away. Had Draco truly hidden something here? And what if they found it? Could they imprison a school boy for possessing illegal objects? Or should she simply claim that it was hers, just in case… Where was The Eel when one needed him, anyway?

"Ziggy," she called out for the elf, and he popped up right beside her with a tormented expression.

"Milady… This is so dreadful – is there anything I can do for Milady to help her?"

"Yes, in fact you can. I want you to go to London, right to Mr Yaxley's office. Do not hesitate to disturb him, and tell him I've sent you, and that he ought to show up here as quickly as possible. Have you got that? Drag him here if you've got to."

The elf disappeared, and a square, mean-looking wizard turned to a Narcissa with a nasty grin. "Getting nervous, Mrs Malfoy, that you're calling for your Law Wizard?"

She didn't honour that with an answer, but when the square one reported to Arthur Weasley that they were done with the Eastern wing and ready to go down to the family crypt, she finally lost her nerve. "Arthur Weasley," she whispered through gritted teeth, "if you dare to desecrate the graves of our ancestors, I will not rest before I have sued you to lose everything including the last spear of hair on your head!"

"You can direct your complaints to the Minister for Magic himself. He has authorised us –"

"I demand you to _wait_ until Mr Yaxley is here! _He_ will have something to say to this!"

"As you please, Narcissa, as you please. I just meant that you'd rather want us to get through with this as rapidly as we can."

"I have co-operated, haven't I? I have let you besmirch – damage – destroy – everything that is sacred to me. But if you touch those graves – you'll wish you've never been born after I'm through with _you_ then, and your colleagues, _and_ your Minister. I will not tolerate you to –"

"You're in no position to threaten me, Narcissa. This is the house of a convicted criminal – the crypt and vaults belong to this property – take a look into the laws concerning the matter and you will see that you have nothing against us."

She took a deep breath and said as calmly as possible, "Arthur, _please_. I _beseech_ you not to touch Abraxas' grave! Can't you – just imagine somebody claimed one of _your_ sons had done something, and they'd come to rip apart _your_ father's tomb!"

"None of _my_ sons has a Death Eater as a father, Narcissa. Come on, we will be as careful as we can, my word on it. You'll make them only more suspicious by your resistance."


	79. Minor Obstacles

Draco isn't easily discouraged

* * *

**- 3.29. -**

Minor Obstacles

* * *

_Entrepreneurs are simply those who understand that there is little difference between obstacle and opportunity and are able to turn both to their advantage._

_NICCOLO MACHIAVELLI_

_

* * *

_

Potter's nose wasn't as disfigured as Draco would have liked it to be; in fact, Golden Boy had become so famous and popular by now, that even a broken nose, or having no nose at all, wouldn't have changed much about his stardom. Only some months ago, Draco would have been infuriated by this, and very much frustrated, but he no longer cared. The Boy Who Lived would get what he was in for, when his great patron Dumbledore could no longer look after him. And Draco was the one to make sure of _that_.

One of the worst hindrances on the way to achieve this seemed to be Pansy though; she had so many claims on his time and attention, he had to come up with all sorts of excuses and ideas to escape her. And it wasn't even worthwhile the effort, was it? He received only little pleasure from her caresses, shagging her was quite all right, but regarding all the rest, it didn't pay off. In school, he even less managed to feel more for her, since there were more occasions to compare her. Next to Millicent, for example, her stupidity was more obvious yet, and even though he had spitefully claimed the opposite when arguing with his mum about her, Draco had the highest value for cleverness.

She wasn't even that pleasant to be with – Millicent was funnier and smarter, Greg and Vince were more laid-back and bearable, at least those two wouldn't throw themselves at him and they were less impertinent, too. The only advantage was the sex thing, okay, but although only sixteen, Draco already got the impression that sex might be an overvalued option. What was so special about it? The effect wore off quite rapidly.

Whenever Dumbledore was in school, Draco didn't dare to go to the Secret Room, so he and Pansy had time to meet in a classroom in the second floor – far enough from Filch's and Snape's offices, far enough from anything really, but conveniently to reach from the dungeons, too. They were both Prefects, and thus allowed to leave the dungeons even after closing time; nevertheless, they were careful. Intercourse was certainly forbidden among students, there must be a rule about it, even if Draco hadn't actually seen it in writing, and so they always went up there one by one. It was during one of these tête à têtes, when Pansy asked him the question of all questions, and he stared at her, once again struck by her silliness.

"Shouldn't we perhaps do something about contraception, Draco, my darling?"

He opened his mouth and shut it again, taking a deep breath. "Panse," he said slowly, "you are _kidding_ me, right?"

"No, of course not. You see, I think it would be pretty bad if I got pregnant while I was being in school still –"

"Oh, _bloody hell!_ It would be absolutely _horrible_ if you got pregnant while being in school still, are you crazy or what!" He tried to calm himself, but didn't quite get there. "For one, you need not worry, because you _won't_ get pregnant, at least not from _me_ – it's impossible, a Malfoy can never father a child without being properly married, and even then it takes a special counter-spell. But the really important thing is, the _really bloody_ _important_ _thing_ – we've had sex for five weeks or so, and you've _never_ got the notion that it might be useful to think of contraception?"

He was out of himself, aghast with so much dullness, and still, Pansy didn't seem to get it. "Relax, it's okay then, isn't it?"

"No, it bloody isn't! Panse – are you aware what could have happened? If I wasn't who I am –"

"But you _are_, darling –"

"And stop calling me darling, or sweetheart, or anything like that! –You've slept with me, many times over – what did you _think_, for good gracious' sake!"

"Well, _you_ have never mentioned it either…"

"I didn't _mention_ it because _I_ knew that nothing could happen! Still, I thought _you_ would be considerate – it's _your_ body, _your_ goddamned kid, if – oh Merlin, I don't _believe_ this!"

"It would have been _your_ kid as well, Draco," Pansy said with a pout. "I'll be happy to be the mother of your child, just not so much as long as I haven't finished school yet –"

"Just to get that clear, Panse – I haven't got the slightest intention to make you the mother of my children, damn it! D'oh! I'd want the mother of my son to be a _tad_ smarter than that!"

"Draco!"

"I'm serious, Panse! I have no plans to _marry_ anyone, and that includes you as well – I can hardly grasp that we're even _talking_ about this ridiculous subject!"

"But –"

"But? No _but_ – you weren't truly thinking that just because we're dating, I'd drag you to the altar as well, right?"

"Sure I didn't… What do you take me for," she moaned, avoiding to look at him, and Draco knew in the same moment that she was lying. He knew her, he could tell by her look when she wasn't saying the truth – had she really assumed that he was so serious about this all? Damn it! This was wrong, this was… _She_ was serious, and he was not, was he? – The outcome of so unequal a relationship wasn't too hard to guess. Blast it!

"Panse, I – I'm sorry, but – look, you have clearly mistaken me if you –"

"It's okay, Draco," she said quickly, flashing a smile at him again. "Don't you trouble yourself. I didn't mean to imply – well, anything of that nature… _This_ is all I want."

"Listen, Panse, maybe… Maybe we shouldn't –"

"Codswallop. Let's forget about it at once. It's all nonsense anyway."

He knew that he should have insisted in this moment, that he should have set things right, that he should have told her that they'd _never_ become more than this. By now, he was fairly certain about it – no matter how hard he tried, he'd never be truly in love with Pansy. She just wasn't what he wanted in a witch, he was mildly sorry about his lack of enthusiasm, but still. All he could hope for was that _her_ infatuation with him would fade away in time – it surely would, those things never really lasted. In their forth year, he had shortly had a crush on Padma Patil, finding her extremely beautiful, and not half as tedious as her Gryffindor twin. His apparent 'affection' had lasted two or three months, and the last remnants had vanished when she had been made a Prefect for her House, and he had come to know her a little better, finding out that he didn't like her after all.

Not long after the term had begun, Dumbledore disappeared from school, and Draco had to put an end to his meetings with Pansy anyway – he needed all the time he could afford to work on his project. This turned out to be more intricate than he had expected – as a matter of fact, he had hoped that some simple repairing spells would suffice, and he scolded himself for his naiveté. If it was that simple, anyone would have accomplished it years ago, right after it had been broken.

He tried to find some book in the library to help him, but as far as he could say, there wasn't anything. He unobtrusively asked Madam Pince about it, but this one only shot him a sappy smile and said that she had no clue what he was talking about in the first place. He didn't dare to explain more to her, instead he flipped the mail order catalogue from Florish and Blotts, ordering every single repairing handbook that he could find, using Greg's name. Half of them were obviously useless, and he read all the other ones in his scarce leisure time.

"What d'ya want with all that crap?" Greg asked him, shoving over another package that he had been delivered.

"Repair a bicycle, Greg, what do you think!"

"What's a by-sickle?"

"Never you mind!"

"It's a Muggle thing, a bit like a horse, but made of metal, and it's got wheels," little Belinda Crabbe said and beamed at him. "Right, Draco?"

He rolled his eyes without giving an answer, and Greg's jaw dropped. "You're about to repair some Muggle stuff?"

"That was a _joke_, Goyle! And now mind your own business."

"And why do _you_ know about Muggle stuff, Linny?" her big brother asked suspiciously.

"It's in that book, the one's Mummy used to read to us from," she replied unabashed. "You know, 'The Magician and The Muggle'. _You_ should know it, too!"

"Can we drop this? I've got nothing to do with any bicycles," Draco sighed.

"So what _are_ you repairing then, darling?" Pansy asked now, casting a curious look at the booklet in his hands.

He ground his teeth and shot her a stern look. "I am not your _darling_, Panse; get that into your head. And as for what I'm repairing – it's something for my mum – I hope I can think of something to fix it and give it to her for Christmas."

"That's so thoughtful of you, dar- Draco. So what is it?"

"Hard to explain," he said evasively. "Something like a magic mirror…"

"I'm good in repairing those," Millicent now said. "My mum's terribly superstitious, I've learnt to repair shattered mirrors before I could bind my shoelaces properly. I can help you, I'm sure."

"Yeah, thanks," he groaned, and suggested she should write down all possible spells. She told him to simply give her the mirror, and he excused himself, claiming that the object in question was in Malfoy Manor, and that he'd try the spells when he'd go home for Christmas. He wasn't sure that she had bought that feeble pretext, Millicent was rather sharp – but at least, she wouldn't continue to bother him.

And perhaps the charms she had written down for him might give him a clue after all? The Vanishing Cabinet was no mirror, nothing like it, but Draco thought he could do with all help that he could get. He studied the piece of paper that Millicent had given to him, finding one little spell that he hadn't known before, one that she might have invented herself. Perhaps he could convert that spell for his own purposes?

He tried it out in the same night, but it didn't do anything, he added and removed elements, but still. His concentration went low, and when the clock tower struck three o'clock in the morning, he eventually gave up and slipped out of the Secret Room again, nearly stumbling over Filch's cat, Mrs Norris, that ghastly creature. She glowered at him for a second, before running away, undoubtedly alarming her master.

Well, he wasn't afraid of _that_, he could move around the castle freely, due to his Prefect status – but he wouldn't want to be caught anywhere close to the Secret Room. Filch was an idiot, but if he told Dumbledore – or _Snape_… Nah, he didn't want to test his luck. He took an involuntary detour, for the main staircase had moved, but at least, he didn't encounter anyone on his way back. That had been close – the next time, he might just as well come across the old caretaker himself!

The answer to this new problem was as easy as it was complicated. He'd have to take either Crabbe or Goyle, or both, to keep watch before the room. On the other hand – they were so thick sometimes, they'd be quicker found out than he himself, and Snape would have no difficulties to guess the truth then. The same was true for Panse – she'd surely _love_ to assist him, but many awkward questions would necessarily ensue, and she was just as closely linked to Draco as Vince and Greg, from Snape's point of view.

And if he disguised them? Put them into some old armour? The idea was good, he thought, lots of old armours were standing around in the hallways. He proposed the plan to Vince the next day, who looked rather taken aback.

"Keep _watch_? What d'ya mean, Malf?"

"I _mean_ that you're supposed to stand there – nothing other than that – and warn me when someone is coming that way!"

"But _why_? Why you're hanging around there anyway?"

"Don't stick your nose too deeply into my dealings, Crabbe! Just do it, I'll tell you in time what I'm up to!"

"But I'm not permitted to be there at all! If Filch catches _me_, I'm in much more trouble than you with your Prefect badge!"

Yes, and if Vince was in trouble, he couldn't lie to Snape for his life, so much was certain… But Draco had an idea about _that_, too. For this, he had to break into Slughorn's storeroom, but what the hell. Better mess with old Slughorn than with Snape – Draco would never ever have dared to break into _that _one's storeroom then! And it looked as if the plan was working out, too! After procuring – well, _stealing_, but anyway – the brushes of some First Years out of their school bags, he was able to prepare the potion for his buddies, and have them guard over his nightly excursions. _They_ complied more or less readily, unlike certain other people.

"Could you _please_ let go of my hand, Panse? Really, this is embarrassing!"

She pouted, but withdrew her hand nonetheless, which was as good as it could get in this moment. Pansy had got into the habit of groping his hand, each and everywhere they were going or standing or sitting, and no matter how hard he tried, he just seemed to never get rid of her. This was just adding up to his other problems.

They were sitting in the Common Room; he tried to concentrate on his homework for Transfiguration, but wasn't getting anywhere so far. For one, Pansy's assaults were distracting him on a five-minute basis, and then his mind was too preoccupied with more important matters than this anyway. This brilliant idea of his with the Cabinet wasn't turning out as he had thought, although he was still convinced that the scheme in itself was excellent. Now he had only got to find a way to make it happen, and he couldn't see how he could under these circumstances.

"Can you have a look at this, baby?" Pansy cooed, slipping him her one of her own papers. "I'm not getting on at all –"

He clenched his teeth and tried to breathe calmly. "Panse," he growled. "How often do I have to tell you that you are _not_ to call me _baby_, or _sweetheart_, or _pumpkin_, or whatever rubbish is likewise circling around your head?"

"I'm sorry, darling –"

"There you go – you're doing it _again_! Haven't I just told you – not five seconds ago, really –"

"You didn't say anything about 'darling'!"

"She's right, you know," Vince munched, looking over. "You've said she ought not to say 'baby' or 'sweetheart'."

"Or _pumpkin_," Zabini cried, shaking with laughter. Draco scowled at them all, pushing his chair back and getting up. He collected his books and parchments and stuffed them into his back, fuming with anger.

These mutton heads! And Pansy – how could she so totally humiliate him like that? On his way to his room, he almost ran over a frightened First Year, hissing at him that he was to do detentions with Mr Filch, 'for loitering around'. The boy winced back, clearly scared, and Draco couldn't but sneer. Oh sure, how could he have forgotten – he was Lucius Malfoy's son, little children were scared witless by his mere sight!

Greg was lying on his bed, flipping through Quick Quidditch and briefly looking up when Draco stamped in. "Who's put a knot in _your_ wand then?"

"Well, who do you think, eh?"

"Potter?"

Despite himself, Draco had to chuckle. "No, Greg, once in a lifetime, it's _not_ Golden Boy Potter to spoil my day. Should mark this special day in my calendar, really –"

"You've seen Snape? He was looking for you."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Nope, didn't see him. Did he say what he wants?"

"You're to come to his office, as soon as you can."

"Did he say anything else?"

"I don't think so. But you better hurry – he looked like being in a filthy mood."

"Big fat surprise, isn't it," Draco groaned, but thought he had earned to lie down for five minutes before getting yet another lecture. He found he was in a filthy mood himself, so they matched perfectly. He had always held his Head of House in the highest esteem, but nowadays, he avoided him as good as possible. Aunt Bella had explained it all to him – how Snape had usurped Lucius Malfoy's place with the Dark Lord as quickly as he could, sneaky, disloyal traitor that he was, and if it had been only _that_… But obviously, Snape didn't covet Lucius Malfoy's place in the Dark Order only!

Aunt Bella had told him how he had tried to weasel his way into Narcissa Malfoy's good graces as well. Draco wanted to slap himself for not noticing it so much earlier. _Of course_ Snape was keen on her, he had always been, surely, but hadn't dared to act on that impulse because of Draco's dad. But with this one out of the way, he hadn't hesitated for a _second_, had he! And his mum? All her cleverness, and she seriously claimed not to notice, too? Draco didn't really believe that his mother would _ever_ betray his father, but that she was so careless, encouraging Snape's filthy advances still – Draco could only shake his head about so much disloyalty!

And clearly, Snape also believed that Draco was a bit of an idiot, because whenever they had a 'chance' of talking privately these days, Snape was going on and on about his assignment, getting just as cross as his stubborn student, who wasn't inclined to betray his plan, and least to the Professor. Aunt Bellatrix didn't trust him, and had warned Draco most insistently to be on his guard.

"Vince and me got detentions – got to go every evening for the next two weeks until we've caught up…" Greg sighed and turned the page. "As if two weeks would suffice…"

Draco knew that his mate was waiting for him to offer his assistance, but he couldn't. He had always studied with Greg and Vince for their final exams, and it had kind of worked, until OWL level. He couldn't perform miracles though; they had failed almost all of their tests and had to take them anew this year.

"Sorry, Greg, but I haven't got the time. Haven't you still got some of last year's notes?"

"Couldn't read them then either. You know, my handwriting is miserable."

"Yes, I'm aware of _that_. Listen – remind me that the next time I write to my mother, I ask her to send me some of my own old notes. Perhaps you can use them."

"Thanks, mate! Are you – well – getting on?"

Draco didn't honour this question with an answer, but got up and left. For a moment, he had really thought that he would go and see Professor Snape, but changed his mind then. He was too dispirited to endure another rebuke, so he went through the Common Room without a word, along the corridor, past Snape's office, up the stairs to the Entrance Hall and –

Blast it. Where was he going anyway? The library was already closed down, most classrooms were locked, and the weather was too rainy to go out for a short walk. He aimlessly strolled through the deserted corridors, until he heard the familiar voices of Professor McGonagall and her favourite student. Good Merlin, he'd rather have detentions with Snape than meeting _those _two now, so he slipped into the first door that wasn't blocked. Oh – now wasn't this typical. Of all places that he could have hit, he had managed to hide himself in the _girls' bathroom_. Terrific.

He leaned against a pillar and sacked down, putting his arms around his knees and resting his head on top. If one wanted to have five quiet minutes in this forsaken place, one had to use the girls' bathroom as a sanctuary! Talking about scandalous conditions in school – had any feature writer ever addressed _this_ topic? Outside, he could hear the Deputy Mistress and Granger talk; Draco found all his prejudices about that girl confirmed. She was such a terrible swot; even at ten o'clock in the evening, she would blab to her teacher about some silly incantation, and like usually, she was her over-correct self in doing so.

"But surely these things are illegal?"

"They are not, Miss Granger, why should they be. They cause a little diversion – yes, all right, confusion and annoyance maybe – that's all. People aren't sent to Azkaban for using love potions."

"Professor, if you had any idea what some of the girls are up to! Poor Harry is getting like Mad Eye Moody – he cannot dare to drink something that he hasn't prepared himself!"

"And what do you expect _me_ to do? They're banned from this school, that's the best I can do –"

An idea darted through Draco's mind – why not use a love potion to get rid of Pansy? He could use it to make her be infatuated with someone else, and then he could finally dump her. The idea was great – now where could he get a love potion? The easiest thing would be to brew it himself, but he really didn't have the time for that. Mail-order wasn't possible either – Filch controlled the post. But if Granger was so vexed about some girls spiking Potter's tea, they must have got some, right? So one only had to obtain it from them, by purchase, bribery, or theft, if necessary.

This truly cheered him up. A small, simple plan, that would rid him once and for all of Pansy, and she wouldn't even be able to complain. Fantastic. He was in dire need of some success. He was so thrilled by the mere idea of getting rid of Pansy, he immediately returned to the dungeons, popped into Snape's office, put up with twenty minutes of urgings and sour looks, and went back to his dorm then, still feeling quite elevated.

"Greg, what would you do when you wanted to get something that's banned from school?"

"In that case, I'd ask _you_, Malf."

"Damn it. What about Vince's little sister – you reckon she's taken some love potions to school?"

"If she had, you'd have been the poor fool to feel the effects. You know that she's crazy about you."

Draco made a face, shuddering. Belinda Crabbe was twelve years old, square, stout, burly, every inch of her a Crabbe. Whenever Draco came across her, she started to giggle sheepishly, blushed and ran away then – the idea that _this girl_ could use a love potion on him was revolting indeed.

"What d'ya need a love potion for?"

Draco hesitated. He couldn't tell his room mate about his plans concerning Pansy – Greg was silly enough to blab out the whole thing accidentally. He considered this, to reply lightly, "I've overheard a conversation… Wouldn't it be great fun to sabotage that story between Granger and Weasel King? I've heard he's jealous like hell, so if she openly fancied another guy, he'd never talk to her again!"

Greg's jaw dropped open. "Wicked, mate! That's – that's bloody brilliant!"

In this moment, Vince came in, and was quickly informed by Greg about Draco's ingenious plan to put an end to Weasel Bee's and Granger's attachment. Vince was equally enthusiastic about it, and his two mates spent the rest of the evening plotting how to do it. Draco closed the curtains and plugged his ears, focusing on his homework first. He had to get this right, or McGonagall would fulfil her threats to give him detentions, which he really couldn't afford, time-wise.

He cursed his mother under his breath, feeling terribly guilty in the next moment. Yes, it was her who insisted that his education was oh-so-important; in all fairness, his father was probably saying the same. Why had they got to make it so hard for him? He had an _assignment_ that he had to accomplish, and not just any assignment! Frankly, if his father had taken _his_ assignment a _bit_ more serious, he wouldn't have failed so disastrously. Aunt Bellatrix said so, too, and she had been there, she must know!

His mother's concept of accomplishment included excellence in the core school subjects, playing the piano and another instrument of choice, at least two modern foreign languages (favourably French and German, but Italian _was_ a possibility as well), Latin, Greek, Old Norse and Gaelic of course, some basic knowledge of dancing (nothing too fancy – waltz, tango, country dances would do for a start), and most of all, extensive reading of a variety of subjects.

Unnecessary to mention that Draco couldn't but disappoint his mother's high hopes, even more since he had joined the Dark Order. Besides – being a Death Eater, nobody would bother whether he was proficient on the piano, or whether he had read Plato, or whether he could properly pronounce 'Meine Komplimente an den Küchenchef'. His father was admired and feared by people – but surely not because he knew Baudelaire's poems by heart! He had once tried to lament that his own dad wasn't capable of half of the things that his mum thought obligatory for _his_ education, but his objection had naturally not been accepted.

"Had your grandmother taken her job a tad more seriously, he'd be far more accomplished than I ask of you, mon trésor. Come on, start again on page seven – and this time, _adagio_, please."

He finished his essay on transforming oneself into an inanimate object by midnight, rubbed his eyes and got up. Once he had fulfilled his job, he would sleep for two whole weeks, he promised himself, and shook Vince, who was deeply asleep and snoring. His mate needed a minute to wake up, blinked in some confusion, and groaned, "Oh no, Malf! Not _again_!"

"Don't make such a fuss and get up," Draco murmured, contemplating some vials in his hand. "You prefer Jacinda deWinter or the Wilkes chick?"

"I prefer to go back to sleep, man!"

"Don't we all. Now _get up_, for heaven's sake. The longer you dawdle around, the longer it takes!"

Cursing under his breath, Vince obeyed and rolled out of bed, pointing at one vial. "I'll take Wilkes then –"

"I thought you would. You look kinda cute as a blonde."

Vince scowled at him. "Don't try your luck, Malf! I can just as well stay here!"

"You wouldn't want to displease the Dark Lord, would you? For if he asks me why I didn't come to an earlier end, I'll be forced to tell him that I lacked proper support."

His mate sighed and swallowed some of the Polyjuice Potion, transforming into Derek Wilkes' Second Year sister in the next moment. They quietly left the dorm, both casting a last, envious glance at the still sleeping Greg, and made their way up to the Seventh Floor.

"Filch will catch us," Vince moaned, scratching his bum, which was dramatically much smaller now.

"Yes, perhaps, and if he does, little Carrie will get detentions, and must believe she's a sleepwalker. Now hurry up."

"I can't! Got shorter legs now!"

Draco rolled his eyes. "I suppose you wouldn't be very pleased if I carried you, right? Try to jog a bit."

He spent all night trying to fix the bloody Cabinet, and only stopped his efforts when he heard the clock strike six o'clock. When he came out of the secret room, he found Vince asleep and back in his usual shape. The retransformation had ripped the small uniform, which Draco had purchased for their missions, and made his mate look very silly indeed. Served him right.

"Oi! What do you think you're doing there!"

"What – where –"

"You've dozed off!"

"What – did I –"

"Drink the damned potion, so I can mend your robes, stupid! You were supposed to keep _watch_!"

"Get down, Malf, nothing's happened –"

"Yes, but only because we're lucky, not because you had done your job properly! If I'm blown because of your unreliability, you will come to regret it, I swear!"

Vince merely shook his hand and yawned. "You're nuts, Malf, I'm telling you. And get off me with that bloody potion, I won't enter the dungeons like that!"

"You rather enter them in ripped robes, dopey?"

Vince stifled another yawn. "Yeah, why not. That'd drive Parkinson crazy, if she'd think you'd have torn my robes in a fit of passion or something."

Draco couldn't help himself – he joined his friend, both cracking up with laughter.


	80. Notes From Underground

Lucius and Narcissa write to each other while he is in prison

* * *

**- 3.30. -**

Notes From Underground

* * *

_The degree of civilisation in a society can be judged by entering its prisons._

_FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY_

_

* * *

_

He numbly goggled at the – _plate_ they'd call it, but in fact it was a mere tin disk slightly moulded. They'd also arrogate to call the stinking contents of that mould '_food_' – and he would agree, because swill _was_ food technically, if only for pigs. He tried to discern what this junk might have been in life – animal? Plant? Mineral? It was impossible to say for sure. _Now_ it was grey, pappy, and had large chunks of uncertain origin and ominous colour in it. Half-heartedly, he fished one of these chunks out and gingerly bit onto it… All right, five to ten years ago, this must have been some sort of fish. He wouldn't want to imagine what had happened to it in the meantime.

Naturally, after eyeing the 'food' suspiciously for two hours – or four – he eventually ate it. Most of the time, anyway. He wouldn't make it so easy for these bastards, and starve himself to death! The meals were just another way of humiliating the prison inmates, one of the many. Not only that it was practically inedible. It came without cutlery as well, so one had to eat it with grimy fingers. Because that was step two – keeping the prisoners as far away from personal hygiene as possible. Once a week, Lucius was permitted to take a shower – with thoroughly unheated water right out of the sea surrounding the island. He was _not_ allowed to leave his cell for this, of course. The water would simply sprinkle out of the ceiling and in the first days, he hadn't comprehended the routine yet, so his bedding got soaking wet alongside his clothes. Bedding? Ha! A straw-filled sack as a cushion and a blanket that had served on a horseback in a past life didn't qualify as _bedding_. As for his clothes – he was still wearing the robes he had worn on the day of his conviction. He couldn't make up his mind if that was an act of clemency or not. On the one hand – these were top robes, comfortable, made of finest garments, tailor-made to fit him like a glove. On the other hand – since he had to wash them with nothing but sea-water and soft soap on the days of his weekly shower, they had long passed the state of agreeable.

There was one thing to say in favour of the food. Exactly _one_ thing. It came in an exact twenty-four hours routine, dividing the endless time into 'days'. Without the food, he couldn't have figured any time span at all. His cell had no window – not that a window would have been of much use, because no sun would ever shine upon Azkaban Island. He had no book, no nothing to distract him – all he did all day and night was either lying down on that wooden plank that would serve as a pallet, or simply stare at one of his walls and let his mind meander.

How could this have happened! He knew what had happened, not a doubt about it, but how _on earth_ it had come about… He tried to figure out what he could have done to prevent it. He had much time to ponder, but his mind always came back to the same conclusion. What could he have done? _Nothing!_ Absolutely bloody nothing! It wasn't as if he had done anything wrong, or rather, as if he had been confronted with some sort of choice where he could have decided to go either this way or that. The only actual choice that he had made deliberately was one twenty-five years ago, and everything that had happened in this respect afterwards had no longer been up to him.

As a lad of eighteen years, he had kneeled down in front of an impressing warlock, bedazzled by this one's abilities, and given an oath. _This_ had been his one crucial mistake, but honestly, who could have figured? He had been _eighteen_ then! Just so officially permitted to Apparate! Not four months out of school! As a trained Law Wizard, he would have rescinded the validity of any such contract and got away with it easily, if only the other contracting party hadn't been the Dark Lord of all people! It wasn't _fair_ to be held responsible to words one had spoken decades ago, was it? Words not that sincerely meant in the first place.

'Serve me under all circumstances and if it cost your life' – yeah, well, he _had_ agreed, and at the given moment, he had even meant it, but what truly _mattered_ here was that he hadn't had a clue about the _consequences_ then! It had all been a great game. Train up as a Dark Wizard, put on a hood and a mask and engage Aurors in duels, frighten the hell out of all these good, common people… He had enjoyed himself greatly, he would not deny it, at least in the first time. It had soon got rather tiresome, but the pay-off had been worth it still. He had become the right hand man of the most powerful wizard of their time, and his own powers had become greater than Lucius had ever dared to hope. Ironically, confronted with the same choice, he would have gone down another way if he had been asked only half a year later.

When teaming up with the other Death Eaters, he had reached rock bottom. Trapped in college, preparing for a life that he had already detested before it had properly started. Void of any hope that his only _real_ wish could ever be fulfilled. And also, he would have done pretty much anything to annoy the hell out of his father. Merlin, he had been easy prey for the Dark Lord, had he not! Pleased as Punch, Lucius had been, about such a marvellous opportunity! To wage war on everything he had hated – and there were _many_ things that eighteen year old kids would loathe! The Ministry, the Mudbloods, the whole goddamned society, Dumbledore, everyone else who had ever bugged him, and en passant achieving that sort of power that would prompt even Abraxas to furthermore refrain from hassling him too badly.

He hadn't faltered for a single second. He hadn't stopped for one moment to contemplate what it'd mean to submit his entire life to someone else – someone like the Dark Lord Voldemort. Half a year later, he had fallen on his knees and given a similar vow to Narcissa, promising her to be hers for all time if only she'd have him. _That_ he hadn't regretted ever. _That_ had been the only good promise he had ever made, but strangely enough, he had given it a whole lot of thought then. For two months, he had toyed with the idea if he could ask her to become his wife, whether it was sheer madness to commit himself so thoroughly. He hadn't wavered in his affection for her, no, but still he hadn't been entirely sure if an engagement was in order at that point of their relationship.

She had been in her Sixth Year, he had only started College. He had wondered if they both weren't too young still to make a decision that would reign the rest of their lives. He had wondered if he could in all seriousness swear and keep his word to never go astray again. He had wondered if they suited each other on the long term – Narcissa, calm, reclusive Narcissa, with her love for books and music and poetry, with all her admirable merits and talents, and him, Lucius, compulsive partygoer, devoted lady-killer, out-going, impulsive, quick-tempered, impatient and hungry for everything life could offer to him.

The more he had thought about it, the more certain he had got. There was no _life_ without her, nothing deserving the name really. The months between her ferocious refusal and meeting her again on New Year's Eve had dripped away in a gloomy daze. He had felt dead inside, hollow, bleak, as if a Dementor had sucked his soul right out of him, an empty shell. She was the pearl fitted for that shell, to stay in the imagery. She was his pearl, his flower, his only true treasure despite that vast fortune slumbering in countless vaults. She was the air that he breathed. She was under his skin, in his heart, she was his pulse, her face lingered before his inner eye when he woke up and when he fell asleep, and she made an appearance in most of his dreams, too. Nothing had changed in this respect ever since he was a boy of thirteen, fourteen years, and even here and now, in this mouldy prison cell, she was what kept him going.

The pivotal point however was that he had _thought_ about it. Although Narcissa Black – Narcissa _Malfoy_ now – had been the one constant in his life, he had reflected about their relationship before he was absolutely sure that he meant it with every fibre of his heart when asking her to marry him. Why hadn't he shown only a fraction of so much consideration when joining the Dark Lord's ranks?

Because in the same time when he had mused if they'd stay together for good, he had also realised that his oath of life-long service had been premature, at least. Unreasonable, more like. Completely moronic, if one was quite candid. But he hadn't yet been that candid, or clear-sighted, then. He had merely felt a bit queasy, for envisaging the next fifty, sixty years – for the first time really – he had comprehended at last that he had already bound himself. If he had had one chance then, before receiving the Dark Mark, to discuss his choice with Narcissa, his ever-so-sensible Narcissa, he wouldn't bear that branding on his forearm now. Narcissa would never have let him do that. But she hadn't been a part of his life anymore then. He had actually believed that he'd never see her again, or if he did, that she'd turn her back on him with a contemptible sneer.

Closing his eyes and ignoring the rotten smell, the damp cold, he spent the chief of his time in prison thinking of her, recollecting all these precious moments they had had together. Lucky for him that there were so many of these moments, he'd never tire. Narcissa as an eleven year old girl waiting for her sorting – holding herself like a queen before ascending the scaffolds, proud, brassbound. Narcissa stepping out of the lake on the Hogwarts grounds, her robes tightly clad around her, dripping wet, because of a dare of the Sepulture Septuplet then, with Gibbs challenging her to get a spear from one of the merpeople. Course she had won fair and square. Narcissa, stark naked kneeling above him with a determined smile, wielding her wedding ring.

He laughed under his breath. She hadn't accepted to compete with the Dark Lord and get a second place only, if only in the permanence of marking department. 'I'll give you a mark of my own,' she had murmured and bowed down to kiss his chest, 'one just as persistent.' And then she had used the sharp-edged diamond of her ring to carve a daffodil into his skin, right across his heart. He had squirmed and gasped with the pain – an accomplished drawer, she had taken her time until she was content with her work, then she had smiled and licked the blood away. He had thought she had finished, and requested his just reward, but she had shaken her head, smiling a blood-stained smile. 'Not yet, my love, not yet.' She had conjured a white-hot baton and traced the cuts, slowly, not giving in to his fierce screams, and boy, the pain had been unspeakable. He had passed out after a short while, waking up again and finding himself treated in the tenderest way with her applying Murtlap Essence to his wound. The pain had quickly ebbed away, and then she had rewarded him more than accordingly.

He touched the spot on his chest that still showed her sign, that would show on his ribcage for the rest of his living days. He was hers, oh yes. For more than two months, he was forced to do without her now, and _this_ was the thing most tormenting about his imprisonment. He could deal with the food. He could deal with the cold. He could deal with all of this, if only he were allowed to see her! But the only person he saw occasionally – barring the guards – was the sodding Eel, as Narcissa would call him, their Law Wizard. The Eel, for that's what he was, the slimy fish, kept on putting Lucius off. Prisoners in general were only permitted visitors in very exceptional cases, and Death Eaters were excluded from any privilege at all. 'And at any rate, Luce, if you'd take one glance at your own reflection, you wouldn't want Narcissa to see you like this.'

He went crazy when thinking what she might be doing now. His petal, all on her own! Narcissa did not leave Malfoy Manor lest there was some emergency – how was she supposed to deal with all these things? The Eel had informed him that the Manor had been searched two times since his arrest – poor, poor Narcissa – facing a riot squad! Forced to witness how they'd tear open the graves of his forefathers even! Forced to endure how they'd tear her beloved paintings asunder. She had to deal with Yaxley – she had to deal with all the tedious business connections, because with a decidedly pinched expression, The Eel had reported that she wouldn't have him look after the family's financial affairs. 'Lucius worked very hard for a very long time to gain Abraxas' trust and be in charge of business,' she had reportedly said, his dearest darling, 'I won't consign a stranger thoroughly unconnected to the family to replace my husband in any small way!' – Wonderful, loyal, incomparable, adorable darling!

There was one thing even a Death Eater was allowed to do – namely writing letters home. Letters? Pardon the mistake – _one_ letter per month, restricted to half a foot of parchment. Also, they were allowed to receive exactly one letter, limited to the same restrictions. Now it would be absurd to assume that within these short – notes they were rather than proper letters – that within those, privacy of any kind was granted. Every letter was controlled, read and if necessary blackened out by some lowly Ministry wizard. Hence it was impossible to put anything in there that was of importance, or even tenderness. Lucius couldn't tell his wife what was necessary, and he knew that she was much too clever to write anything that could tip of either the Ministry, or his Death Eater pals. They had to content themselves with hollow phrases, even refraining from too explicit vows of love.

'Mon ange, I miss you every minute – every second of each day – it's getting worse by the hour. This isn't the proper place to divulge just how much I miss you and how badly I long to be reunited with you – I trust your sagacity to conclude what is better not put in a letter. But how are you, my love? I am worried out of my wits for you. I am fine, thank you for asking, but you know me, I get along, just not so well without my blossom. At least, I have ample of time on my hands to relax – once we're back together, you'll find me recovered from all the stress of daily routine in the office. And I promise I'll never grumble again about overcooked vegetables, or because the champagne isn't sparkly enough. I may even join you as a Vegetarian, meat has become less and less palatable to me in recent times. Say hello to our son for me. I know he'll be a good boy and please his mother as much as ever. Also I'm delighted with his OWL results, please forward to him that I'll duly compensate his efforts and that I am exceedingly proud of him. I've got to come to an end, my precious, as much as I'd crave to go on and on how much you are in my heart if not in my arms at present, forever yours entirely, L.'

Narcissa's letters were similar in nature, too, vague and bordering on soothing mirth, but he knew his wife too well not to sense some looming dread between her lines. Something was wrong, and it wasn't his present stay in jail, something _else_ was troubling her. He seized his time to rack his brains what it was – there were numerous possibilities. Her sister bullying her? The Dark Lord threatening her? Forcing her to join his service? Something about Draco? But Draco was safe in Hogwarts – finally, he saw one merit in Dumbledore, and if it was only because the Dark Lord feared his old teacher. Besides – Draco literally worshipped his mother; he'd never do anything to seriously dismay her. What was it that gave his sweetheart such sorrows? She didn't care for the public opinion, no matter what the papers would write about him, or what the people would say, she wasn't going to lose her poise because of that…

Whenever he saw The Eel, Lucius overcame his caution and directly asked him. He had to be careful, of course, because Yaxley was a fellow Death Eater and every word Lucius said would inevitably find its way to the master's ear. Nevertheless, he kept on inquiring how Narcissa was, getting always the same smirking reply, 'Your wife is very much what she used to be, Luce, and that includes that she doesn't deign talking to me if she can avoid it.'

Who could blame her, eh? Lucius himself wouldn't be talking to this wretched prat if he had other options. But as it were, he was the freaking best Law Wizard that could be bought for money. The man had after all managed to negotiate sentences for them all that were downright ridiculous compared to the offence. Lucius had braced himself for a life-long sentence before his trial – what else but life-long? He was a Death Eater, had been the second-in-command of the Dark Order, he had killed two dozen people, give or take, in his time, even though he couldn't be convicted of these with certainty. He had Imperiused more people than he could be bothered to count. He had partaken in quite a number of tortures. He had been caught _inside_ the Ministry of Magic itself, right in the Forbidden Section, while he had commanded an operation to hunt down and eventually kill, respectively abduct in Potter's case, a bunch of teenagers. What other sentence but 'life-long' could have been adequate, eh? Went to show what a cunning genius The Eel was when it came down to defend die-hard felons. Well, everybody must have some talent or other.

"Malfoy!" A barking voice disturbed him from his silent reverie. "Face to the wall!"

Lucius sighed and made his habitual joke upon this prompt, "Which wall? I got three and a half!"

"We can do this the unpleasant, or the truly aggravating way!"

He got up, sniggering under his breath, and turned his back to the door. An iron chain sprang out of the wall to his right side and wound around his right wrist. He knew the procedure by now; whenever someone wanted to enter the cell, they felt compelled to shackle him up, even if it was only to slide in his food. The next step was to turn around anti-clockwise so his shackled arm was in his back, and then a second chain would emerge from the opposite wall and tie his left hand as well. Depending how jumpy the respective guards were, they'd sometimes conjure a blindfold as well – to prevent him from performing wandless magic. If only he was half as crafty as these guys gave him credit for!

The guards stayed outside observing him through a semi-transparent looking glass until finding him satisfyingly disabled, and undid the countless security spells on the door then. He was spared the blindfold this time, and Lucius sneered at them, "Is it already time for supper? Why, how time flies!"

"Funny as always, Malfoy. Your Law Wizard wants to have a private word with you."

"Private meaning you won't be peeping through your spy-hole?"

"We can gag you up if you don't stop wise-cracking."

"Tempting perspective, Mr Miller. If you ever were to lose this fabulous job of yours, you'd have no problem hiring as a dominatrix in a bondage studio."

Yep, he got the gag, in both ways, until the guards had sealed the door again and The Eel untied the cloth covering his mouth. "Luce –"

"Hey Yax."

His visitor beckoned with a wry grin. "I'd say you look good, but you'd see right through me."

"I'd be my old handsome self if you idiot finally managed to get me a permission for shaving."

"Good to see you too, bitch."

"How come you glory these sombre halls with your shining presence, Yax?"

"I have good news for you."

Lucius shot him an astonished glance. 'Good news'…? No matter what, The Eel was not stupid; he wouldn't talk about the Dark Lord's advances _here_, with these ludicrous Ministry worms lurking behind the door. "Do you…?"

"Indeed. You won't guess what it cost me, pal, but I finally – employing all my connections, by the way –"

"Out with it, Yax!"

"Yes, yes. I thought this dump had taught you some patience at last."

"Yaxley," he growled as menacingly as he could, "you don't want to try my _patience_, trust me!"

"For a start, your wife's monthly letter is due, my friend."

Lucius couldn't keep up his sneering composure; his body tightened and he eyed the Law Wizard in hopeful anticipation. Without a watch, a calendar, he must have missed a couple of days in between; he hadn't expected her next letter for another two days. He could see how The Eel relished his moment of superiority, unrolling the parchment with laggard moves, narrowing his eyes, and taking another minute to find his reading glasses.

"You know, I think she's writing so dwarfishly on purpose."

"Get on, you imbecile!"

"'My dearest Lucius_,_" The Eel drawled in a bored voice. "I finally understood what we're paying that unpleasant man for,' – I think she refers to me there, don't you think?"

"Shut up and read, arsehole!"

"Just wondering, mate! 'Believe it or not, he managed to obtain the permission for me to visit you at last. When you'll be reading this, it's going to be only five more days. I am going crazy without you, and even though I was told that our reunion will be swift and fleeting, I can hardly wait to be with you again, mon amour. I wish there was something else I could do for you. I miss you so much, Lucius, you've got to come back to us. Without you, I'm nothing! Professing all my life how much I enjoyed solitude, I've got to realise that I cannot bear it when you are not there. Let us all hope that it's not going to take much longer. I cannot say how I survived the last months without you, and I'm increasingly anxious how I am supposed to come through much longer. Let's face it, I'm nothing without my two boys, but I have all faith in you to do everything in your power to come back to me as soon as you can. Yours ardently, devotedly and never wavering in my love and trust, N.' – Granted, she's writing pretty letters, buddy!"

Lucius was enthralled with each word, staring blankly into thin air for a while, but was interrupted in his elation. "Now keep down your blood pressure, pal, I haven't got all day, and I assume that you wish to write back to her?"

"I do, yes." As a matter of fact, Lucius felt so annoyed with his Law Wizard, he wanted to annoy him in turn by putting the only pressure that he could presently command, at him. "I feel I've got to mull over some phrases though… I tell you something, _pal_ – come back tomorrow, I'll dictate you my answer then."

"Don't be so bitchy, Lucius, I –"

"You are being very handsomely paid for your services, I believe. I expect you _tomorrow_. The time you save today, you'll use for paying Narcissa a visit, forward my delight with her note, and tell her that she'll receive a worthy answer in less than a day."

"Stop pushing me around, Lucius!"

"Elias, let's get this straight, shall we? We both know that I won't be in this dung hole forever. I don't have to remind you that it's been you procuring me such a short stay, and I'd be very much displeased if I'd have to be anything else but grateful to you once I'm at large again. Do we understand each other?"

"Perfectly," The Eel replied through gritted teeth.

"One more thing, Yax… Thanks for obtaining that permission. I owe you one."

The other wizard merely sniggered. "Yes? Yes… Yes, I think you're right."


	81. Thwarted

Draco is interviewed after the Katie Bell incident

* * *

**- 3.31. -**

Thwarted

* * *

_Keep on beginning and failing. Each time you fail, start all over again and you will grow stronger until you have accomplished a purpose – not the one you began with perhaps, but one you'll be glad to remember._

_ANNE SULLIVAN_

_

* * *

_

"I don't get this. Why are they asking _us_ about this?" Pansy was grumbling. "She's got the darned thing in Hogsmeade, obviously. If anyone in Hogwarts was involved, they'd have given it to her here!"

Draco didn't feel too comfortable, wondering whether Madam Rosmerta could be found out. But even if that happened – no one could reasonably accuse _him_ having anything to do with this. The student that she had given the cursed collier to had been Katie Bell from Gryffindor, but somehow, the foolish chick must have touched the jewellery herself, so instead of ending up in Dumbledore's office, the collier had poisoned the girl herself.

Blast it. He had so hoped that it would work out and spare him to continue his fruitless work on the Cabinet! A few days ago, he had received a less than subtle warning from the master – the Dark Mark on his arm had suddenly burned so fiercely, he had nearly thrown up, and hadn't even been able to go to the Infirmary for relief. He scolded himself for relying on this ad-lib plan though. It had been highly unsafe, admittedly. But he had –

Apparently, Pansy had asked him something, for right now, she was looking very expectantly. "Didn't you listen to me? Anything wrong, dear?"

"What? No – no – I just thought how well you look tonight," he said quickly to conceal his nervousness, but he couldn't have made her any happier. She snuggled up to him and placed a kiss on his cheek – it would have been his mouth, hadn't he turned away, shushing her to stop.

"Everyone can see us, Panse!"

"Who cares?"

"We're bloody _Prefects_, and Snape is in a temper tonight, anyway."

Indeed, Snape was summoning groups of students to his office right now to interview them – another source of discomfort for Draco. It took ages, and he thought that Snape must know just as well as Draco that he was wasting his time.

"Why's he want to interview you, or Goyle? You haven't even _been_ there. Or the Bates brothers – they couldn't afford to give jewellery to anyone, not even if their mother sold their whole _house_," Pansy griped.

"He'll want to talk to everyone. I expect Dumbledore demands it."

"But Parkinson's right still, Malfoy" Zabini said with a perfidious expression. "Imelda says that this collier must have cost a thousand galleons at least. That rules out a vast number of suspects."

Draco shrugged and replied loftily, "Maybe they've stolen it?"

"Maybe they have – but if something so precious had been stolen from someone, it would have made the Daily Prophet, don't you think?"

"The old owner would certainly not announce the theft _now_, not to be suspected," Pansy said, and Zabini sniggered unpleasantly.

"True. What about your mum, Malfoy? She's got more jewellery than all other witches in England together!"

"What's that supposed to mean, Zabini?" Draco asked sharply and shot his classmate a withering look.

"That she probably wouldn't even notice when one piece was missing."

Draco sneered. "You think my father would give my mother a cursed necklace, Zabini?"

This one shrugged and smirked. "I _think_ she can already brace herself for the next raid – perhaps she can just unhinge the front doors, so they needn't break them over and over again."

All of a sudden, Draco felt sick – his mum! Wasn't it indeed likely that the Ministry would send another squad to search the entire place, turn everything upside down and upset her? "They cannot take it out on my mother, every time something happens!"

"I reckon they can, Malfoy. After all, they're just dying to have anything on her. Incidentally, do they have double cells in Azkaban?"

"Shut up," Draco spat, battling down his urge to draw his wand and try one of these nasty little curses that his aunt had shown to him.

"Yes, Blaise, don't be so horrible!" Pansy agreed angrily, pressing Draco's hand, and he was grateful about it. Luckily, they were interrupted by a group of ill-humoured looking Third Years, who returned from their consultation with the Head of House and called out the next names.

Vince, his little sister, Theo and some others gave a sigh and headed towards the office. Pansy watched them leave and exclaimed with some feeling, "Poor Linny. She's a _Second Year_, for Christ's sake. How can anyone seriously suspect _her_ to successfully trick someone in their final year?"

"When your daddy is serving his time in Azkaban, you're always the number one on each list of suspects," Millicent said dryly. "No matter how unlikely. _My_ dad says it's all rubbish anyway."

"Why's that?"

"He says the Dark Lord could single-handedly free all of his followers, if he pleased, and that all those arrests and raids were just a façade for the Ministry to pretend they were doing something after all. Like trying to empty the Atlantic with a tea spoon."

"Your dad is an Abraxan breeder, Bulstrode. What does _he_ know?"

"Oh, _shut up_, Zabini," Draco snarled. "_You_ have no more clue than he has!"

"But _you_ would know all about it, Malfoy, wouldn't you? Since you're regarding yourself to be the crown prince of the Dark Order anyway. What's your mum going to be? The Second Lady?"

Pansy asked unwittingly, "Who'd be the First Lady then?"

"Could you all hold your tongues? And you, Zabini, stop talking about my mother like that! What about _your_ mum, huh? What if someone chose to take a closer look on _her_? Seven husbands, all mysteriously dropping dead and conveniently leaving all their money to the weeping widow?"

Zabini reached for his wand and Draco sneered at him, with his most challenging face. "Go on! Try it! Curse me right here and now and you'll be on the next train home!"

"Put your wand away, Blaise! Honestly, are you crazy or what?" Pansy shrieked, pushing Zabini's hand down. Draco felt disconcerted by what Millicent had said, about the Dark Lord's capability to free the imprisoned Death Eaters if he wanted. Sure, Mr Bulstrode was not necessarily a man of great knowledge about the Dark Arts, or the Dark Order, or even the Ministry's policy. On the other hand, he was a sensible man, with a great deal of common sense and down-to-earth opinions. And what he had said there appeared fairly perceptive, too.

Why was Lucius Malfoy still in prison? Why hadn't the Dark Lord freed him already, delivered him from that most humiliating situation? He was there for three and a half months by now – plenty of time to do something about it!

The next group of people came back to the Common Room. "Parkinson, Malfoy, Zabini, Goyle, Juliet and Rosalind Montague, Bulstrode!"

They scurried over to their Head's office, waiting in the hallway in silence; Draco felt his palms becoming sweaty and shook off Pansy's grip, so she wouldn't notice. After a few minutes, the door was opened, Vince and the others came out, and they heard Snape's voice, "Send the Baddock brothers, the three de Winters and Eccleston next. And you – come in."

The Professor was sitting behind his desk, looking weary, surrounded by parchments, and cast them an unnerved glance. "Miss Bulstrode, perhaps you want to begin. Where have you been today, what've you done, and can anyone confirm your statements?"

"I've gone to Hogsmeade with Pansy and Juliet here, Vincent Crabbe and his sister were with us, too. I think they will all confirm it. We've been in Zonko's, Twilfitt and Tatting's –"

"Mr Crabbe was with you there?"

"No. He had met the guys and went off for a butterbeer. We've all met in the Three Broomsticks again, later on."

"Did you see Miss Bell there?"

"Possibly, I couldn't really say. A lot of folks were there."

"You remember anyone in particular?"

"Apart from our own people?"

"Anyone. Whose presence could you testify with certainty?"

She started to name them, and Draco tried to look as disinterested and bored as he could. Snape asked if anyone they had met or talked to had acted oddly, but Millicent declined, and he addressed Zabini next. This one had been in Madam Puddifoot's, with his cousin Imelda, who happened to be his girlfriend for the time being, too, something which was a source of persistent joking on Draco's part. Dating one's first grade cousin – how pathetic could one be? Even if, like pretty much everyone else in _that_ family, she did look so good?

"Mr Malfoy, Mr Goyle – I have it from Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout that you have been serving detentions?"

"Yes, Sir," they replied simultaneously.

"Did you ask anyone to take something to Hogsmeade for you?"

"No, Sir."

"When did you finish?"

"I was still in the Deputy Headmistress' office when she was called because of the incident," Draco drawled; Greg said that he had been through with re-potting the Bubotublers by half past three. Snape sighed, giving Draco a long, vexed look.

"Professor McGonagall has told me that she wasn't very content with your performance, Mr Malfoy. When we're through with _this_, you'll stay for some more minutes to discuss your lacking engagement for school. Now for you, Miss Montague – what have _you_ done today?"

"I was with Millicent and Pansy, first, and later went to the Hog's Head with some Ravenclaws," Juliet replied with a defiant expression.

"The Hog's Head, eh? Why didn't you join your classmates in the Three Broomsticks?"

"Because I had an appointment in the Hog's Head, that's why," Juliet said stubbornly.

"With whom were you appointed?"

"Miss Goldstein," she replied with a scowl, and Draco suppressed a smile. Poor Juliet, forced to reveal her most private dealings – they all knew more or less what sort of appointment the two girls had had, even Snape would know, wouldn't he? Perhaps he simply enjoyed to torment her a bit more.

They were dismissed at last, only Draco had to stay back, and after quickly hexing the door soundproof, Snape dropped the last scratches of patience he had shown so far. "I wouldn't trust my ears, Draco! How could you be so foolish!" he hissed, got up and walked around his desk to confront Draco.

"Beg your pardon?"

"What on _earth_ did you think? If the girl had died, it wouldn't be me interrogating you now, but a whole bunch of Aurors, using Legilimency, possibly even Veritaserum on you!"

"I don't know what you are talking about… _Sir_," Draco said, angrier than he had intended. "I've done my detentions with McGonagall – I thought she had told you already that I have!"

"Don't you dare being cheeky with me, Draco!"

"I am sorry, _Sir_."

"And you can be! A collier from Borgin and Burke's, have you lost your mind? In this school are perhaps three students who could _afford_ buying that from their pocket money!"

"Then you might want to talk to _them_, Sir!"

"But I am talking to _you_, my boy! Did you truly believe for just one minute that this idiocy could work out?"

"I haven't got _anything_ to do with this! Bell's a player for Gryffindor, maybe someone wanted to –"

"Nobody wanted to harm Miss Bell, I wager a year's salary on that, Draco! And you know perfectly well what I am talking about, so don't you play the dimwit now!"

"You are mistaken, _Sir_. I cannot help you. And yelling at me won't bring you one step further, mark my words," Draco answered, as coldly as he could.

"Your _mother_ –"

"Leave _her_ out of that!" Draco interrupted him forcefully. "Don't you dare speaking of her!"

"Don't be silly, Draco!"

"Leave my mother alone – _Sir_. My father won't be in Azkaban forever!"

"Are you crazy?" Snape looked at him as if he truly wondered about that.

"I know what you're up to! Pretending to care about her son, when in fact all you want is getting off with her!"

Snape raised his brows and took a deep breath, his face ashen. "Very well. Very well. Another round of detentions for your brazenness when talking to a teacher, and for disobeying Professor McGonagall. Tomorrow evening, six o'clock, and bring your dragon-skin gloves."

"But I –"

"If you talk back to me now, I can make it a whole week, Draco! Now send in the next group, I want to finish this utter waste of time before midnight if I can!"


	82. Enchained

Narcissa is finally permitted to visit Lucius in prison, if only to be the bearer of bad news

* * *

**- 3.32. -**

Enchained

* * *

_Non bene pro toto libertas venditur auro._

_

* * *

_

The only good news in all that misery was that The Eel had after all obtained the generous permission for her to go to Azkaban and visit Lucius. 'Generous' was the operative term here, whereas Narcissa couldn't suspend the notion that it had rather been _her_, being _generous_. Not that she cared about money, but that she had been denied her constitutional right at to see her husband formonths on end was still infuriating her. _Gold_ had done the job instead, and in Narcissa's opinion, that told everything one ought to know about the state of the nation.

She couldn't believe how many people she had been forced to bribe. Half a dozen Ministry employees – who cared. The guards in Azkaban – forget about them. But that even their family Law Wizard – Lucius' own _buddy_ – had given her an expectant smile and pocketed five thousand quid was scandalous! Since the night of Lucius' arrest, she had had to argue with him about pretty much everything, some of which she could understand in retrospection (because he couldn't perform miracles, like saving Lucius from prison, for example), others of which she must remain indignant.

She had never visited Bella, so this trip to Azkaban prison was her very first one. Now, she would shake her head at herself for being so naïve – really, what had she expected? She had to appear in the Ministry in London, where she was thoroughly searched, and where some insolent witch even demanded her to take off her wedding ring to have it checked. She didn't acquiesce at once, only after arguing with that woman for more than half an hour, she eventually gave in, fuming with rage. In twenty-two years of marriage, she had _never_ stripped off that ring; in fact, she had always said that she'd have to be dead and cold if someone wanted to have it removed.

After this, she was lectured for another forty minutes on how to behave once she was inside the fortress. Her wand was taken from her, she was taken to a room with a strictly secured Portkey, and frog-marched by two Ministry officers, she groped it, got hooked by the magic and found herself in the opposite number in Azkaban prison. This room had, like the last one, no windows, and apparently not even a door. The officers gave a signal, upon which a hole in one wall appeared, and she was hushed by two other officers to follow them, up and down, to and fro, hither and yon, along endless corridors full of corners and dead ends, until she had lost all sense of orientation, which was probably the entire reason for this manoeuvre in the first place.

Since the Dementors had deserted the place (and Narcissa couldn't have been any more grateful), the Ministry had conceived other security measures, basically a legion of trolls, several dragons (one would think they'd heat the place a bit, right? They didn't!), watch-crups all over the place howling incessantly, and of course, uncounted Ministry wizards. Bella had told her what it was like; it was a tiny island somewhere in the North Sea, not much more than some large rocks with an ancient fortress on top. The weather was abysmal. It never stopped raining, never a single ray of sunlight penetrated the peculiar thick, grey fog that belonged to Azkaban prison like sunshine to a Caribbean island, it was all gloom and mould and clammy coldness. It was miserable, and it broke Narcissa's heart to know her precious there. There were some hundred cells she walked past; the common criminals were kept in the upper part of the building, whereas those people who were considered to be more dangerous were stationed underneath the earth.

At last, the two silent wizards stopped in front of a small, narrow door and began to lift more than a dozen security curses. By now, she was so impatient that she would almost yell at them to make haste. Since the day of their wedding, in more than two decades, she had never been without her husband for more than the course of a day, and never a whole night. To be robbed of his company for so long had shaken her tranquillity to a degree that she was in some danger of losing her last scraps of countenance, which she clang to so desperately. It was the only thing that kept her from falling apart.

When the door finally opened, she spotted her husband sitting on an iron chair, between two uniformed wizards. His cell hadn't got a window, informing Narcissa how potentially dangerous Lucius was considered to be. He looked at her with a faint smile – she was petrified for a second – her two companions pushed her forth into the cell and sealed the door behind her. Lucius didn't get up, and it took her some moments to realise that he was shackled to his chair, which outraged her even more. She ran to him, ignoring the protests of the guards, and embraced him with vigour.

"Lucius," she breathed, feeling the officers trying to hold her back.

"Madam, it's forbidden for you to touch the convict –"

"Let _go_, Ma'am –"

"You've been informed on the terms, I believe – we must terminate the visit at once if you don't comply!"

She heard Lucius' voice, quiet and horse, yet gentle, "Narcissa, my love, you must listen to the officers…"

She checked herself, brushed a brief kiss on his lips and straightened up again, stepping back. She was offered a chair, too, seated herself opposite of her husband, and waited for the guards to disappear, but they made no efforts to do so.

"Excuse me, sirs, but could you leave us _alone_, please?" she said coolly.

"Surely not, Mrs Malfoy. The visiting privilege is only granted when the visit is under supervision."

"Is it really too much to ask to have some privacy with my husband? I've been searched over and over again – I haven't smuggled a wand in, you see!"

"That got nothing to do with it. We will stay."

"Mr Yaxley has discussed this with your superior, Mr Brown, from the Department of Judicial Authority. I think I've got leave to have ten minutes _alone_ with my husband!"

"We haven't been informed of any such agreement and will therefore stay. Mr Yaxley can of course complain about this to Mr Brown – in writing."

Lucius shot the man a derisive glance and snarled, "Very well, Mr Meadows. My wife _will_ hand in a complaint. – Let it be, my love, the officers aren't to be argued with. It only wastes precious time."

"I'm sure that nowhere in your statutes it says that you've got to stand _quite _so close," Narcissa added angrily. "Would you be so kind as to back off some steps, at least, if you will stay by all means?"

The guards considered this and placed themselves in the corners of the tiny room then, each one of them had their right hand in their robes, no doubt clinging to their wands, just in case. Narcissa took a deep breath, recomposed, and flashed her sweetest smile at her beloved. "How are you, mon amour?"

"I'm fine, just as well as I could be under these circumstances. I think I could even bear the food, if I wasn't missing you so badly," he replied very quietly, his eyes locked with hers. "And you? How are you doing, chérie?"

Narcissa battled with herself, torn between answering truthfully, and the wish to alleviate his concerns. "I have been better yet, I dare say," she said eventually. "I miss you, too, and very much so… Draco sends his regards, by the way –"

His diamond grey eyes darkened visibly. "Thank you – is he behaving well? Does he obey to you like he ought to?"

"He – well, he's very much disconcerted by the events, as you can imagine. He – has found himself a girlfriend lately – and neglects his piano exercises a great deal," she whispered, smirking wryly. She couldn't talk openly to Lucius like this – even if the guards had _not_ been inside the room, she wouldn't have dared to say much more, but he understood her well enough.

"That's very naughty of him. Please tell him that I am not pleased, and that he will have to answer to me."

"Don't be too severe on him, mon amour. This is all very difficult for him, and you know how he's like. He gets easily carried away, and I don't like this girl's influence over him." Narcissa frowned. 'This girl' did not apply to Miss Parkinson, but her own sister Bellatrix, as Lucius could read from her features. "He's still so young – I'm afraid he's got no idea what he's started there. But I've not remained inactive – I've bidden his Head of House to have an eye on him. Should prevent him from being too nonsensical within school!"

"He doesn't listen to you then, I presume?"

She shook her head. "He's so preoccupied with the whole matter – he's got his head in the stars, you see? And this girl is only making it worse, and encourages him still to be fanciful and foolish."

"Perhaps you might want to talk to the girl instead? Tell her that I am not to be trifled with, and that she'd better keep her hands to herself?"

Narcissa bit her lip, tried to smile but couldn't. "I'm afraid that won't do, mon amour… She's not to be impressed by you or me, and has her heart fixed on the affair. Besides – she seems convinced that you'll have no opportunity to interfere."

"I see," he said simply, giving a small sigh. "Maybe she's right –"

"Don't say that!"

"Narcissa, darling, I do not wish to frighten you. But perhaps you should prepare yourself to handle these matters on your own, without my help. Chances are that this girl is more perceptive than you believe her to be."

She suddenly felt tears welling in her eyes, furiously blinking them away. She would not cry in front of these officers, she would _not_, she wouldn't expose her weakness and vulnerability to some hostile strangers! Lucius saw her despair and used his most gentle voice to continue, "My love, don't make yourself uneasy. It's not all settled, you know? None of us can foretell the future – well, apart from your great aunt Celeste perhaps, but frankly, I've never quite trusted her statements… What is truly significant now, is that you and Draco are in good health, and go on with your lives. Maybe he is confused now, but I know his regard and respect for you. He will come to his senses after all, I am sure!"

Traitors were to be found everywhere and among every possible set of people; she didn't doubt that at least one of the Ministry people who nowadays guarded Azkaban, was a servant of Lord Voldemort. They might know their way with the Dark Arts all right, but one wasn't stationed in Azkaban because of ingenuity, or a remarkable level of higher education.

"Dann ist es vielleicht zu spät, Lucius," she said in German, looked straight into his eyes and flashed him a series of images and memories – the Dark Mark on her baby's arm, their many fights, her visit to Severus and some pictures of Dumbledore. She was in quite a hurry; the guards would stop this in no time at all. "Er soll ihn umbringen oder sterben!"

Lucius stared at her, stumped, and one of the guards cried, "Ma'am, either you speak in plain, good English again _at_ _once_, or your visit is terminated here and now!"

"Yes, Sir, I understand. I merely wished to tell my husband some – tender matters – that aren't fit to be overheard." She flashed the guard a shining smile. She could see that Lucius still tried to digest the fact that his only son was in deadly peril, without letting show his true sentiments. She had to distract the guards from watching him too closely, and she knew how to do that. Only some minutes later, one of the guards reminded them that time was up already, and Narcissa was forced to leave her husband behind again. Very formally, she asked the officer on the right, "Is it a very great breach of your regulations if I kiss my husband goodbye?"

"You must not do so, Ma'am."

"I expect it will cost a fine? Very well, it's worth it," she replied, and quickly bowed to give Lucius a kiss, until she got dragged away. "Au revoir, mon amour. Je t'aime, je vais revenir – Du musst mir vertrauen, ich passe auf unser Kind auf so gut ich kann!"

She had never seen him look so devastated, and his voice broken, he croaked, "Ich weiß, mein Engel. Es tut mir so leid – god, Narcissa, I –"

Before he could say anything they'd both regret, she cried, "I love you, Lucius, for better and worse. Never forget that!"

He rallied himself and whispered with a tormented expression, "Ich werde von dir träumen, mein Engel, Tag und Nacht!" He tried to grin as roguishly as he had used to, in better times. The guards didn't find this any funny, scolding them to speak English.

"Now if you can actually show me a rule that obliges me to speak English, even here, I shall give you a hundred galleons at once, Mr Meadows," Narcissa snapped back, while climbing out of the cell again, shooting her husband a last, loving look.

"Don't you be cheeky, Mrs Malfoy!"

"I was just about telling you the same!"

"We can withhold the privilege of visit from you –"

"_You_ most certainly can't, sir! Our Law Wizard will talk to Mr Brown from the Ministry, let's see what this one thinks, shall we?"

The guards exchanged an uneasy glance, increasing Narcissa's confidence. The elder one of them muttered, "We're just doing our duty, Madam –"

"I'd understand _that_, Mr Sherwood. Nevertheless, I cannot but think that you are abusing your powers. Is it necessary, for an instance, to tie my husband to his chair? For I cannot help it but believe that the sole purpose of this is to humble him!"

"You could slip him something. That's why you're prohibited to touch him in the first place!"

"_Slip_ him something? And what would that be? Your colleague in the Ministry has even forced me to undress myself, just to make sure that I hadn't got as much as a cookie to give him! I couldn't have smuggled in a _pinhead_, so thorough was the examination!"

"Your husband is a convict, Madam. We've got to stick to the procedure."

"A convict! And does that bereave him of his civil rights? Does that entitle you to treat him like a dangerous animal, that could plunge at you to bite? Or what is it exactly that you're scared of?"

"Civil rights? What are you talking about, eh? He's a _convict_; he's got no claim on _civil rights_, Ma'am!"

"Is that so? Oh well! In fact, I'm quite happy to hear this, for if he's a citizen no more, void of the rights connected to this, he's also freed of the duties, and need therefore pay no more taxes! Are you aware that roughly ten percent of your salaries are raised by my husband's taxes alone? Prepare yourselves for some cuttings, gentlemen!"

"Now I've had enough, woman! Your husband is number four on the list of the most dangerous criminals in this entire country and I don't give a bloody damn if he was Croesus himself!"

She curled her lip in disdain. "Number _four_? Why, I'd have thought he'd have hit the second place at least!"

The guard returned the sneer likewise. "No, your dear sister has made _that_ one!"

"Ah, yes, of course. And who's third?"

"Fenrir Greyback."

She felt a shiver running down her spine with the mere name, but spat back defiantly, "Oh, I had almost forgotten _him_. So you're telling me that his other cronies, a whole bunch of ferocious werewolves, are considered _less_ dangerous than my husband?"

"Face it, you're married to a felon!"

"Perhaps you want to reconsider your _tone_, Mister! For if my husband was only half as dangerous as you say, I'd be worried if I were you what happens once he is released!"

"Calm yourself, Ma'am," Mr Sherwood said hastily.

"I will not! Your colleague has just opened my eyes to my husband's status, and _I_ do explain to him that this coin's got two sides!"

Guard Meadows now lost the last bits of temper. "Security has been increased since Amelia Bones' death, Mrs Malfoy! Therefore, your spouse got no one to blame but himself –"

"_Himself?_ Amelia Bones was killed on July 13th, if I'm not entirely mistaken! That's two whole weeks after his conviction! Now tell me, Mr Meadows, how could Lucius _possibly_ have got anything to do with it, eh?"

"You know very well what I mean!"

"Indeed, I do not!"

"He's a Death Eater! He was the right hand of You Know Who!"

"He was, but his was most certainly not the hand that's murdered Madam Bones, nor could he have done anything else in this respect!"

"That it's not Madam Bones' blood on his hands doesn't render them any cleaner! Your dear spouse is a dangerous criminal, yes, deal with it, woman!"

Narcissa gave a humourless chuckle. "Language, Mr Meadows. You are forgetting yourself."

"And whose fault is that?"

"My husband's, I suppose, according to your logic!"

"Your husband's, your sister's, or perhaps your own, Mrs Malfoy, coming to think of it!

They went on arguing until they had arrived in the room with the Portkey; Narcissa wasn't in the habit of debating, even less with total strangers, but the whole situation was getting the better of her. On the inside, she was shaking with anger and indignation, and if she had had a wand, she might have cursed the insolent Ministry wizard, just to vent some of her frustration.

When she had disappeared, Guard Sherwood turned to his colleague and shook his head unhappily. "And what was _that_, Jerry?"

"Yeah, I know! Can you believe the _nerve_ of this woman!"

"I meant you, mate."

"Me? Are you mad? I've just told her the truth – it's not _my_ fault that she doesn't want to hear it!"

"Yeah, but what was the point of all this? Believe her to know that her husband is a convict and all that. Can't you imagine that she was just sad to see him like that, and leave again so quickly?"

"So what, that's hardly _my_ problem!"

"No, but _your_ problem could well be that you've infuriated her. You know what's going to come, sooner or later. He Who Must Not Be Named will come and free his people, and then you have written yourself in Mrs Malfoy's bad books. I doubt that Miriam and the children will have much sympathy for your attitude. On your tombstone, it will spell – 'He always had the last word'."

When Narcissa had returned to the Manor, she threw a tantrum. Not bothering what it was, she hurled around everything she came across – smashing three antique vases, a humidor, a mirror, a Giacometti statuette and a Fabergé egg. Only then, she came to her senses and tried to breathe evenly again. She told the frightened house-elves to clean up the mess, and stalked up to the library, but she couldn't distract herself. Oh Lucius! It had been good to see him – her heart felt like bursting, with love and aching and pining, but also with pain, severe and poignant. Shackled! She had seen him shackled before, right after his arrest, but then she had thought this was only a very brief predicament, and that Voldemort would sort it out in no time.

Voldemort! If possible, her hatred for this one was increased to yet unknown heights. She had deceived herself, actually hoping that he would after all help them. He was waging war on the Ministry; she had believed he would need all the help he could get? She had clung to that hope, but by now, she was without her husband for one hundred seventeen days, and he was suffering in that godforsaken hole! Because of that megalomaniac! Because of that rotten butcher, who was trying to get her son, Lucius' beloved son, killed as well!

* * *

_Non bene..._ Gold cannot countervail freedom.

_Dann ist es…_ It might already be too late then, Lucius! He is supposed to kill him, or die himself!

_Au revoir__… _Good bye, my love. I love you, I will return… You have to trust me, I will look after our child as well as I can!

_Ich weiß__… _I know, my angel. I am so sorry!

_Ich werde... _I will dream of you, my angel, day and night.


	83. Inspiring

They are total dunderheads, but every now and then, Zabini, or even Hermione Granger, say something to make you think

* * *

**- 3.33. -**

Inspiring

* * *

_Before you judge me, take a look at you_

_Can't you find something better to do?_

_Point the finger, slow to understand_

_Arrogance and ignorance go hand in hand_

_It's not who you are, it's who you know_

_Others' lives are the basis of your own_

_Burn your bridges and build them back with wealth_

_Judge not lest ye be judged yourself_

_Holier than thou_

_You are_

_METALLICA_

_

* * *

_

Rumour had it that Weasel Bee and Granger were dating after all – a reason for much gossiping and mockery in the Slytherin Common Room. Millicent said that she'd only believe it if she saw it with her own eyes, all the while Pansy demanded her best friend to redeem the stakes by purchasing some dragon hide boots that Pansy had set her heart on. Like many other Slytherins, those two had bets running on the question whether Weasley and Granger made it or not – Draco faintly wondered if all those people really had _nothing_ better to do.

He had, to be sure. He actually had so many things to _do_ that he didn't know where to start. Tomorrow, he'd have to play against Gryffindor, for example. Which was impossible, of course. Not only that he had missed most of the practise, and really didn't want to make an idiot of himself in front of _Potter_. What was more – the entire school would be down at the pitch. He'd have the castle to himself, no one would miss him, no one would bother or detain him. Obtaining an excuse was easy enough; with a face like his these days, Madam Pomfrey would sign any sick note without further questions. And that Matthew Harper character was craving for a chance to prove himself.

At least _that_ was no problem, if everything else. He had great difficulties keeping Pansy at bay. They had very different conceptions how a _relationship_ should look like, the greatest difference being the amount of time that they were willing to invest. Pansy thought every minute without him lost. Draco found that every minute they were spending together kept him from the important matters. He didn't really feel like breaking up; he had started to enjoy that sex thing some more after all. It was like Quidditch, one needed a bit of practise, and they had achieved a certain routine, meeting in empty class rooms or the Prefect's Bathroom, and although he could never entirely focus on her alone, it relieved him for half an hour of all the awful fears that harassed him else.

It was a source of comfort in a way that Harper cocked it up – Slytherin lost. This would have been grievous, but from Draco's point of view it was rather satisfying that he wasn't the only Slytherin Seeker losing against Potter. Still, he had worries on a greater scale. Using Millicent's spell, he had managed to put some parts of the cabinet back together, but seeing how long this had taken him, and how many pieces were still not fitting, he'd need two years to succeed. He was basically waiting for the next 'reminder' of the Dark Lord – the last time, he had woken up in the middle of the night, screaming because his left arm had felt as if it was torn apart. The Dark Mark. Handy device, wasn't it. He wasn't keen to experience that sort of pain again.

There must exist a spell to identify the different splinters of the cursed cabinet, right? The way he had done it so far, trying each piece out – he was too old for jigsaws, and too much in a hurry. Also, his system bore the peril of severe mistakes – what if he used a piece in the wrong place? He couldn't afford to splinter like Montague had. The obvious suggestion was looking for the right book in the library.

He checked three dozen books, but didn't find anything useful. All authors commended a simple repairing charm, but this one didn't work on the cabinet. Oh come on, was it truly possible that none of them had ever come across an object that didn't respond to a _Reparo_? He was scanning book number forty-two, when hearing unpleasantly familiar voices.

It were Potter and Granger, and Draco had to refrain from giggling out loud – they were talking about Weasley and his little fling with their house mates Brown. _Ohhh_, poor, _poor_ Granger!

"If you'd perhaps excuse for the canaries…" Potter said tentatively, sitting on the other side of the book shelf.

"Are you out of your head or what!"

"I understand that you… I mean… Even _I_ was a little – uhm – perplexed when they – to see them kissing –"

"He's at perfect liberty to kiss whomever he likes. I really couldn't care less," Granger retorted snidely, every syllable betraying that she could hardly care _more_. God, this was hilarious. Priceless. Really. "And incidentally, _you_ need to be careful."

They said some things about some teacher or potioneer that Draco had, strangely enough, never heard of. Maybe it hadn't exclusively been Snape's extra lessons last term that made Potter such a Potions prodigy this year…?

He didn't get what they were talking about though and went back to the book in his hands, when Granger mentioned some girls wanting to slip love potions into Potter's pumpkin juice. No, he'd have to listen to this; he could dearly do with some entertainment. Potter was being his usual, inhibited self, Granger was giving her McGonagall imitation, all stern and strict and prissy.

"I don't go around putting potions in people's drinks… Or pretending to, either, which is just as bad!"

"Yeah, well, never mind that. The point is, Filch is being fooled, isn't he? These girls are getting stuff into the school disguised as something else! So why couldn't Malfoy –" Draco twitched; 'twas always irresistibly interesting to hear about one oneself, even more if the speaker didn't know one was listening! "– have brought the necklace into the school –"

"Oh Harry – not _that_ again…"

Draco was astonished, admittedly. For once, he hadn't reckoned that Potter of all people could make a guess so dangerously close to the truth, but what was more, he had never suspected _Granger_ to speak up for him… She explained why she thought it unlikely that Draco was the culprit, muttering, "They'd have picked up a powerful curse, like the one on that necklace, within seconds. But something that's just been put in the wrong bottle wouldn't register – and anyway, love potions aren't Dark or dangerous –"

"Easy for you to say!"

"So it would be down to Filch to realise it wasn't a cough potion, and he's not a very good wizard, I doubt he can tell one potion from –"

They had been talking so quietly that Draco had moved closer and closer, putting his head into the shelf. There was a spider – he didn't mind spiders in general, but this particular one tried to climb into his ear and Draco couldn't help it but wince back. Granger must have heard that noise for she stopped in mid-sentence. He didn't want to be caught eaves-dropping on these two, but was spared any further troubles because Madam Pince came and kicked both Potter and Granger out because Potter appeared to have written into some book of his.

The _point_ however… Merlin, Granger was one clever bitch. The _idea_ was grand. The post might be searched all right… But by _Filch_, who couldn't tell a wand from a tooth pick… That was a fact that begged for exploitation! He could make Madam Rosmerta send him anything, disguised as anything… He could make her send him some Dark Arts books, couldn't he…? Brilliant. Pity that Granger was a Mudblood, for she was also a fucking genius. She'd have made a real asset to the Dark Order, wouldn't she, if only she hadn't been a Mudblood. And such an unbearable smart aleck. And Golden Boy's second best mate, obviously. Still – Draco was ready to bet that _she_ would find a way to mend the cabinet in no time at all.

His elation didn't last very long; soon enough he realised that obtaining some poison didn't get him anywhere, unless he meant to swallow it himself to put him out of his misery. Dumbledore might be an old, credulous fool, but he wouldn't guilelessly swallow some drink that Draco offered him. So he was back where he had started – and there were thousands of books in here he had not checked yet.

"Slughorn is an idiot," Zabini remarked that evening; Draco had just returned from the library, tired, worn-out and frustrated. "We're blessed for having Snape as a Head of House, honestly! Just imagine, it's not beneath Slughorn to suck up to someone like Granger!"

"She _is_ frigging smart," Millicent said bluntly.

"Yeah, so what, really! Being smart isn't everything!"

"You would know, Zabini, wouldn't you," Draco drawled spitefully. He was trying to relax a bit before his next night shift, lying down on one of the couches, his head on Pansy's lap, his eyes closed.

"You shouldn't be talking, Malfoy. _You_ didn't beat her in your OWLs either!"

Draco didn't open his eyes, and snarled, "But I beat _you_ in style, didn't I?"

Zabini shot him a withering glance for the remark that was wholly lost on his roommate, before continuing, "However, Slughorn is just pathetic. How he keeps on boasting with all his _fabulous_ connections – it's Gwenog Jones here, Bertie Higgs there. He even sucks up to _Dumbledore_, I mean, _come on!_ He's already got the job, hasn't he, still he's bragging what a damn fantastic mead he's planning to give to Dumbledore for Christmas. '_Madam Rosmerta's Finest_' –" He had put on a high, mocking voice. "As if that was so special!"

Greg sniggered. "I wouldn't mind getting a barrel of mead for Christmas."

"Me neither," Vince backed him up.

"You're complete dipsos, that's why!"

"And you're a teetotaller, or what?"

Draco kissed Pansy's hand that was stroking his face, and muttered, "If Slughorn's all that awful, why you're still _going_ to his petty little meetings, Zabini?"

"Because I've met Gwenog Jones there, haven't I? And next time, _Orsino_ _Thruston's_ supposed to come!"

What. An. Idiot.


	84. The Fifth Circle Of Hell

Draco is sent an unsuspicious-looking newspaper cutting

* * *

**- 3.34. -**

The Fifth Circle Of Hell

* * *

_And all the while one spirit uttered this,_

_The other one did weep so, that, for pity,_

_I swooned away as if I had been dying,_

_And fell, even as a dead body falls…_

_But because fraud is man's peculiar vice,_

_More it displeases God; and so stand lowest_

_The fraudulent, and greater dole assails them._

_Unto God, unto one's self, unto one's  
neighbour may violence be done_

_A death by violence, and painful wounds,_

_Are to our neighbour given; and in his substance_

_Ruin, and arson, and injurious levies;_

_By the other mode, forgotten is that love_

_Which Nature makes, and what is after added,_

_From which there is a special faith engendered._

_Hence in the smallest circle, where the point is_

_Of the Universe, upon which Dis is seated,_

_Whoe'er betrays for ever is consumed._

_DANTE ALIGHIERI – Divine Comedy_

_

* * *

_

Many medics world-wide, Muggles and wizards alike, agree that stress is one of the predominant factors of diseases all around. Even animals are prone to come down with it, and so the more are human beings. Draco Malfoy was realising the truth of this common place, too – in the past months, he had lost weight, his appetite, his anyhow pale complexion had adopted a decidedly unhealthy tinge, and he had deep shadows around his eyes from the constant lack of sleep. In short – he was feeling sick and miserable, and had no hope at present to get better. The way he saw it, his situation could only become worse yet.

No matter how hard he tried, he hardly advanced with repairing the Vanishing Cabinet, that he had set such high hopes in. More – he couldn't even be quite sure whether his plan would work out, even _if_ he could mend it. What if he fixed the broken Cabinet after all, only to see that it would _not_ form a passage between the school and Knockturn Alley? That Montague had simply gone a bit mad, and mistaken what he had heard from outside? Or if it would connect the two places after all – introducing half a dozen Death Eaters to the school was by no means a guarantee of overwhelming the Headmaster. The uncertainty of all this rendered him touchy and ill-humoured, adding up to all his other, more harmless problems – Snape, McGonagall with her Prefect business nonsense, Quidditch, his homework, oh – and Pansy, of course.

He was sitting at breakfast this morning, desperately clinging to his forth cup of coffee and ignoring his girlfriend's useless gabbling. As far as he could tell, she was going on about their Herbology class, when a high-pitched screech announced the arrival of the post. A pretty barn owl landed in front of him, carrying a medium-sized package; absent-mindedly, he offered her a muffin and unwrapped the gift, that claimed to be sent by his mother regarding the sender, though this surely wasn't her handwriting, and neither her owl Freia.

It turned out to be a German art magazine – chiefly about the sculptures of Auguste Rodin, to be precise – and for a short moment, he thought that his mother might have asked one of the elves to send this to him. She was a great fan of Rodin's works, they even had some statues at home from this artist. But as soon as he opened the magazine, speechless horror grabbed hold of him and he stared at the page. Rodin had become famous for one piece in particular – the so called 'Gate of Hell'. This work was basically an overlarge door, showing hundreds of smaller sculptures, faces and bodies of people who appeared to come out, or be drawn into hell, modelled after the descriptions in Dante's Divine Comedy, and topped by a small figure which had become famous in itself – the man himself, posing as 'The Philosopher'.

Draco knew the gate by heart; he had once spent an entire afternoon in front of it, in the gardens of the Parisian museum where it was exhibited. He had been so enthralled by it, and his mother loved it so much, too, that his father had obtained a copy, which was exhibited in the library of Malfoy Manor now. Not a talented drawer like Narcissa, he could still have drawn every feature from memory.

On the picture before him though, some of the faces were slightly changed, so unobtrusively that only an intimate connoisseur would notice, and certainly never an unlearnt dimwit like Filch, who was monitoring the post. Some of those tortured and tormented people, frozen in their screams of despair and agony, were now showing the faces of his parents, while the figure on top – Rodin's famous 'Philosopher' – was modelled after his own face, staring down at the scenes below him in thoughtful indifference and contemplation.

He gasped and jumped up, eyeing the magazine as if it was a poisonous snake. Pansy shot him a perplexed look, and briefly gazed at the photo then. "What's up, sweetheart? You've forgotten something?"

He forced himself to get a grip, took his seat again and quickly turned the page, for once to dispel the gruesome image, and also not to raise any further suspicion. "No, no, I'm – fine… Yes, I've forgotten something – got to get back to the dorm before class –"

"Let me get it for you then," she offered. "You need your breakfast."

"No, Panse, it's all right. I've finished anyway…"

On the page he was looking at now, there were some extracts from the Divine Comedy printed. _Someone_, and undoubtedly _not_ his mother, had underlined certain passages – but the text was in German, so Filch could impossibly have read it. Draco's German wasn't very good – he had never really got around the grammar, but it was sufficient to understand the meaning of the words still.

'_So sprach der eine Geist von seinem Lieben; Der andere weinte so, daß ich vor Not Die Sinne fühlte wie beim Tod sich trüben, Und fiel, wie Körper fallen, wenn sie tot... Doch da Betrug des Menschen sondrer Fleck, Haßt Gott ihn meist... Gott, sich, dem Nächsten tut Gewalt man an...Gewalt fügt Tod und Wunden zu dem Blute Des Nebenmenschen; ferner bringt sie Schaden... Die letzte Weise nur, so scheint's, zerhaut Die von Natur geknüpfte Liebesschlinge... Die andere Art gibt jene Liebe auf, Die von Natur entsteht, mit der verbunden, Aus der besondere Treue nimmt den Lauf. Drum wird, wer je verräterisch befunden, im kleinsten Kreis, dort, wo der Prunk der Welt, Drauf Dis sich lagert, immerdar geschunden…_'

He felt sickness mounting up his throat, clasped his hand to his mouth and ran out of the Great Hall, only managing to enter the bathroom before throwing up the slice of toast and four cups of coffee that he had had for breakfast. Oh Merlin and all wizards! Oh Lord! His mother! His father! 'Since betrayal is unique to man, the Lord hates him, violence adds death and injuries to the blood of the closest one…' He vomited until it was only acid coming up, burning and stinging. He felt tears rising and bit them away, furious and helpless, and this was the state in which Pansy found him a couple of minutes later.

She had gone looking for him, concerned by his hasty disappearance; she had brought the awful magazine, unwitting of its real contents, and now urged him to go and see Madam Pomfrey. He declined, but she would not hear of it, continuing in that awfully sweet tone of hers, "Nay, be sensible. She can sort you out in no time, I'm sure!"

"I'm feeling better already –"

"No, you aren't. Don't try to be so heroic, baby –"

"ONCE AND FOR ALL, DON'T YOU CALL ME 'BABY', YOU STUPID COW!"

He was sorry in the moment he yelled this, but it was too late. Pansy threw the magazine in his face, turned on her heel and stormed out of the bathroom, and he stayed behind, feeling even more miserable than anyway. He shouldn't have… He hadn't meant to hurt her – she _was_ a stupid cow, but there was no call for telling her that, nothing of this was her fault, and he had no right to vent his frustration on the only person who actually tried to be nice to him.

In the end, he listened to her advice and walked up to the Infirmary. He was too shaken to attend class now, and since most of his teachers were cross with him these days for not participating as he ought to, he could well do with an official excuse signed by the old nurse. He could also do with some rest, feeling almost grateful when Madam Pomfrey ordered him to lie down at once, shocked by his unhealthy looks.

"Oh dear," she muttered, urging him to drink some remedial potion. "I keep telling the teachers not to harass you poor souls so badly. How's a child supposed to do all their homework, their work in class, _and_ see a bit of sun at the same time, I ask you –"

It was already noon when he woke up again, for half a minute feeling refreshed and almost blissful, until he recovered full consciousness again. He knew who had been the sender of this message, and it had been explicit enough – the Dark Lord was giving him a warning. So this was what was going to happen if he – oh god… He checked his watch, and without waiting for Madam Pomfrey's consent, he left and hurried down, hoping he could still get a bite of lunch before his afternoon classes started. Professor McGonagall would decapitate him if he didn't show up, signed note or not.

He thought he could also apologise to Pansy, but she wasn't in the Great Hall. Millicent, her roommate, was though, and obviously Pansy had filled her in on Draco's latest gaffe – Millicent was fiercely glaring at him, her face livid with contempt.

"Flitwick and Snape want to have a word with you, Malfoy," she said icily.

"Mmh. Yeah. Is Panse not here?"

"As you can see. Besides – why are you asking? Want to shout some more at her?"

"None of your business, is it?"

"Oh, it is, unfortunately, for every time you treat her meanly, she comes running to me afterwards!"

"_Every time? _That's taking it a bit far, don't you think –"

"No, absolutely not. Whenever the young gentleman is in a filthy mood, you take it out on her. You think that's fair?"

"Oh, come on! You're a sensible girl, Millicent, so I expect you understand that I'm not exactly pleased with all her gushing! Why can't she just stop to make such a fuss?"

"Because she's your girlfriend, Malfoy!"

"Only because she's my girlfriend, she still needn't call me – oh well, you know! It's pathetic!"

"You know what _I_ find pathetic? Your attitude, _that's_ pathetic! It's so obvious that you're not overly keen on her, but still you make around with her! Why don't you just dump her once and for all?"

That remark hit home; he felt that he was blushing, but he wouldn't let himself be told off by Millicent Bulstrode as well, it was enough that his mother, his Head of House, the Deputy Headmistress, every single one of his teachers, and recently, even the Dark Lord, lectured and censured him!

"Are you really suggesting that I should dump your best friend then," he snapped angrily, and she shrugged.

"I'm not suggesting anything, I've asked you a question, that's all!"

"Oh, I beg your pardon! And what _was_ this question exactly?"

"Why are you dating her if you clearly don't like her that much?"

"What do _you_ know how much I like her, eh?"

"Oh, I've got no idea, but what I have got are eyes to see, and what I see is that _she_ is terribly in love with you, that she'd do _anything _for you, and that you like her enough to screw her, but not enough to treat her with some respect!"

He stood up and marched away, without answering or looking at her again. The truth of her words was aching him, she had hit a sore spot there. The point was that he still regarded Pansy as a friend, so if any _other_ guy had treated her in such an unkind fashion, he would have got very cross with the bloke, and possibly have told Vince and Greg to give him a sound thrashing. Since he was neither schizophrenic nor masochistically inclined, he couldn't do that, of course, and to his greatest shame, he found that he hadn't got the nerve to break up with Pansy either. Why didn't _she_ simply break up with _him_? It'd be so much easier, and he needn't feel like a total jerk.

He had indeed managed to obtain a love potion; he had confiscated it from some silly Third Year from Gryffindor – in all probability, he had done Potter a favour with it. But as soon as he had got it, he had abandoned his former plan to slip Pansy that potion and let her compromise herself with Nott or whoever, so he could dump her then. She didn't deserve to be tricked like that, and even if most people believed Draco to be utterly ruthless, he wasn't. His mother had taught him _some_ lessons on morals, and that cheating one's friends was way beyond line had been one of them.

His mother…! He had to warn her! He had to tell her which peril was coming her way! On a second thought, he reckoned that she possibly knew already. But if she knew, why wouldn't she help him? He was dead sure that his oh-so-clever mother could come up with a dozen ways to kill Dumbledore off the top of her formidable head! But no, _she_ wanted Snape to be the one reaping all the glory, and that guy only held back because he was too cautious to disobey a direct order from the Dark Lord. He'd only step in once Draco had failed. Which would mean that at least Narcissa was safe, because Snape would surely demand that his beloved be spared!

But what about his dad, eh? The Dark Lord _would_ demand punishment, and without the shadow of a doubt, Lucius was going to be the one made paying, so he'd be out of the way and Snape could openly court his widow, and –

Such were the woes and troubles of Draco Malfoy. At least, Pansy forgave him soon enough and went back to her usual belittling. "You're so pale, dar-… Draco –"

"I'm pale by nature, Panse. No worries," he replied listlessly, knowing very well that he looked awfully ill.

"No, I'm serious! I really think you should go and see Madam Pomfrey about it. Maybe you've got a virus or something –"

"Or dragon pox," little Belinda Crabbe cried eagerly.

"Most certainly, it's _not_ dragon pox. The point about dragon pox is the _pox_, you know? Besides, I'd appreciate it if you didn't presume that I got a lethal, contagious disease –"

"You're drinking too much coffee, _that's_ for sure. That's why you're never hungry, and cannot find sleep and all that!"

"If I stop drinking coffee, I'll drop dead, Panse. Trust me on that one. Now could we please, _please_, stop this? I'm neither dying nor worrisomely ill, I need no nurses and no unqualified medical advice!"

She hadn't really listened, or mistaken him completely. "That's just what I'm saying! You should ask a pro, Madam Pomfrey, or maybe Warrington's uncle, the Healer. He's specialised on – hang on – what's it called… Anyway, he's treating my dad, too –"

"How nice for your dad, Panse."

"One of the leading capacities on the field of magical diseases, he is!"

"How nice for Warrington's uncle then."

She pinched his cheek, making him recoil and almost fall from his chair. She narrowed her eyes critically and stated, "You look quite anaemic, darl-… Draco."

"You've come a long way to get that I don't want to be called silly pet names, now all you need to learn is that I don't approve of being pinched either!"

Zabini, who just walked past, cried mockingly, "And here I was, assuming that you _did_ like being pinched by her, Malfoy!"

"Shut up, Zabini," Draco and Pansy said in unison.

"However, you can pinch _me_ anytime, Parkinson," Zabini laughed and winked at her.

"Bugger off, Zabini, and kindly refrain from flirting with my girlfriend." He couldn't say why on earth he had said that; for all he cared, Zabini could well get on with Pansy and solve Draco's own problems with her. It had clearly been the worst thing to say, for she blushed and simpered and gushed.

"Awww! It's so _sweet_ when you're getting jealous, darling!"

"Panse!"

"Sorry – Draco –"

"_That's_ better. Anyway, I'm not exactly jealous, it's rather –"

"Oh, I know! You guys always want to be so butch, don't you?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"Wanna be all cool and tough and masculine –"

She clapped her long, fake lashes, and Belinda next to her shot her an admiring glance, before goggling at Draco again with an enraptured smile – between the two of them, he shuddered. He couldn't take it anymore and escaped. He couldn't go to his room, where Greg and Vince were practising for their Defence class (meaning that stray curses flew all over the place), the Common Room was out of bounds, and when he popped into the library, he had to see that this was crowded by Gryffindors. He marched out as quickly as he had come, dodged Granger and Golden Boy, avoided a confrontation with Madam Pince and ended up strolling aimlessly through the castle when an idea darted through his head.

That bathroom! It had offered him a sanctuary once, and since it was permanently closed down because of that crazy ghost that haunted it, it should be a quite safe haven. He needed some time on his own, time to think, to get his head clear, to contemplate what he could try yet about the darn Cabinet, which still refused to be mended.


	85. Moping And Miserable

Draco makes a new friend

* * *

**- 3.35. -**

Moping And Miserable

* * *

_There is a place reserved_

_for me and my friends_

_and when we go_

_we all will go_

_so you see I'm never alone_

_there is a place with a bit more time_

_and a few more gentler words_

_and looking back_

_we do forgive_

_(we had no choice_

_we always did)_

_all that we hope is that when we go_

_our skin and our blood and our bones_

_don't get in your way_

_making you ill_

_the way they did when we lived_

_there is a place_

_a place in hell_

_reserved for me and my friends_

_and if ever I_

_wanted to cry_

_then I will_

_because I can _

_THE SMITHS_

_

* * *

_

Myrtle Minna Hackensack had always been an odd creature – ask any of her eight siblings, they'd gladly confirm it. Born in 1928, her parents had been Mr Henry Hackensack, a salesman for automobile replacement parts and his wife Wilhelmina. She had been the seventh of nine children, five boys and four girls, none of them exceptional, neither in terms of sharpness nor looks, and only little Myrtle had given the impression to be an exception of the rule. Her exhausted parents of course had had little clue just _how_ extraordinary one of their children might be; they had simply dismissed her as an oddball – whiny and moody, and decidedly strange. Their other children had never caused them half as much inconveniences as Myrtle.

Her two younger brothers had been frightened of her – laughably enough; the others had bullied her even more, just to 'make her do it again', as her brother Roland had once pointed out, when questioned why he had forced his younger sibling into a broom cupboard and bolted the door. Well, as it was, Myrtle _had_ done it again, namely freed herself after some struggles, and no one could have accounted how exactly, least herself. _Somehow_, the broom stick that had blocked the handles of the cupboard had splintered and given way to the frenzied girl, who had burst out with a slightly mad air, albeit her physical weakness.

When the explanation for this, and plenty of other weird things, had finally been delivered, Mr and Mrs Hackensack had been torn between relief and repulsion. A strange man had come to their house, introduced himself as 'Professor Kettleburn', asked them to send away the other children and sit down themselves, and perhaps, take a glass of brandy. What he had told them next was enough to make Mrs Hackensack, actually a teetotaller, drink three shots at once, and Mr Hackensack had nearly called for the police, to take care of this guy who must clearly have sprung from a mental asylum.

But after some more explanations, and proofs – that 'Professor' had taken out a piece of wood, waved with it, and made the furniture float in mid-air – it had begun to make sense, as much as a message like his could make sense, anyway. Myrtle, a witch? Mr Hackensack hadn't had the heart to speak it out aloud, but the term 'witch' had been used for Myrtle before, and not just once, though it of course hadn't referred to any possible magical talent. No, as a matter of fact, Myrtle's elder sisters had often groaned that somebody like Myrtle would have been burnt on the stakes two centuries earlier still, and even her own mother had sometimes referred to her like this – 'get Myrtle, the darn witch'.

Myrtle herself couldn't have believed it either, though after swallowing the message, she had quickly seen the advantages – she'd get away from her terrible siblings, away from the murky brick house, where she had to share a room with all her wicked sisters. She had thought she'd make a new start, up where she truly belonged, among her own kind rather than those brutes that had been her brothers. She had been in for a most cruel disappointment, because in fact, her life wasn't to change much, boarding school for wizards and witches or not. She still had had to share a room with four extremely rude girls, she had still been bullied and pushed around, and she hadn't become any more brilliant either.

Her Hufflepuff house mates had labelled her 'Moaning Myrtle' for her constant nagging – her sister Alice had once given her the name 'Murky Myrtle', and Myrtle herself had been determined to regard this as a first step forwards – from 'murky' to 'moaning' was a progress, wasn't it? Still, she had spent most of her spare time in a bathroom just to avoid her fellow students, and quite frequently, because she hadn't wanted them to see that she had been crying again. The bane of her existence in this school had been a girl named Olive Hornby, one year her senior and in Ravenclaw, but no matter what Myrtle had tried, she hadn't been able to escape Olive's snide remarks, and her companions' scornful laughter.

"You're a _witch_, Myrtle, aren't you?" Olive had smiled sweetly. "So why for Rowena's sake can't you even manage to get rid of those pimples? That's quite feeble, even for you, isn't it?"

Olive could talk! She had been very pretty, with silky red curls, a peachy skin where no blemish had ever been seen, and those big brown eyes that hadn't been obscured by thick glasses. She had been slender, graceful, smart and popular – in short, she had been everything that Myrtle had been not, and her favourite sport to pass away time had been picking on the unhappy Hufflepuff – possibly for similar reasons like her brother Roland back then. To 'make her do it again', just that Olive had meant the little tantrums that Myrtle had thrown before barricading herself in the bathroom once more.

Olive had gladly accepted to do detentions for pursuing her favourite hobby, and some of the other students had acted as if she had been some sort of martyr, as if it had been unfair that she should write lines for tormenting Moaning Myrtle. Others had just ignored the complaints, not at last the Hufflepuff Prefects, who had flatly refused to do anything at all about Myrtle's sorrows and laments. Instead they had advised her to 'get a grip, bloody hell', compelling her to spend just another afternoon in her residential cubicle, crying her eyes out about this gross injustice.

"Good heavens, get out of there, Myrtle!" her Head of House had sighed.

"No!"

"You only make it worse by pouting, you know –"

"I? Make it worse?" she had screeched, scandalised.

"Why do you even give them the satisfaction to see you like that –"

"I'm not! They don't _see_ me, that's why I'm here!"

"Oh, you know what I mean! You're making a total nincompoop out of yourself like this!"

Professor Bones hadn't meant to pick some more on the already harassed girl, but frankly, he had occasionally lost his nerve, too. There had always been students who hadn't fitted in, who had had difficulties to socialise, who had suffered from the other children's jokes. But Myrtle had been worse, in every respect. One couldn't even have felt much pity or compassion for her sake, too complacent, too self-pitiful, too stroppy she had been. Professor Bones had given a heart-felt sigh and left at last, to have a word with that Prefect who had vexed Myrtle so badly. But this one had only shrugged and declared that he couldn't have helped it, and his Head of House had noticed that he had employed just the same words that had darted through his own head whenever dealing with 'Moaning Myrtle'.

He had been displeased with himself when realising that he had subconsciously adopted that nickname, too. But he couldn't have helped this either, like his Prefects, like the other students, like Myrtle herself, probably. She had been just unbearable, trying for everyone's patience, even the truly good-hearted, kind children hadn't managed to steer clear of random mockery. And then, suddenly, the girl had been found dead, in her bathroom –

But after the first terrible shock, Professor Bones couldn't have denied from himself some stings of relief. It had been horrendous, of course. A murder – the poor girl – her poor parents – a _murder_, for Merlin's sake! And naturally, he had given severe detentions to the students who had blurted out loud that there had been any number of good reasons to kill off Myrtle. Just – secretly, and feeling grave pangs of conscience – Professor Bones couldn't have suppressed another sigh, and the notion that there had been some sort of truth in his students' thoughtless remarks.

Monstrous to say it, but – the world hadn't been worse off _without_ Myrtle Hackensack, and once the culprit had been found out and expelled from school, and the role-model Prefect catching him had been awarded a medal, the whole story had quickly been forgotten. Professor Bones had even suspected that the extremely mild punishment for the boy who had unleashed the monster to kill Myrtle had been due to the fact that nobody had been genuinely dismayed by her death. Not even her parents had been mourning much; they had come to the school, fetched the petrified corpse of their dead daughter in apparent indifference, and Myrtle's teachers had learnt that the Hackensacks had lost their second eldest son in the Great War of the Muggles already, just like one of their daughters during a bombing night of the Blitz. Those deaths had seemed to affect them very strongly, and Professor Bones had surmised that they had simply been too worn-out to realise that they had lost yet another child, and that the true grief would have followed later.

Only Olive Hornby, the girl who had been responsible for Myrtle shutting herself away that awful day, had indeed been appalled. She hadn't liked the chubby Hufflepuff, no, but by no means had she wanted her to be truly harmed either. She had felt guilty, and most amazingly, it had been her to reprimand her fellow students now for continuing to joke about the dead girl. But it had been no good.

Myrtle had been too young to die; she hadn't been ready, not prepared to advance to the next stage – whatever that may be. However, her spirits had not gone further to their new destination like they should have, like they would have in 999 out of a thousand cases, and she had remained a ghost instead. The fact that it had been her dead sibling welcoming her to afterlife _might_ have played a pivotal part in her resistance. She had had every reason to distrust Roland in life and had seen no reason to change her mind in death!

'Trust Moaning Myrtle to be obstinate even when facing her own death!' Professor Bones had thought, being confronted with yet more trouble – because Myrtle had returned to the school in her new ghostly shape, and sworn revenge.

Oddly enough – and what else could Myrtle have been but odd, right? – she hadn't taken out her malcontent on the boy who had been responsible for her death by pursuing _him_, no. She had ventured to torment her old foe Olive Hornby instead, by every means that she could have thought of. She had darted out of toilets to give Olive a fright, had made them regurgitate when Olive was in the cubicle, had lingered in her dorm and assaulted the girl in her sleep. During the OWL exams, the Deputy Headmaster Professor Dumbledore, her only advocate in life, had been forced to ban Myrtle from the Great Hall to prevent her from swishing around Olive's head, and only after she had also caused havoc on Olive's elder brother Nicholas' wedding – she had finally been condemned by a Ministerial decree to stop haunting the unhappy girl.

This had been another cause for serious upset for Myrtle, who had found it yet another act of injustice that she'd be prohibited to make her enemy's life as miserable as her own had been. Her temper had dropped some more, if that was possible, and for the next ten years, she had refused to come out of the U-bend that had become her new home. She had been as lonely and isolated as a ghost as she had been in life, unwilling to associate with the other ghosts, who had soon given up on her, and only Peeves, the Poltergeist, had refrained from the policy of friendly ignoring. He had pestered her in every possible way, gibing her, scorning her, inventing chants of mockery on 'Mucky, miserable, monotonous, misanthropic, mouldy, miffed, moody, moribund, moping, Moaning Myrtle', and Myrtle had retaliated by venting her mortification on the students who'd stumble into her bathroom accidentally.

For fifty years it had been like that; Professor Bones had retired, the Headmaster had died, Professor Dumbledore had been appointed as his successor. Thousands of students had walked the school corridors, humming the tune of 'Moping, Moaning Myrtle' under their breath – the song had been something of an evergreen. The ghost of the fifteen year old girl had remained on her own, even Peeves had lost his verve to tease her in the course of time. She had resigned to a 'life' – well, she hadn't found a better term yet, but it wasn't for a lack of trying – of loneliness, and thought herself to be very 'deep' after all, because of her serious mulling on the nature of death and all that.

But one day, some students had strutted into her bathroom; a girl that Myrtle had known from sight, and much more scandalising, two _boys_! They had been up to no good, she had seen at once, brewing forbidden potions. But that had been none of _her_ business, right? And in time, she had even begun to take some liking in one of those two boys – he had been called Harry, and had always tried to be nice to her, very much unlike his two friends. She had believed Harry to be her friend, or something close to it; she had even ventured to offer him to share her bathroom, if he had been to die – which had seemed likely enough.

Once again, Myrtle had been let down in her hopes. Harry hadn't died, nor returned after a while, although he had promised, and she had been alone again, utterly buried in her persistent depression, and hopeless that anything would ever change. By now, even she had become somewhat fed up with that state, fifty years had been a long time to dwell on the same matter, and she had thought she had been ready for another new beginning. And it had come, in the shape of another boy, one she had known by sight already.

It should be mentioned at this point that Myrtle had developed a hobby of her own, roughly twenty years ago. She had never told anyone – except Harry, who had abandoned her so shamelessly – but every now and then, she'd glide through her beloved pipes, and make an appearance in the Prefect's Bathroom. Clandestinely, of course! If Peeves had ever known about it… Anyway, she had occasionally gone up to the Fifth Floor, to take a glimpse at some of the more delectable male visitors; some handsome by nature, others trained by Quidditch exercise, and some chosen few blessed by both.

Yes, she had long known that boy, before he had known _her_, though she hadn't told him that. She had spent some pleasant evening observing him through the tap nozzle, thoroughly relishing her top choice view on a well-shaped chest, a luscious backside, distinct features and piercing grey eyes. He hadn't been the only good-looking boy in the castle, and she wouldn't have bothered for him more than for anyone else, hadn't he come to _her_ bathroom one day, with a tired expression, drawn his wand and hexed the door shut behind him before slouching down onto the floor and burying his head in his arms.

She thought he had fallen asleep, for he didn't move, nor gave he any sign of life or activity – for a short, blissful minute, she even nurtured the hope that he might have died on that spot there, and that she'd have a companion to roam the pipes from now on. But no – Myrtle had some experience with death after all, and this one was decidedly alive, she could see him breathing, even if it was just flatly.

If he wasn't up to die, he had nothing to do there, and that's what she was up to tell him in her most vociferous manner. "Oi! What you think you're doing here? This is the _girls_ bathroom!"

He didn't even raise his head. "Is that so? Well, then you've just got to deal with it, haven't you?"

"Me?" she shrieked in exasperation. "I _am_ a girl! You –"

"You're a ghost; I dare say that's not quite the same, is it. Now if you leave _me_ alone, I won't disturb _you_ either, so why don't you just beat it?"

"Because this is _my_ place, and you've got no business here!"

"Funny, I haven't noticed a sign outside – 'Insane ghosts only'."

She glared at him, but he hadn't got the kindness to look up to her, so her filthy looks were quite wasted. What should she do? She threatened to attack him – the living didn't like it to be touched by ghosts, finding it unpleasant and cold and disturbing. But he merely chuckled under his breath, fluttered his hand at her and murmured, "Go ahead then. I don't care."

"You won't like this!"

"No, I possibly won't, but mark my words, I've got worse problems than you. Now would you please leave me alone, I've got to think about something –"

"And you can't do that in your own place?"

Now he did raise his head at last, giving her a scornful sneer, and snarled, "If I could, do you reckon I'd sit _here_ – in the _girl's bathroom_ – quarrelling around with a _ghost_?"

"Why can't you do it in your own place?"

"Because –" he began, before his expression suddenly changed; it looked as if a door had been closed inside him. "Oh, for Merlin's sake, get lost, will you!"

For a start – Myrtle wouldn't be chased out of her own bathroom. Then – she was pretty used to insolence, but this boy was strangely different from the other intruders before him. And last but not least – she had recognised him when he had looked at her, and she remembered that he was quite a dish. So she zoomed down, not to harass him, but speak to him with as much compassion in her voice as she could muster, "No, I won't leave, for this is my own place. But perhaps I can help you."

"I sincerely doubt that!"

"You should give it a try, at least!"

"I don't think so!"

Whenever people had come into her bathroom, wearing an expression like this, it had _always_ been because they were heartbroken for someone – Myrtle had seen long rows of unhappy faces in her time!

"You've got trouble with that girlfriend of yours?" she asked, remembering that she had sometimes seen him in the Prefect's Bathroom with a girl, doing – well, _forbidden_ things! She had no clue about the present regulations, but she was positive that _this_ was still as strictly prohibited as it had been in her own time.

He frowned. "Why would you know that I have a girlfriend?"

"Seen you with her," she replied evasively. "And you shouldn't make yourself uneasy because of _her_, she's not worth it!"

He gave a swift, mirthless chuckle, and muttered, "If it consoles you – I can figure that out myself, and _no_, it's surely not because of _her_!"

Myrtle was surprised – he didn't wear that look because of a girl? How odd! "Your name's Draco, right?" That onerous _girlfriend_ of his had quite often screeched his name when they – anyhow.

"Right. And you are Moaning Myrtle, glad we've covered that, so would you _please_, _please_ leave me alone now? I'd really –"

"If you want me to leave you alone, you've got to go yourself, for I will stay right where I am. What's your problem?"

"None of your business, for a start!"

"No, possibly not. Being dead, I've got just few problems myself, you know. Well, _Peeves_, obviously. And boys who think nothing of the rules and go into girl's bathrooms, and won't even leave after one points it out to them. But otherwise –"

Now he sniggered, not really happy, but somewhat amused. "Can I ask you something? Why does it _bother_ you so much whether I'm here or not? I wouldn't talk to you, you would hardly notice my presence, so why can't you just give it a rest, eh?"

"Way of the world! People _always_ pester other people, and this is _my_ place to do so!"

"I sort of like your attitude." He smirked. "I've got to remember that one – 'way of the world, people pester other people' –"

"So who's pestering you then?"

He hesitated for some minutes, scrutinising her closely, with his head leant back against the wall, and his eyes narrowed. But then, he indeed started to talk to her, in a resigned voice, telling her that he was in trouble, though he was absolutely unwilling to specify what _sort_ of trouble, that his friends were getting on his nerves, especially that girlfriend, and hinted that the rest of the world was even worse. Oh, she understood just too well!

"And that's why you rather hang around a closed down bathroom than go to your own dorm?"

"Precisely," he sighed, closing his eyes. "And if it hadn't been for you, I'd take a little nap, and could go on with my life, or what's left of it, anyway!"

"Oh, don't be so dramatic! Take a look at _my_ case – you've _got_ a life, for a start!"

"I've got a life _yet_," he replied darkly. She mistook his meaning; thinking he referred to human mortality in general, and that he was a kindred spirit, philosophising about the nature of life and death just like herself. To encourage such worthy reflections, she told him about her own findings, and although she didn't obtain the wished effect, he at least smiled genuinely for the first time since coming in.

"That's how you pass eternity?" he asked. "Now I see why you're so ill-tempered!"

"Better than being ill-tempered because of one's _friends_," she muttered, offended.

"I'm not ill-tempered because of _them_. They're just the reason why I'm _here_."

"So why _are_ you ill-tempered?"

"Because the D-," he bit his lip, and his face became a tinge paler yet. "Because _someone_ wants to kill my father, and it's _my_ fault when something happens to him. Satisfied now?"

The subject of killings had never failed to rouse Myrtle's interest, seeing that she had been killed herself. But as no one had ever cared much about _her_ being murdered, and not a family person to begin with, she hadn't got a notion what he could mean. "Yeah – so?"

"So?" He stared at her, aghast. "I'm talking about my _father_, you insane nanny goat!"

"No reason to be rude," she snapped back. "My father's dead, too, and do you hear me complaining?"

He gaped at her for a minute, before shutting his mouth again, shaking his head. "Evidently, you haven't got a clue what I'm talking about, so –"

"Oh, I do know what you're talking about! In this entire castle, there's _nobody_ who knows only half as much as I about death, and murder, and –"

"So? What do you know then! What would _you_ do to kill somebody, uh?"

"Monsters," she answered smugly. "_I_ have been murdered by a giant monster!"

He snorted. "Let's assume you'd have no monster at hand then!"

"Plenty of other possibilities, aren't there? Sir Nicholas, for an instance, has been decapitated – well, almost, but it's sufficed to do him in anyway–"

"Very impractical though."

"The Bloody Baron is said to have duelled a Muggle with a sword, and got stabbed –"

"Even more impractical!"

"I heard the Grey Lady's been put in a wall without her wand by her relatives –"

"I couldn't even start elaborating on the countless reasons why that's _really_ the coronation of all impracticability!"

"The Fat Friar's been poisoned with his own mead, that he's brewed for his –"

He gave a start, and his expression changed from scorn to excitement. He got to his feet with one energetic move, grinned at her and said, "Well, Myrtle, turns out you might be the true expert after all! See you!"

He sprinted out of the bathroom, and Myrtle didn't harbour any hope that he would ever come back. They never did, none of them. But this boy was different – he _did_ return, and in time, their conversations became less distanced.

Indeed, once they had gotten used to each other, they tentatively started to talk as if they were _friends_ actually. She'd never had a friend, so she wasn't entirely sure, but she thought that this felt as it must feel to have a friend. They talked and listened to each other. He appeared to find some relaxation in talking to her; he'd tell her of some of his worries, now and then complaining about the Headmaster hanging around in school (Myrtle wondered where else he was supposed to hang out, but didn't say that), or his girlfriend trampling on his nerves, and the implication that he'd rather spend his time with _her_ instead of his girlfriend flattered the ghost to no end. She thought she could tell he had other sorrows more severe than that, but he remained vague on that head, no matter how often she asked. In return, he would listen to _her_ troubles like nobody else ever had. He commiserated her lonely existence, expressed some outrage regarding Peeves' constant harassment, pitied her for her wretched experiences with Olive Hornby, appeared revolted by the story of her own death, and as it should turn out, _her_ killer seemed somewhat related to his own problems, too. He never hinted at more than that, evading her questions by gloomily muttering that he must never speak it out, and that he'd get into even worse trouble if he did tell someone.

For the first time in both life and death, Myrtle had found a friend at last; she even stopped peeping on him in the Prefect's Bathroom, because _friends_ wouldn't do something like that.


	86. Crashing

Draco won't endure tob e lectured by Professor Snape of all people

* * *

**- 3.36. -**

Crashing

* * *

_Nil turpe ducas pro salutis remedio._

_PUBLILIUS SYRUS – Sententiae_

_

* * *

_

He was slowly getting desperate. So far, the Dark Lord hadn't _done_ anything, but it could only be a matter of time – if time was money, it'd be no problem, Draco got more than enough of the one, and nothing of the other; oh, if only he could simply _buy_ himself some time! But as things were, all his parents' wealth couldn't help him, couldn't help _them_, nothing could help either of them now if –

The great majority of students were preparing to go home for Christmas, and Draco should have been one of them. The only times he had _not_ been home for Christmas had been the year when his grandfather had been on his dying bed, and his parents had been too afraid that Draco could be infected with the highly contagious disease he had died from, and the year when there had been the big Yule Ball and Draco had unwittingly promised Pansy to accompany her – though he had packed his trunks immediately afterwards so he could at least spend the remainder of the holidays with his parents. But this year, he grew more and more convinced that he should stay in school and seize the opportunity to get some work on the bloody Cabinet done while nobody was there to bother him.

That decision didn't sit well with him. The thought of his mum, all on her own in the vast emptiness of Malfoy Manor... He forcefully suppressed that idea, focusing on his fury and outrage instead. It was _her_ fault after all, wasn't it! If she had done as she ought to do, if she had supported her son properly and obeyed the Dark Lord's orders instead of running to Snape, the bloody traitor –

Truth be told, Draco by now had come to believe that his aunt was mistaken and that Snape was no traitor, not in the way she thought of at least. No, he was surely a faithful minion to their cause, but just as surely he was going to betray everything else that was good and sacrosanct, he wanted to replace Draco's dad in the Dark Order and craved to take his place at Narcissa Malfoy's side as well, and thought Draco was stupid enough not to notice!

His life hadn't become any easier with the new curfew rules, for which he had only himself to blame, too. They had been issued after the Katie Bell incident. As a Prefect, he was still allowed around the castle at any time of day and night, but not at any _place_, and Filch, the blithering idiot, was sneaking around, just dying to catch a stray student. And that cursed _cat_ of his – Draco had always been fond of cats, his mum's beautiful Siamese Emma, Millicent had a moody tomcat, he even liked Aoki, she was Zabini's most sympathetic feature – but he'd make an exception for Mrs Norris at once. That was one mean beast, perfectly befitting her foul-tempered owner!

On his way up to the Room Of Hidden Things, he stumbled over exactly that cat now, cursing under his breath and hurrying up, but he had no luck, like so often these days. In the next second, an arm snatched out of a curtain, and a triumphant wheeze echoed through the hallway, "AHA!"

He'd have to hand it to Filch, he was crafty with his covers, and also, he knew an ear-screw that was worthy of a troll-wrestler. Draco struggled with him and protested, "Leave me _alone_, I'm a _Prefect_, I –"

"Prefect or not, you have no business in _this_ part of the school!"

They argued all the way to Slughorn's office, where the big party that Zabini had mentioned was taking place. This gave Draco the idea to claim that he had been invited, too, but Filch merely grinned, "Well, then I'll just take you there personally, laddie, shan't I?"

This pathetic dunderhead, a Squib if there ever was one, who did he think he was? And what was more, Draco really hadn't got the time for any of this, Dumbledore wasn't in Hogwarts, who knew, perhaps he'd return tomorrow… The new Potions Master's office was cramped full with people, from the corner of his eye, Draco spotted Orsino Thruston and Myron Wagtail and Zabini sucking up to them, the manager of the Montrose Magpies, Glenda Chittock, a sound dozen other celebrities, and inevitably, Golden Boy Potter – in the company of that lunatic Ravenclaw girl, who had tried to dress herself up as a Christmas tree… Under different circumstances, Draco would have been excessively amused by that sight, but _this _wasn't the right time.

Filch explained his purpose to Slughorn, not letting go of Draco, but now he finally had enough. He broke free, hissing, "All right! I wasn't invited! I was trying to gate-crash, happy?"

Naturally, Filch wasn't _happy_, that maggot hadn't had a single _happy_ day in all his life. Slughorn was high-spirited enough though, inviting Draco to stay – as if he was keen on _that_ – and as for Professor Snape… Draco decidedly tried to avoid his Head of House's angry glare, deciding that this was an opportunity in disguise. He'd stay for five minutes, he'd play up to Slughorn, and sneak off at the first possible moment.

"Thank you so much, Sir," he said and shot the Potions Master a broad smile. "It is so very generous of you to extend your invitation; I am honoured, honoured and proud –"

"It's nothing, nothing! I did know your grandfather, after all…"

'Yeah, and you know my _father_ even better, bloody hypocrite,' Draco thought, but didn't waver in his smile and tone. "He always spoke very highly of you, Sir. Said you were the best potion-maker he'd ever known."

"Oh, no," Slughorn sniggered, attempting to look modest and failing entirely. "As I was just telling dear Harry, here, his dear mother Lil –"

"I'd like a word with you, Draco," Professor Snape said roughly, a glint in his black eyes, and marched him out, only the tiniest bit more sensitive than Filch had been. Not this again. Lately, Snape took _every_ chance he got to 'have a word' – and Draco seized the opportunity to show his utter disdain in return.

_This_ time, Snape tried a new angle. "What on _earth_ are you doing here still, Draco! You ought to be packing to go _home_ to your mother!"

"Don't you speak of her!" Draco retorted, hissing, but the teacher ignored him.

"Oh, stop being so stubborn, will you! How do you think she'll be feeling if you're not coming! _Go home!_"

Draco put on his most vicious smile. "I suppose she'll be feeling alone, just like my father in Azkaban! How sweet of you to trouble yourself so, but don't you worry, we'll have our family reunion soon enough and –"

"Your father cannot be helped at present, Draco. I'm sorry, but that's just how it is. But you and your mother needn't _be_ alone –"

"I'm not alone!"

"When _I_ last saw the packed trunks in the Common Room, I believe I spotted the luggage of the Messrs Goyle and Crabbe, just like dear Miss Parkinson's!"

"Well, they're not the only ones worth spending time with. Allow me to choose for myself whom I want to spend Christmas with!"

Snape cast his eyes to the ceiling. "Oh, for heaven's sake! You're not referring to that inane ghost are you? Go _home_, talk to your mum, reconcile with her –"

"_That's_ what you want! You want her to bug me and find out what I'm about to do, so she can tell _you_ afterwards!"

"Oh, indeed, that is _exactly_ what I want," Snape taunted icily. "Because then, I might be able to prevent you from accidentally killing off half of the student body!"

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

They went through the same ludicrous argument as always, Snape persisting, Draco refusing, competing who of them could show the better sneer. Oh yeah, Snape _did_ suck up way too much to Draco's mum, repeating word for word what _she_ would tell him if she had the chance.

"You realise that, had anybody else failed to come to my office when I had told them repeatedly to be there, Draco –"

"So put me in detentions!" Draco cut him short, glowering at his teacher. "Report me to Dumbledore!"

Of course, Snape wouldn't do that. He wanted to ingratiate himself to Draco's mum, and she wouldn't take it kindly if he willingly sabotaged her only child. Indeed, with a slightly defeated expression, he muttered, "You know perfectly well that I do not wish to do either of those things."

"You'd better stop telling me to come to your office then," Draco shot back with his most triumphant smirk.

But Snape still didn't give in. "_Listen_ _to_ _me_," he said urgently, using his classroom voice, the tone that forced anyone to listen very attentively or they wouldn't understand. "I am trying to _help_ you. I _swore_ to your mother I would protect you. I made the Unbreakable Vow, Draco…"

Fool! _Narcissa Malfoy_ was the decidedly wrong key to press with her son these days. A sudden wave of sheer hate engulfed him, he clenched his fists and spat venomously, "Looks like you'll have to break it, then, because I don't need _your _protection! It's _my_ job! _He_ gave it to me and _I'm_ doing it! I've got a plan and it's going to work, it's just taking a bit longer than I thought it would!"

"What _is_ your plan?"

"It's none of _your_ business!"

"If you tell me what you are trying to do, I can assist you –"

Oh, for goodness' sake! Didn't Snape _ever_ grow tired of this? When would he comprehend at last that Draco would rather pick Fenrir Greyback himself as a confidante, than the wretched rival of his own father? They argued back and forth, Snape looking weary, Draco increasingly driven by loathing. Finally, Snape shook his head, as unnerved as Draco had been all along. "You are speaking like a child. I quite understand that your father's capture and imprisonment has upset you, but –"

Draco gave a little hiss and just walked out on him. Snape understood _nothing_, nothing at all!

* * *

_Nil turpe..._ Do not despise what could be your saviour.


	87. Memory Lane

Remus Lupin let himself be talked into celebrating Christmas with the Weasleys

* * *

**- 3.37. -**

Memory Lane

* * *

_But Christmas falls late now, flatter and colder, and never as bright as when we used to fall, and even if we drink, I don't think we would kiss in the way that we did when the woman was only a girl…_

_THE CURE_

_

* * *

_

Why has he given in to Molly's pleas, eh? He can't account for it! Yes, admittedly, spending Christmas with the Weasleys is much more pleasant than his usual holiday tradition – trying to ignore the loneliness without feeling too sorry for himself, getting wasted, and not leave his bed if he can possibly avoid it. Or rather – it is _supposed_ to be better here, just that it doesn't feel better _at all_!

_This_ isn't about _pleasure_! Last year, they were all together in Sirius' house, and Remus finds it somehow indecent to celebrate as if the last year hadn't taken place. No, that isn't really true, is it, no one pretends to have _forgotten_ Sirius. And from a rational point of view, it is _good_ that they have come together to celebrate, _despite_ the impending war, despite all the terror and destruction. Nonetheless, he feels plain miserable, and he'd much rather go home and hide himself than be here.

This is no good. Some crappy crooner's singing corny love songs, Molly is going down memory lane, while Bill and his pretty fiancée are cuddling in a corner. Merlin's beard, if only he could think of a good excuse to escape all this. He shouldn't have come in the first place, he only agreed after Molly has threatened to be seriously angry if he didn't show up, stressing how much Harry would appreciate his presence. Admittedly, that hasn't been the only reason. A part of Remus has somehow hoped to – to… Oh well –

'_You charmed my heart right out of me_', the awful singer now purrs. Oh, for heaven's sake! There's only one person in the entire room enjoying the music, but since Molly has invited them all and tried so hard to make them all feel at ease, he thinks she's entitled to indulge herself a bit. If only these weren't all love songs; he would put up with pretty much everything, but hearing nothing but hollow common places about the bliss, or soreness of romance is too much for him! They want to hear about a broken heart? _He_ could write an entire opera about this!

He looks around, finding Harry and Arthur talking quietly and agitatedly. He tries to concentrate on _their_ conversation rather than listening to the song, and hears, somewhat amazed, that Harry is once again dwelling on his two favourite topics – Snape and the Malfoy boy. – So Severus has truly made the Unbreakable Vow with Narcissa Malfoy? That can't be true, can it? _No one_ right in their minds _ever_ makes that particular vow, least in times like these. Does Dumbledore know about this?

On a second thought – he probably does. He's closer to Severus than anybody else in the Order, and unlike Harry here, he fully trusts his most valuable source from Voldemort's inner circle. But what the heck has Severus been thinking? If anything, _Narcissa Malfoy_ can't be trusted! She might not be a Death Eater herself, but her husband is, and since pretty much the only thing that Remus knows about her is how great her attachment to Lucius is, he knows her to be capable of _anything_! How _on earth _has she lured _Severus_ in, who's after all very shrewd? All right, so they go way back; Severus might feel gratefulness to these people who stood up for him when nobody else did – just that in this case, his thankfulness may be dangerous for everybody else…

But maybe Harry's just mistaken. Eavesdropping often conveys more false information than valid ones… Arthur is sceptical, too. "Has it occurred to you, Harry, that Snape was simply pretending –"

"Pretending to offer help, so that he could find out what Malfoy's up to? Yeah, I thought you'd say that. But how do we know?"

"It isn't our business to know," Remus hears himself speaking, but turns away again. "It's Dumbledore's business. Dumbledore trusts Severus, and that ought to be good enough for all of us."

He's speaking of himself there, isn't he? Remus sneers bitterly, staring into the fire. If it wasn't for Dumbledore's trust in _him_, a good person like Molly wouldn't invite a werewolf round her house in a thousand years!

"But… Just say – just say Dumbledore's wrong about Snape –"

"People have said it many times! It comes down to whether or not you trust Dumbledore's judgement. I do, therefore I trust Severus," he replies stubbornly, keen to dispel his own notions as much as his self-consciousness.

"But Dumbledore can make mistakes! He says it himself. And you – do _you_ honestly _like_ Snape?"

"I neither like nor dislike Severus. – No, Harry, I am speaking the truth. We shall never be bosom friends, perhaps; after all that happened between James, Sirius and Severus, there is too much bitterness there. But I do not forget that during the year I taught at Hogwarts, Severus made the Wolfsbane Potion for me every month, made it perfectly, so that I did not have to suffer as I usually do at the full moon."

"But he _accidentally_ –" Harry gestures with his fingers. "Let it slip that you're a werewolf, so you had to leave!"

Harry rants on some more, Remus can't persuade him. Luckily, they change the topic, even though Harry's chosen subject hits a sore spot with him, too – his mission with the werewolves, oh well. He mentions Greyback – Remus has thought a lot about Greyback lately, even more than anyhow… Greyback is the child of such an unfortunate relationship like Nymphadora wants with him – and look what's come out of it! The hate, the bitterness, the vindictiveness! And if it hadn't been for Remus' own good father – his father was a _very_ good man – and Dumbledore's unwavering faith, Remus might be exactly like that now…

"But you are normal! You've just got a – a problem," Harry cries warmly, and in this moment, he is the spit and image of his dad, James. Speaking of unwavering faith – without James, Lily and Sirius then, Remus might just have turned to the wrong side still; it's been his friends who taught him the meaning of friendship, and warmth, and that people can like him _despite_ his monstrosity –

"Sometimes you remind me a lot of James," he says, laughing. "He called it my 'furry little problem' in company. Many people were under the impression that I owned a badly behaved rabbit!"

"Have you ever heard of someone called the Half-Blood Prince?"

"The Half-Blood what?"

"Prince," Harry says with emphasis.

"There are no wizarding princes." He smirks, thinking that Sirius did consider himself a little prince back then, didn't he? It's like the typical feature of that family, and although Sirius was one of the kindest people that Remus has ever met, he did have a fair share of his family's hauteur, too. "Is that a title you're thinking of adopting? I should have thought being the _Chosen One_ would be enough!"

"It's nothing to do with me!" Harry continues warmly, and between the lines, Remus can see that he's thinking of his dad, too.

"James was a pureblood, Harry, and I promise you, he never asked us to call him 'prince'."

"And it wasn't Sirius? Or you?"

"Definitely not."

He can see the boy's disappointment. God, look at him; he's so desperate to have something from his father, he'd be content believing that some battered old Potions book belonged to James, only to cling to _something_. Yes, Remus understands this. He's kept a shabby old Wimbourne Wasps T-shirt that Nymphadora's once left in his flat, only because it belonged to her, only because it still faintly smells like her…

Next, Molly and Bill's fiancée have a bit of a quarrel and they all go to bed. Now take a look at _her_, too! There's Molly, with the ready-made perfect daughter-in-law – Fleur's gorgeous, and clever, and disregarding some minor bad habits, also a very friendly person – but Molly despises her still. Now imagine what good Andromeda Tonks is saying behind closed doors, about her daughter going out with a _werewolf_!

The evening is a bit of a fiasco, and the actual Christmas Morning doesn't get any better either. No matter what, he is constantly reminded of Nymphadora, even by someone as unlikely as Bill's fiancé. "You are as bad as zat Tonks. She is always knocking –"

"I invited _dear_ Tonks to come along today. But she wouldn't come. Have you spoken to her lately, Remus?" Molly snarls poignantly.

She doesn't truly want to discuss this now, does she? "No," he replies with ostentatious calmness, "I haven't been in contact with anybody very much. But Tonks has got her own family to go to, hasn't she?"

Molly gives a little growl and narrows her eyes. "Maybe. I got the impression she was planning to spend Christmas alone, actually!"

That remark hits home – just what Molly's had in mind! Remus bites his lip, exchanging an angry glance with his host. She's _alone_? At _Christmas_? What about her parents? What about… – Harry interrupts that fatuous train of thought.

"Tonks' Patronus has changed its form. Snape said so, anyway. I didn't know that could happen. Why would your Patronus change?" the boy asks eagerly. Remus considers himself lucky to have a big chunk of turkey in his mouth that allows him to delay his answer for a moment.

"Sometimes… A great shock – an emotional upheaval…" In a way, this is wishful thinking – he _wishes_ that Nymphadora has come over him and begun anew with someone else, someone better. The same thought makes him feel sick though, dreading to see her with another man.

"It looked big, and it had four legs," Harry goes on, but luckily, he doesn't notice that Remus is choking on a bit of pastry with that mention. "Hey – it couldn't be…?"

Before he could say anything, Molly has cried out, giving the impression of getting a seizure, and exclaims that her third oldest, Percy, the lost son, is about to come home. Remus finds that shady, to put it mildly, but he couldn't be more grateful for just anything to change the subject of Nymphadora. They all stare, because Percy isn't alone – he is coming with Rufus Scrimgeour – now what the _hell_ is _that_ supposed to mean –

Molly is out of herself, pressing her child to her mighty bosom. It would seem that she's the only one not noticing that Percy clearly wants to be elsewhere, judging his stiff pose. But maybe he's simply insecure, seeing the ten angry glares piercing him there. Even Fleur Delacour looks scandalised; it appears that her fiancé has filled her in on the family drama. Her beautiful face is twisted into a mask of disdain, and she's by no means the only one – all eyes in the room are practically glued to the treacherous young man, who traded his loving family for a career in the Ministry. Scrimgeour, being the cunning old fox that he is, seizes the chance and coaxes Harry out, into the garden. That _bastard_, he –

"It's fine," Harry says, shooting Remus a soothing look. "Fine."

No, Harry… _Nothing_ is _fine_ any longer!


	88. The Downward Spiral

Lucius loses his mind thinking of his family

* * *

**- 3.38. -**

The Downward Spiral

* * *

_Abandon hope, all ye who enter here._

_DANTE ALIGHIERI – Divine Comedy_

_

* * *

_

His anguish was unspeakable. Pacing in circles in his narrow cell, his thoughts gyring, round and round and round, more desperate with each turn they were taking, choking him, suffocating him slowly. They say that time heals, that pain, fear, worries would lessen in time, and in many cases, this might well be true. In Lucius' case, it wasn't, but quite the contrary. Every day in this gaol merely increased his restless dreads, each night, his imagination flashed more gruesome pictures, of Draco, of Narcissa, crucified, tortured, lying in their own blood. He saw his beloved's broken bones, crushed skulls, golden and silver blond hair entangled in death, he could hear their screams and desperate pleas, for mercy, for the final spell to end their misery…

Lucius Malfoy had never been a man for tears. For screaming, for cursing, for brutally venting his rage, or frustration. And he had screamed, yelled, romped and clamoured; he had thrown one tantrum of helpless fury and guilty fear after the other, he had boxed against the walls of his cell until his hands were bleeding, he had continued even when his knuckles had long broken. The pain had been nothing compared to the terror in his guts.

Now he finally understood The Eel's compliance… A bitter sneer would curl Lucius' lips whenever he thought of him. That wretched worm might have taken ample of gold to solicit the fulfilment of his rich clients' dearest wish – to obtain the permission for a visit here. His true object however must have been an order from the Dark Lord himself. Oh yes. The Dark Lord would have wanted Lucius to be as much in the picture as possible. He wanted him to know what was coming, and it would come, there could be no doubt – no hope! – about it!

So this was his punishment, wasn't it, this was the Dark Lord's revenge for his faithless lieutenant; not retrieving that blistering prophecy had merely been the last straw. Lucius had never been a master in Occlumency, and it wouldn't have taken the Dark Lord's skills to figure out what meant most to Lucius Malfoy. His family, of course – there was nothing in the whole wide world that meant more to him, Draco, Narcissa – all his riches, vast as they were, couldn't equal the treasure that these two were to him. Indeed, he would gladly have given up all these fortunes if only he could have protected his loved ones from the master's wrath.

But what could he have done, anyway? Lucius Malfoy was a vain man, but far from stupid. He didn't flatter himself to be a patch on his master. Still, just being with his wife, their son, doing the little he _could_ do, to make up the tiniest bit for the undeniable truth – namely that it had been _him_, no one but Lucius himself, who was to blame for their doom. The guilt was eating him up. It was, truly – he couldn't eat, he could hardly sleep, he couldn't even hold back the tears any longer. It was him who had brought their undoing upon them. If it was only his own life at stake here, oh well! He guessed he'd deserve it!

But Narcissa – Draco – they hadn't done _anything_ wrong! Of course, this was his punishment. This was exactly what the Dark Lord wanted – seeing Lucius writhe in agony, fuck with his mind, force him to witness how the only thing he had ever truly cared for was slowly slipping away from him, closer and closer to the abyss! In his youth, Lucius wouldn't have thought of himself as a 'family man'. He had never known then what it was like to have a real family. Yes, he had already been in love with Cissa, had already known he'd have a son one day… But he hadn't been able to imagine how it'd truly be like; he wouldn't have believed that he could grow to love her even more than he had already then, that he'd be ready to lay down his life for her without blinking, and that the same would be true for his son.

The plan was quite ingenious, he'd give him that, punishing the parents by sending their only child on a suicide mission. Not in a million years Draco would be capable of conquering Albus Dumbledore. It was _impossible_ in the most literal sense of the term! Not even the Dark Lord himself would have managed that – Lucius hadn't seen it, but he had heard of their last confrontation. Dumbledore had dispelled every curse, no matter how Dark, or how mighty, without using Dark magic himself, meaning he hadn't even started. Draco would _die_ – his son, _Narcissa's_ _baby_ – would die for his father's sins! Either Dumbledore would kill him for trying, or the Dark Lord would kill him for failing! No matter which way, Draco was doomed because his father had cocked it up!

And Narcissa wouldn't stand back and watch her child being killed, so much was certain. She had turned to Severus for help already, daring the Dark Lord's wrath… But once Draco had failed – and he would fail – Lucius would have to be very much mistaken in his own son if this one was capable of murder. He smiled woefully. Draco was his father's spit and image, but his mother's son in everything but appearances. Lucius had killed his first victim at nineteen and felt no qualms about it. Draco however wasn't like this, he knew him. Like Cissa, he was quick at repartee. He was quick in anything, thinking, talking, but like her, he was also gentle and hesitant; he abhorred physical violence. Where Lucius would have cursed someone, these two would retaliate with words, hurting much longer and more effectively than a curse could. But neither could Dumbledore be defeated by mere words, nor could the Dark Lord be pacified by them.

Oh, if he could be the one to stand in for them, it was _his_ fault after all, no one's but his! Once again, Lucius boxed against the wall next to his bed, barely noticing the pain. What had he done to his family? Why hadn't he taken better care of them? Even Severus had tried to caution him!

"What about your wife and your son, Lucius? Where will _they_ be when he comes back?"

And what had his own arrogant and presumptuous answers been? "He won't come back, he's dead, you've said so yourself."

"I might have been wrong."

"I will look after my family, Severus, not to worry."

He had so staunchly believed that he was on the fairly safe side. Serve the Dark Lord to his best abilities, yes, give him no reason for reprimand. The only thing that could have happened in his opinion was that he got killed himself by an Auror. And he had found that a calculable risk. His powers had been unrivalled but by the Dark Lord and his sister-in-law. But where was he now? Where was his wand? While Narcissa was at home and no doubt writhing in horror? While Draco was in school, engaged in schoolboy fantasies that would lead to nothing but his own final undoing?

His head felt like spinning, quicker and quicker. The Dementors had left Azkaban. Lucius needed no Dementors to lose his mind. He had sworn to always be there for them. He had let them down. They would pay the price. He choked with the dreadful images in his head. His family slain for revenge. Just like that. He opened his eyes, wide. Tried to dispel the pictures. But they wouldn't go away. Draco and Narcissa in their own blood. Burnt into his retinas.

Narrower and narrower. Further down still. Draco and Narcissa. Sentenced to death. His beloved family. Fated to die. By his fault. Why not him? 'Take _me_, master! Please, not _them_!'

Draco, Narcissa. Threatened, punished. Tortured, crucified. His guilt. Narcissa, Draco. Further down. No hope. No help. Draco, Narcissa. All alone. His guilt.

Draco. Narcissa. Doomed. Down. Out. Narcissa. Draco. Down. Down. Down. Out.


	89. Priorities

Draco finds he cannot cope with all his commitments

* * *

**- 3.39. -**

Priorities

* * *

_I need a little room to breathe 'cause I'm one step closer to the edge and I'm about to break._

_LINKIN PARK_

_

* * *

_

All the time he had been wondering what on earth had gone wrong. Had he lost his grip on Madam Rosmerta? It usually worked, she kept on informing him – but could she have fought against the Imperius Curse this time? Sending him innocuous messages by manipulating the bewitched coin was one thing, buying some jewellery and hand it to a student, too – but maybe her subconscious had grasped that this was quite different, purchasing a highly dangerous poison and spike a bottle of mead that she knew to be destined for her old friend Dumbledore?

Or had the poison been faulty? His mum would never use a highly-potent potion that she hadn't brewed herself – 'the human condition is faulty, darling', and faulty were their doings in her eyes. Was it possible that the mead in itself had neutralised some of the ingredients of the poison – what the heck _were_ the ingredients of mead anyway? Had Madam Rosmerta sent the bottle to the wrong person? Had Slughorn given it to the wrong person? Had it reached Dumbledore, but he hadn't drunk it? Or had he drunk it, got poisoned, but being him, also conceived the right antidote at once?

Whatever it was, fact remained that Draco's plan had not come off – or rather: it hadn't come off until today, or rather: it had hit the wrong target _and_ not worked out as it ought. Because Weasel Bee was in the Infirmary, alive and striving as far as Draco knew. Why on earth Weasel Bee had been the one to drink that mead must remain unintelligible to him. Weasley was a complete nonentity! Slughorn could never even remember his _name_ – why would he offer him some high-priced drink? Merlin, in a way Draco could consider himself lucky still! What if Potter had accidentally been the poisoned one? The Dark Lord had been very clear in that respect – he wanted to finish off Potter himself, he wouldn't take it kindly if –

But those musings were vain and futile. Dumbledore was even healthier than Weasel King, and this _was_ a problem, more than just a _problem_. It was sheer disaster! His mum – his dad! And Draco wasn't suicidal, he didn't want to be killed either! What could he do now, with his last straw broken?

Work harder. Give his best. Give everything he got and a bit more. He would conquer this, he would! And his parents would be proud of him, and the Dark Lord would reward him beyond his imagination –

No matter how hard he tried though, he got nowhere. The Cabinet ridiculed every effort he made. Draco couldn't remember to have _ever_ felt so frustrated – losing to Potter on the Quidditch pitch? A joke! Losing to Granger in their final exams each and every year? Nothing! Nothing of these petty trivialities _mattered_, he realised with faint astonishment. How could he ever have got so aggravated because of these trifles? When it came down to it, exactly one thing mattered – his parents. They had always meant the world to him, but only now he became aware just how much his happiness depended on them, how vulnerable they, and consequently he, were.

He had always believed his father was invincible. Unbeatable. But Lucius clearly wasn't – Dumbledore had beaten him. And the Dark Lord… And what about Narcissa Malfoy? Draco knew vaguely what an admirable witch she was, even if she rarely exhibited her potential. Still, she was surely outclassed by his aunt, not to speak of the Dark Lord himself, and then there was still Fenrir Greyback. Every time Draco thought of this guy, cold shivers ran down his spine. Fenrir Greyback stopped at nothing – just yesterday, the Montgomery sisters had left the school, because their little brother had been assaulted and killed by Greyback. A five-year-old child! Helen Montgomery, who was one year his senior and played as a Chaser for Hufflepuff, was a nonsensical chick, just like her younger sisters, but still – losing their baby brother like this! Nobody deserved that! And if Greyback didn't hesitate to mutilate little children – what would he do to Narcissa, then!

He _must_ finish the rotten piece of furniture, he _must_! But to do so, he had to sort out his priorities. All unnecessary waste of time and focus must be cut down. If he had fancied himself stressed when learning with his aunt in summer, he didn't have an adequate expression for his momentary state. Things had long grown over his head. He had so many duties to fulfil, he hardly had time to _sleep_ properly. And he couldn't drop most of those engagements either, or he'd raise more suspicions yet.

Why were people keen on becoming Prefects, for example? It was a time-consuming and boring job. Helping along First Years, taking over staff tasks, and the weekly meeting with the Deputy Headmistress that could take _hours_ of useless chit-chat. Pansy took it all very serious, she was almost as eager as Granger about it, whereas Draco's attitude would rather resemble Weasel King's. They both couldn't care less about things like the curfew for junior students, or the organisation of a theatrical performance of the Drama club. – Funny. For the first time in his life, he found he had something in common with Redhead.

Then there was his need for school work. Not that he cared much for this either. His _mum_ wanted him to do well, so did the teachers, but he really couldn't see what for. He was _Draco Malfoy_! Even if it wasn't for his place in the Dark Order, he'd never have to find a job in his entire life, bloody hell! And the previous years had proven that he couldn't beat Granger in the first place, no matter how hard he tried. In the last year, it had been fairly close – frustratingly close even. She had beaten him by nine bloody points on total. _Nine_ points! Out of 1100 possible ones! Knife-edge! But he also knew that he'd never do any better than then either, so why keep trying?

Next point – paramount really – was Quidditch. He had declined the offer to become Captain of the team. What had that buffoon Snape been thinking to even nominate him, anyhow? He _knew_ that Draco hadn't got enough time for regular practise even! The Slytherin Team would meet five times per week, Tuesday and Thursday afternoon (3 and a half hours each), Saturday afternoon (however long it would take), Sunday morning (4 hours) and Wednesday morning before classes (1 and a half hour). That was bad enough in Draco's situation and he skipped training more often than attend it these days. The Captain however had to develop plans for the practise, strategies, he must analyse the other teams' performance, and Draco did not begrudge Warrington's cousin Urquhart, whom the hard lot had befallen instead.

The first to go was his beloved Quidditch. He feigned an accident during next practise, breaking his right shoulder. Madam Pomfrey mended the fraction with one lazy swish of her wand, but he simply claimed that the fracture was still hurting. He hadn't played in the last two matches anyway, and Harper was waiting in line. That gave him fifteen to eighteen hours more per week. Not nearly enough. He couldn't make more cuttings on his schoolwork, or he might lose even more time in detentions.

There was one thing he could easily do though – something he should have done a long time ago. To his astonishment, this thing turned out not half as easy as breaking his own shoulder. He _tried_ to break up with Pansy – three times on total – but in the end, he wasn't single, and that was, after all, the entire purpose of breaking up, wasn't it? Somehow, it didn't work.

The first time, he had told her that he had doubts concerning their relationship. She had nodded sympathetically, unbuttoned his trousers in the same moment and while he had still elaborated that he was sorry and that they'd be friends and all, she had gone down on him, silencing him quite effectively.

The second time, he had been better prepared. He had chosen the library – no way could she give him a blow-job in the library in broad day light, right? He had started to repeat his little speech, but seeing her eyes, that utter despair, he hadn't managed to pull it through, stopped in mid-sentence and taken her in his arms instead, making soothing noises to stop her from crying.

That wouldn't do, of course. The third time – in the Common Room – he did withstand her disbelieving gaze, her quivering jowls. He managed to get through all his valid points ignoring the tears, but then _she_ started to speak – no, _beg_. She professed her undying love for him, besought him to think of everything they had been through together, reminded him how she had stuck to him 'when your world broke down' – god, he couldn't do this. In the end, she was lying in his arms again, covering his face with teary kisses.

Faintly, he heard that prick Zabini's roaring laughter. For tonight, he gave up, but lying in his bed, he realised that he'd never make it to overcome one of the most powerful wizards of their time, if he couldn't even manage to resist his own girlfriend – a girlfriend that he wasn't even in love with. He got up, found ink, quill and parchment, and wrote it down. He thanked her for her loyalty, he told her that she was a wonderful human being, that she deserved to be treated much better, and that it was over. He read the letter again and was quite proud with it.

He gave it to her in the next morning, stayed long enough to make sure that she opened it, and fled then, barricading himself in Myrtle's bathroom (the ghost couldn't have been more delighted, so much was certain) until the start of his first class – Transfiguration; Pansy wasn't in this class. Slightly nervous, he went to Herbology next, but Panse was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Millicent. He took that as a good sign that the message had finally sunk in, and as soon as getting word form Madam Rosmerta that Dumbledore was gone, he went upstairs to the Room Of Hidden Things to work on his _real_ problems again.


	90. Cut!

Who'd have figured that Harry Potter instead of the Dark Lord would be the one to finish him off, and with Dark Magic, too?

* * *

**- 3.40. -**

Cut!

* * *

_I'm running out of time, I'm out of time and closing down, and never sleep for wanting hours…_

_THE CURE_

_

* * *

_

Oh yes, Draco had got the message and he had had no trouble understanding precisely what it meant. His _mum_! Poor Mum! Those bastards! And if they did that to his mother, what would they do with _him_? Wasn't the post supposed to be searched? What had Filch been thinking – that this was some weird sort of talisman?

Subconsciously, he had grasped it much sooner, but he had wilfully shut his eyes from the shameful truth. Now the guilt was eating him up. Mum! What an obnoxious little rat had he been to doubt her and her motives! Now insolent and impudent had he behaved! His mum was always so clever, knowing _her_, she had seen it coming the day when he had received the Dark Mark! She hadn't been happy with that, and now he finally comprehended _why_. It wasn't that she had no faith in his skills or his cunning – she simply knew enough of the Dark Lord's ways to see what it would lead to!

The cursed cabinet didn't work, it just didn't _work_, he had put it together from scratch four times now, just to make sure every tiny splinter was in the right place. He had nearly got himself killed when trying if it worked; the first time, it had taken him eight hours to get out, and two days in the Infirmary because of his injuries. What else could he do? Maybe Montague had simply gone mad inside that thing and there had never been a passage at all! What should he do?

He slept no more than three hours per night, almost grateful when Dumbledore was in the castle, giving him an excuse to sleep a whole night through, but even in this respect, he was less and less cautious. Sod the old idiot – if he found Draco out, this one would try to _Avada Kedavra_ him, and either he succeeded, or he was killed trying. It really made no difference who murdered him in the end, and Dumbledore would make it a quick one, at least.

But this was rubbish, _rubbish_, he could only say that because he had not found a minute of rest in the past fifty hours, drunken six pints of coffee and eaten nothing but three slices of toast. The question wasn't if _he_ was killed – he didn't care about that so much any longer – the _question_ was what would happen to his parents! They depended on him – already his mum had been – god, he must not think of it – and what about his dad in Azkaban – would some hired assassin slash his throat in his prison cell, or would the Dark Lord take on that task personally…

He was so tired, he fell asleep in Professor McGonagall's class, earning himself a week of detentions. Great. Just – great. Just what he needed. Was it possible to die of a lack of sleep? He had to start at the same evening, compensating by not going to bed at all in that night. In the next morning – still, the cabinet withstood every spell he used on it – he was without proper sleep for almost seventy hours now. He had difficulties to keep his fingers from trembling, and tried to solve his problem by drinking more coffee yet.

Theo Nott sat opposite of him at breakfast table, watching how Draco helped himself to the sixth cup in a quarter of an hour, and smirked. "You know, Malfoy, maybe you should pass on to intravenous shots."

This wasn't the time for witticism, in fact, Draco hadn't even got that Nott was being funny, so he gave the coffee pot an apprehensive look and murmured, "You think that'd work?"

Instead of an answer, Nott and some others around them burst out laughing. Only Greg didn't join in but appraised him worriedly. "Malf," he said under his breath so that no one could hear but Draco, "Skip a class and lie down. You look like shit, mate. You look like the walking dead!"

"Yah, because that's what I am, Greg! Dead Man Walking, didn't you know?" Draco giggled hysterically, he couldn't stop himself, seeing Nott stare at him, and cackling all the louder. He laughed until he was out of breath, snatched the whole coffee pot, got up and walked out. He took a twisted pleasure in drinking the entire pot with some huge sips, ignoring the pain in his stomach. Yeah, he was getting his first peptic ulcer at the tender age of seventeen, why not? He was feeling much, much older than that.

He had a sweet hour of rest in the library that afternoon, just before trotting over to McGonagall's office to start with his detentions. He was supposed to correct papers that the First Years had handed in; deciphering those abysmal hands luckily kept him awake, but he hadn't quite finished the third one when McGonagall came over, stopped right before him and scrutinised him with her hands in her waist.

"Follow me, Mr Malfoy," she said curtly. "_Now_."

Whatever. He obeyed, realising that she took him down to Snape's office, where she told him to wait outside while she was having a word with his Head of House. _Whatever_. He slouched down the wall to sit on the floor, hearing McGonagall's and Snape's voices through the closed door.

"– got to see Madam Pomfrey, Severus!"

"Did your First Year papers make him sick then?" Draco could imagine the disdainful sneer on Snape's features, and had to smile himself.

"Have you taken just one look at him recently?"

"Yes, I am his _Head of House_ if you'll allow, Minerva!"

"And? You think a healthy boy of seventeen looks like that?"

"School is no pageant, I'm afraid!"

"The operative word was _healthy_! The boy is _distressed_ – I can't blame him! With his father imprisoned – the shock's overwhelmed him eventually, don't you –"

"Look after your own distressed students, Minerva, and leave mine to me."

"He's fallen _asleep _in class yesterday!"

"I understand that this is no compliment to your teaching abilities, but I wouldn't take it that personal if I were you."

"Severus," McGonagall snarled coldly, "just so we understand each other _thoroughly_. Either you in your position as his Head of House will do something for the child, or _I_, being the Deputy Mistress and consequently your superior, will!"

"Following your logic, he's ill because his father is in Azkaban. I gladly give you precedence to _do something for the child_ and spring Lucius Malfoy out of prison."

"Very well, Severus, very well," McGonagall hissed, and Draco heard her stomping footsteps approaching behind the door. In the next second, she stood towering above him, ordering him to go up to the Infirmary at once. Draco got to his feet again, shrinking back from her vigour, nodded, and obeyed. Well, he did walk up to the Infirmary, but passed it with long strides and headed further up. He had just won himself three extra hours, he'd know how to use them.

The week continued in this fashion and the weekend started. Rather proud, Draco realised that he had come by with only fourteen hours of sleep in seven nights, beat that! But the cabinet thwarted every attempt he made, it mocked him by its sheer existence, and Sunday afternoon, he nearly smashed it himself, out of sheer fury and frustration. He was shaking, everything was flickering in front of his eyes, and he gave in to the urge to take a break before he'd do something desperate that he'd regret as soon as he'd done it.

He walked down to one of the bathrooms, but he hadn't quite entered it when he spotted his old acquaintance, the ghost of Moaning Myrtle. Jeepers! She shot at him, bitterly complaining that he hadn't visited her for more than a month, if he could possibly imagine the extent of her loneliness, that she had thought him to be a kindred spirit – 'pardon the pun' – that she had missed him, that –

She flew closer, narrowing her eyes. "What is wrong with you?"

"So sweet of you to stop your ranting only to inquire after my well-being!"

"You look awful!"

"Gee, I'm getting a whole lot of compliments of that kind lately! Thanks!"

"I'm concerned for you!"

Seeing her worried face, he felt guilty for the initial sarcasm. Why did he keep on snubbing the only people truly caring for him? His mum, Panse, and now Moaning Myrtle! At least to the ghost, he could apologise and he did, but it didn't relieve him. Instead, he was getting increasingly upset as if he had uncorked the bottle containing all his pangs of conscience, his dreads, the unbearable certainty that he and everyone he loved were doomed. All he could do was confiding in Myrtle, tell her that he did not advance one bit with his mission, that he'd be killed, that his mum would suffer for his failure. He got so aggravated, he felt tears streaming down his cheeks but he didn't bother any longer. With Pandora 's Box opened, he couldn't control himself anymore; the words came just out of him like the tears, the demons now swooshing out of the neck, surrounding him, encircling him. The wretched cabinet – he had been wrong – how could he have erred so badly – how could a single person be so entirely wrong in each and everything –

"Don't – tell me what's wrong! I can help you!"

"No one can help me," he moaned helplessly, trying to stop sobbing so pathetically. "I can't do it – I _can't_ – it won't work – and unless I do it soon… He says he'll kill me –"

'Get a grip, get a bloody grip,' he scolded himself, straightening his pose for a start. Only then, he realised that he wasn't alone with Myrtle. Behind his own reflection in the grimy mirror, he spotted Potter. Bottomless horror got hold of him – Potter – Potter of all people – Potter had overheard what he had told the ghost! Whirling around and grabbing his wand was one. He had to take Potter down – but he mustn't kill him – still he must keep Potter from forwarding what he had just heard –

He hurled a Stunner at his enemy, missing him, and they began to fight, ruining the interior but not succeeding otherwise. Potter slipped, Draco tried a Cruciatus but before he could even complete the incantation, Potter shouted, "_Sectumsempra_!"

What the… He felt a scourging pain, white, cold, clear, like ice piercing him, and then it stopped like it had come and he felt nothing at all, he saw nothing, heard nothing, and he vaguely realised that this must be it. He had thought that the Dark Lord would kill him – who'd have figured that the Chosen One would take over that job for him?


	91. Too Close To Home

As if she hadn't enough worries, Narcissa has some most unwanted visitors

* * *

**- 3.41. -**

Too Close To Home

* * *

_You ask yourself, 'Who'd watch for me?' _

_My only friend, who could it be? _

_You're not the easiest person I ever got to know _

_And it's hard for us both to let our feelings show _

_Some would say _

_I should let you go your way _

_You'll only make me cry _

_When the world's gone crazy, and it makes no sense _

_And there's only one voice that comes to your defence _

_And the jury's out _

_And your eyes search the room _

_And one friendly face is all you need to see _

_If there's one guy, just one guy _

_Who'd lay down his life for you and die _

_It's hard to say it _

_I hate to say it _

_But it's probably me_

_STING_

_

* * *

_

Narcissa hadn't wanted to leave her son's side; he had practically forced her away. "My baby," she gasped, clearly trying to bite away the tears. "My baby, Severus! Where is Potter – let me go and find the little –"

"Narcissa, calm yourself!"

"I will, right after cursing the last breath out of that bloody mur-"

"He had no intention of murdering Draco," Severus said very quietly, tightening his grip on Narcissa's arm and dragging her out. "Let me take you home _now_ and I'll explain –"

"Explain? _Explain?_" she shrieked, struggling with him.

"Yes, _explain_, and all the quicker once you stop kicking me, for goodness' sake! Draco will be all right again, my word on it –"

"Your word! You said you'd look after him! You've vowed to see that he isn't harmed!"

"And seeing the fact that I'm still alive and talking could give you a hint that I've done everything in my powers to that end, Narcissa! Now stop being hysterical, _please_!"

He shot her an imploring glance, praying she'd respond, and indeed, her resistance lessened. She shot the staircase leading to Gryffindor Tower one longing, vindictive glance, but followed him along, down and out of the castle, down the path and off the grounds. The moon was clouded, but her hair still seemed to shimmer in the dark; in the light of his wand, he could see her eyes sparkle as well, and in the very next moment, they both found themselves eye to eye, in front of the gates of Malfoy Manor.

Narcissa casually touched the wrought-iron ornaments and the gates opened far enough to let them in, closing in the instance they had passed through. In the distance, Narcissa's cat sprinted along and out of sight, and one of the watch-crups approached them trustingly and rubbed its ugly head against its mistress' ankle.

"Good boy, Cujo," she muttered and patted his back before continuing the way. "You give me your word that Draco will be all right again, Savvy?"

"I can give you my word that Potter's spell won't leave any lasting damages, at least."

She nodded and said rather contritely, "I'm sorry for sniping at you, you know?"

"Yeah. I know, and it's no big deal. I understand you being in high dudgeon about this."

"Oh yes… I'm out of my mind with worries, Savvy… Draco – Lucius – Draco – and now _this_! My heart stopped beating when I got your owl…"

He assured her that he hadn't meant to frighten her, explained what he believed must have happened between the two boys in school, and they finally arrived at the house, that lay still in the darkness. Two elves tore open the front door, shooting at Narcissa with anxious questions about 'the young master', that she managed to answer to their satisfaction at last. They went up into the Music Chamber, Narcissa ordered drinks, and after the butler had delivered them, she murmured, "I don't want to be disturbed, Ziggy. You know what I mean."

"Yes, My Lady!"

He left and they toasted. "To the Noble Dead."

Severus added, "May they remain limited in numbers."

Narcissa silently sipped her drink, before muttering, "Speaking of casualties – did you find out what's his plan?"

He shook his head. "Your son doesn't trust me any longer, Cissa. I reckon I got to thank dearest Bellatrix for that. I have absolutely no idea what he is up to, all I can say is that he hasn't yet succeeded, and if his complexion is anything to go by, he's not about to, either."

"You mean he's always so gaunt and sallow these days? Not just tonight?"

"As far as I can tell, he's hardly sleeping nor eating, yes. Believe it or not, even old Minerva made a scene because of it; he fell asleep in her class."

"What?"

"But what can I do? If I put him in detentions, I only heighten the pressure and force him to do even more night shifts on whatever he's doing. I can't sit next to him to make sure that he's staying in his bed and sleeps, can I?"

"My baby," Narcissa mouthed without making a sound.

"Please, Cissa, you must talk to him. I've got a few more things I'd hoped I could ask you for, but once we're through, please, come back with me to school and talk to Draco. Bellatrix has screwed with his head big time, no matter what I say, he's bound to do the opposite, almost –"

"She thinks you're a traitor, and to make sure that Draco doesn't waver in his mistrust, she's planted in his head that you were trying to replace his father."

He rolled his eyes and shook his head. "You know what else he actually imputed on me?"

She smirked and shrugged. "I can imagine. He yelled the same at me."

"And what the hell did you answer?"

She blushed and swallowed the drink. "I… I slapped him… But Savvy, I – I know there's no excuse, but I – he – he's never been so obstreperous with me, and to impute – I was out of myself!"

"Maybe it would have helped to mention that you _couldn't_ cheat on Lucius even if you wanted, on the penalty of dropping dead?"

"I thought if he thinks of that, he'll conclude that you'll not only try to replace his father but downright kill him…"

Severus groaned. "Please, tell me that we weren't so bloody nonsensical when we were at that age!"

"He's confused, Savvy! He can't help it! He doesn't _mean_ it!" She arched her brow and forced herself to grin. "And if I remember correctly, we _were_ being nonsensical, too. I know _I_ was, in every way Lucius was concerned, and as for _you_…"

He winced back and closed his eyes for a moment, sighing at last. "That brings me… It reminds me of a favour I want to ask from you. I cannot ask anybody else, and it is essential that it's done…"

"You know you can ask me for any favour, Severus," she replied very earnestly. "_Anything_, I'll do it. Lucius and I already owe more to you than either of us could ever pay you back!"

He faintly shook his head. "How good are you in lying to, or concealing something from the Dark Lord?"

"Fairly good, I suppose… He doesn't take much interest in me anyway, unless… Well, to him I'm nothing but a useful pawn of no further value but to blackmail Lucius and Draco."

He looked at her hands and lifted one eyebrow. "Did you manage to grow it back like that? Looks perfect!"

She followed his gaze, then gave a tinkling laugh. "Oh, I see! No, it didn't come _that_ bad. I guess I've got Bella to thank for that bit of mercy. Instead of a finger, I merely had to sacrifice a tooth." She flashed him her most brilliant – and thoroughly untainted – smile. "And yes, I did grow that one back. Only fractionally more painful than extracting its predecessor. I believe they sent it to Draco as a pendant on a string or something."

"Charming idea."

"Yes, well... I believe for poor Draco it must have been much more terrible than for me. I'd have begrudged them the finger, you know. I'm not sure whether I could have played the piano with a regrown finger. There are certain advantages in being the sister of His most faithful follower after all."

"You're holding yourself very well, Cissa."

She snorted. "You think so? I'll tell you what, Savvy – it's nothing but a nicely touched-up facade. Truth is I'm a wreck. I'm sick with worries. I don't sleep, I can't eat... But let's not speak about _me_. You said you needed a favour, so what is it I can do for you? You know, you only have to ask, I'll do anything!"

"It's... There is something I need to – that needs to be delivered to someone, in case I can't do it myself…" She looked anxious, and signalled him to go on. "I hid a box, and I want your word of honour that you find it and pass it on, without giving away whom you've got it from…"

"I'll do anything you'll ask of me, Savvy, _anything_, of course I will. But why… Why do you think you can't do it yourself…?"

"None of our lives is too safe, or valuable, these days."

She snorted. "Oh, brave new world, that's true. But my life isn't safer than yours, don't you think?"

"You've got the most powerful advocate though. With Bella around, you're safe from harm for the time being –"

"And what if Draco fails?"

"He _won't_ fail, Cissa."

"Of course he will! Even if it wasn't Dumbledore whom he is up against, he could never kill anyone!"

"I wouldn't be too sure of that. He nearly got two other students killed."

"But that was accidental!"

He sneered. "All right, all right. I give you that. He's unlikely to be capable of killing someone from eye to eye. But he's got little qualms about collateral damages on the sidelines."

"Oh, don't you start preaching on me now! What choices did _he_ have! Unlike pretty much _everybody_ that _I _know, Draco was more or less _forced_ to join up," she hissed deadly.

"He appeared eager enough."

"Because Dumbledore had seen to putting his father in prison!"

"What else should he have done, you think, after that story in the Ministry?"

She narrowed her eyes and shot him a withering look. "Be that as it may. Draco may have been furious when joining up, but that righteous fury doesn't make him a cold-blooded killer all the same!"

"Since when do you mind murdering so much, Cissa?" he retorted in the same vein. "You never seemed to take it amiss in Lucius."

"Because it never harmed Lucius! But it'll destroy Draco!"

Severus opened his mouth for a sharp reply, but clearly had second thoughts. He swallowed the rest of his whiskey with one big sip, then muttered, "I don't want to argue with you, Cissa. Dumbledore _will_ die and it'll be _Draco_ who'll receive the credits, I'll see to that. The question is – can I rely on you? Just in case?"

"Of course, yes. So who's the addressee?"

He grinned wolfishly. "To Harry Potter, in case I am dead, or otherwise – indisposed. And now that I think about it – try not to kill him, please."

"Of course, _that_ is the Dark Lord's job!"

The grin vanished and was replaced by a mask-like expression. "It is, yes… Do you remember the place I once showed you, the playground, close to the river? Around the corner of my parents' house?"

It took her a moment to recollect what he meant, and she nodded hesitantly. "Yes…?"

"Don't look at me like that – it's the only place I could think of that's fairly safe not to be raided, however accidentally, and that you know of, too. There is a little grove on the northern side of the venue, and one tree sticks out. It's an old elm…" He explained the hiding place in great detail, Narcissa made mental notes, and he finally sighed, "Listen, Narcissa – this is – it's very, _very_ important. The boy _must_ get it. Will you give me _your_ word that he does?"

"Of course! _Of course_, Savvy. Can I – can I ask what this is?"

He hesitated and played with his glass. "Memories," he murmured at last.

"_Memories?_"

"Memories about his mother."

"You like him better than you'll let on then, hm?"

He returned her smile. "I owe it to his mother that he gets to know her before he dies."

"You're evading the question, Savvy."

"And here I was, thinking I had just answered it."

"He… You think he'll die then?"

He continued to play with his glass. "He _is_ the Chosen One, Cissa."

"But not The Boy Who Lived?"

"I'm afraid the Past Tense is properly employed, yes…" His voice was a mere croak and he cleared his throat.

"So there's no hope?"

"Hope for whom?"

"For Lily's son!" She saw him twitch with that name, and to do something, she got up and refreshed their glasses. They toasted once more in silence, and Narcissa added more gently, "I'm sorry, Severus, I didn't mean –"

"I _know_. Look, Narcissa – between you and me, and between you and me _only_ – I failed to protect Lily Potter, and I cannot even honour her memory by protecting her son. But I still have the technical chance of doing something for my only other friends. Before long, you'll be the only living soul knowing this. Dumbledore _will_ die, and with god's help I will keep Draco from tearing his soul apart bringing _that_ about. But you've got to help me. I cannot protect your son as long as I haven't got the foggiest clue what he is up to. Talk to him, try and make him see that he can trust me! Or try and get it out of Bellatrix, I'm sure she's in the secret. I've got to –"

With a sound as if a package of crackers had been popped open, a harassed-looking house-elf appeared right in their middle, panting. "Milady," he wheezed, clutching his side, "Milady, they're coming!"

Narcissa and Severus exchanged a startled glance, and not five seconds later, they heard 'them' already. Bellatrix' voice was clearly distinguishable, engaged in a clamant argument with the servants. Narcissa snatched her wand and was at the door with a few long strides.

"What's this," she exclaimed angrily, storming out into the hallway. Severus followed her slowly, knowing that this wasn't _his_ fight, and heard the brawl rise in intensity yet. The house-elves were screeching and putting up a good fight by the sound of it, until Narcissa told them to stop. Next to Bellatrix', he recognised the voices of the Carrow siblings and Horatio Gibbon. Once Severus was out in the hallway, too, he saw Graham Goyle, who was very quiet, and the Malfoys' own Law Wizard Yaxley.

"How _dare_ you bringing a whole bunch of strangers – excuse me, Graham, Gibbs – into my house, Bella!"

"Oh, be quiet, Cissy!"

"How can you bring me into such a situation! The Ministry's bound to watch the house!"

"Yeah, they were, but no longer!"

"What?"

"Calm yourself, Narcissa," Yaxley said with a broad grin. "Oh, I see you got a visitor. Evening, Snape."

"Yaxley." Severus inclined his head for the tiniest fraction, and greeted the others, too.

"You cannot kill off the Ministry wizards monitoring the Manor, are you crazy or what! I won't go to Azkaban because you can't control your temper, Bella!"

"No one's _dead_, Narcissa," Graham said, for the first time opening his mouth. "Imperiused two, the other two were ours anyway."

"Well, I think this thing here's toast, more or less," Gibbon said and beckoned at the bleeding bundle in his arms, apparently unsure what to do with it. Narcissa swivelled around to him and in the same moment, Severus recognised the pattern of the fur and the tail form.

"Cujo," she gasped. "What have you brutes _done_?"

"Well, it was rather _he_ being a brute," Gibbon defended himself lamely. "It's not dead, though... Perhaps you can –"

Narcissa cast her countenance to the wind, flung herself at the crup and whimpered, "Cujo! Oh no! You poor thing!" She tried a few spells, without success, then turned around once more. "Severus?"

He took an expert look, tried a couple of very potent spells, but nothing worked. Bellatrix had observed the little scene in silence, sneering scornfully, and sighed. "Now will either of you good Samaritans put the bloody beast out of its misery or what!"

Narcissa inhaled, raised her wand, but lowered it again. Her sister grinned. "Allow _me_ –"

"Don't you _dare_ touching him!"

"Well, he's as good as dead anyhow. But if you prefer it, you can watch it die slowly. _Much_ more fun, yes. I didn't know you had discovered the true pleasures at last, sis."

Narcissa looked as if she was on the verge of hexing her sister. "_Shut up!_"

Bellatrix addressed her comrades complacently, "You see, little Cissy is a Vegetarian since she was four years old. She hasn't got the _stomach_ to do as much as putting down a beast in lethal pains."

"Let's hope her son takes after his father, then," Yaxley remarked and giggled at his own joke. "But I am ready at your service, Narcissa, dearest. I –"

"You wretched worm will stay away from him! – Severus, would you?"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Cissa!"

"I cannot do it! And he's suffering! Can _you_ watch him suffering like that?"

"No. And no, to the other question as well! I'm _not_ going to do it!"

"Please, Savvy –"

"I said no!"

"You're not being very gallant tonight, Snape," Bellatrix drawled.

Without anyone taking notice of him, Graham had stepped closer and taken out his wand. With a grave, timid expression, he put the tip of it on the crup's head. It was hardly breathing. "Avada Kedavra," he muttered tonelessly, and the beast turned limp instantly. It was dead.

Narcissa closed her eyes, took a deep breath and mouthed without making a sound, "Thank you."

He had understood her nevertheless. "You're welcome, Cissa. The least I can do for an old friend..."

She nodded, gave him a warm smile, patted the dead animal's head, then she straightened up and regained her usual composure. "And what do you want here, anyway! I got more pressing dealings than arguing around with you! Or burying our watch-crups!"

Yaxley shot Severus a sneer. "Yes, we can see _that_!"

"Draco nearly got killed tonight!"

_This_ shut them up at once, all of them. "Did he –" Bella asked with bated breath.

"_No_, he did _not_. The darned Potter boy sliced him up!"

"Oh – I see…"

"Glad we've covered that," Narcissa sniped. "Now you can all _leave again_!"

Bellatrix sniggered unpleasantly. "No, I don't think so, Cissy. You should feel honoured – you're the host of our new Headquarters."

Narcissa stared at her, incapable of coming up with a reply for once. Yaxley laughed loudly and put his arm around Narcissa's shoulders, which she pushed away again at once, looking infuriated, and Severus excused himself. "Forgive me, Narcissa. I need to speak to the Dark Lord yet, about Draco and his injuries, and Dumbledore could become suspicious if I'm away for too long."

"Yes…" She looked distraught, but rallied herself. "Look, I've got to sort this out for a start, and then… I'll come to the school tomorrow morning once more and see after Draco –"

"No, Cissy, you won't." Bellatrix shot her a grave look. "I'm sure your little pal Snape will keep you informed – by _owl_ – how Draco is doing. But you're not to leave the house again, for the time being."

"I beg your pardon!"

"The Dark Lord's orders, so stop quarrelling with me. It's house-arrest for you, until your son has succeeded, and lest you feel lonely, a few of us will keep you company."

Narcissa's gaze alternated between her sister, Severus, Graham, and the ever-leering Eel, and the last encounter with that lot was still ringing in her head. Odd as it might be under different circumstances, it was her insane sister's protection that kept her from harm these days. She traded her scandalised expression for one of resignation, put on a smile, and said, "Why, Bella, if _that_ is the case, I suggest you and I have a girl's night, hm?"


	92. The Darkest Night

The time has come to walk it like he talked it

* * *

**- 3.42. -**

The Darkest Night

* * *

_Si alteram talem victoriam reportavero mea erit pernicies._

_PYRRHUS_

_

* * *

_

Believe it or not – there's a bright side to almost being killed. Speaking of _believe_ – Draco was flabbergasted that Potter – Holy Saint Potter! – had actually used Dark Magic, and not any old spell, but one of such power and violence. Why would he even _know_ these things?

Snape had saved him, had even managed that not a single scar was left – put it like that, Draco owed him one. Or maybe even two, because Snape had seen to inform the Dark Lord that his disciple had been severely injured, and consequently, Draco had got an official leave to take some time for recovery. He was absolutely determined to make as much use of this respite as he possibly could and sleep, sleep, sleep.

Every now and then, he did wake up shortly, and when he had done so in the morning after the incident, he had seen Panse sitting in a chair next to the bed, dosing. He had been strangely moved by her attachment, and thank Merlin that she hadn't been awake in that moment, for if she had thrown herself at him just there, he wouldn't have resisted. Being almost dead had that effect, right, it proved just how very valuable life was, that one had to treasure it, seize it, squeeze out the last ounce of it, feel it, relish it –

But she had been asleep, Draco had fallen asleep again two minutes later, and opening his eyes again shortly before nightfall, she was gone. Madam Pomfrey told him that even his mum had been there to look after him during the night. Mum – oh, how he missed her! How he longed to see her again! He had been so awful to her; he wanted to apologise, he wanted to tell her that he was doing all this for her alone. It was true. He had forgotten the eternal fame that he had meant to achieve, he would sneer at the 'honour' he had believed to be given. If he would finally manage to pull this through, he'd do it for nobody else but his mum.

Incidentally, Myrtle kept her promise. Not that he truly believed she'd be of much help, Muggle-born to begin with, and killed before reaching her Fifth Year even. What spells could _she_ know that he hadn't tried yet? But still, he was taking a weird comfort in her presence; he showed the cabinet to her, smiled with condescending benevolence while she inspected it, and made a _very_ silly face when she turned to him with a triumphant grin.

"You didn't put it together the right way, Draco," she said simply.

"What?"

"No, you see – I could manage to go through the back because I'm a _ghost_, and there _is_, indeed, a passage. You want me to try where I get using the passage? Shall I?"

He nodded, astonished, and ten minutes later, she returned with an even wider grin. She had been in the shop of Borgin and Burke's – he asked her for details to make sure she wasn't simply making this up. So he had been right – the cabinet worked – the passage was already there – and all he needed to do was reconstruct the back? He couldn't remember when he had felt that marvellous for the last time. He thanked the ghost over and over again and promised her to polish the idiotic medal in the trophy room that had been bestowed to some Prefect for tackling the culprit of her death – the wrong culprit even. But Myrtle found nevertheless that this medal was the only thing reminding people that she had once been alive.

He was so close – he tripled his efforts, and only a few days later, he had completed the redesign. He stepped into the wardrobe – one more step – two – three – he could _see_ the black of the back – he stretched out his hand – it went right through – another step – and _yes!_ He was inside of the passage! Yes! Yes! _Yes!_

He tried it several times, before giving a start because he heard a noise outside of the Room of Hidden Things, indicating an unwelcome visitor. No! Not _now_! Not in the moment of triumph, he wouldn't allow to be discovered just now! He peeked out through a slit, exhaling with relief. 'Twas only old Trelawney, that sloshed dipso, trying to dispose two bags of empty bottles. _She_ was _no_ threat to his schemes! Without bothering much for caution, he pushed open the cabinet door, throwing a handful of Peruvian Darkness Powder at her, opening the door of the room with a move of his wand and hurling her out with a lazy second flick.

He had no mind to test his luck though; instead he went back into the cabinet, using the Hand of Glory to light him the way – he didn't know what sort of creatures might be living in here and he didn't want to raise their curiosity – and even though he took a great deal longer than Myrtle – he was no ghost after all – he eventually arrived in the opposite number – in Borgin and Burke's. The shop was empty and long closed down for the night.

He took a deep breath, loosened his wristwatch and pushed his right index finger on the Dark Mark. He winced back with the sharp jolt that shot through his entire body caused by the touch, and then he just had to wait, hardly daring to breathe, so excited he felt. Not a minute later, a number of dark shadows emerged out of thin air, outside in the dark alley, materialising to be the Dark Lord and half a dozen others. Without bothering for the alarms, they broke the shop door open with a few spells and stepped inside.

Draco fell to his knees. "My lord," he gasped, "the task is close to completion!"

Before the master answered, a noise from upside was to be heard, and in the next second, the shop owner, Mr Borgin, stormed down the stairs, his wand at the ready. He stopped dead when sighting the Dark Lord, his watery eyes bulging and sheer terror on his unpleasant features. The master flicked his wand lazily, gagging Borgin and tying him up on his own counter. One of the surrounding Death Eaters stepped forth, pushed Borgin's head to the side and let a thumb – with a long, claw-like nail – glide over the old man's carotid artery.

The Dark Lord called him back. "Leave him alone. We might still need him."

"Yes, Sir," a rasping voice replied with a decidedly reluctant note.

"Don't be disappointed – you can have more tender meat tonight."

_Greyback?_ Draco did a double-take and almost tripped over some crate on the floor behind him. He felt a steely grip on his shoulder, and heard his aunt's flat voice, "Shhh…"

He drew a strange comfort from her presence, and even though he could hardly take his eyes off the man who appeared to be the infamous Fenrir Greyback (only in his worst nightmares, Draco had been in the same room like that bloke!) he managed to give a swift, concise report to the master – Dumbledore had left the school, he knew because Madam Rosmerta had given him the signal. All was ready. –

The Dark Lord showed himself extremely pleased, and ordered, "Amycus, Alecto. Join the boy. Gibbon, Rowle, you too."

Aunt Bellatrix was beaming at him, thumps up, and already followed their comrades when the master called her back. "Not you, Bella!"

"But master!"

"No, I want to be sure that it's _his_ own doing. You can never restrain yourself, in the end you'd help him. – But I have an alternative that you will like, Draco. Actually, I had meant to send him to pay your good mother a visit – he's craving for having something to – _do_. Fenrir?"

Draco blanched, exchanging a panicked glance with his aunt. Fenrir Greyback had been supposed to _visit_ his mum? And now – he didn't want to walk down a dark narrow passage with _Greyback_ behind him! "My lord, you are gracious, but I think I can handle this by my –"

"That'd be up to you, of course. I thought you'd rather take him with you than have him roam around, making an accidental pass to Malfoy Manor, perhaps?"

Draco stared at him, but quickly managed to compose his features. He made a bow, forced himself to smile at Greyback, and said smoothly, "My lord, I'll be honoured if you allow me to have the great Fenrir Greyback at my side. I was simply mistaken – I had thought you wanted me to accomplish the task at hand on my own."

"What are we then, background decoration?" Horatio Gibbon muttered scornfully.

The Dark Lord silenced him with a glare and sent them off. One after the other, following Draco, they stepped into the cabinet, and then the door was shut behind them and the magic set to work. Draco's pulse was rushing, torn between fear and thrill, and determined to show some leader qualities, he marched off. Greyback did _not_ assault him from behind, as Draco was dreading all along the way; they got into the Room of Hidden Things, Draco checked if the coast was clear, and found Ginger, Redhead and Longbottom lurking in the corridor. He disabled them with Peruvian Darkness Powder, ushered his fellows out and they ran past that herd of clowns.

Okay, Dumbledore wasn't _that_ stupid, he realised not two minutes later. The old crackpot had stationed his order guys to patrol the castle, and in the wink of an eye, they were engaged in fierce combat. For approximately five seconds, Draco was wildly excited. For so long he had wanted to prove himself in battle, but seeing the ricocheting curses, so many, so fast that his eyes could not follow, he was suddenly far from thrilled. Petrified, more like. He murmured every shield charm he could think of, frenzied, before accustoming enough to the situation that he could try some other than only defensive spells.

And then, he saw her. He couldn't say how he knew that this girl over there was his cousin Dory; he hadn't seen her since he was six or so. But he was positively certain. One of Dumbledore's guards was Dory, and he got sudden qualms to curse her. She was family! That girl had taught him swimming in the Atlantic in another life – he could impossibly harm her –

"What are you waiting for," Greyback shouted at him. "You can do better than that, can't you! Prove that you're your father's son!"

The witch that he believed to be Dory faltered and shot him a strange glance through the chaos around them. She held his gaze for a couple of seconds, then faintly shook her head, disapproving, disappointed, he couldn't tell. This brought him back to his senses. Who was that little Mudblood to judge!

What was it that Aunt Bella had taught him – calm down, breathe, focus, aim well and just do it with all your will –

It worked. He felt a flash of elation when taking down a pillar, missing some guy who looked like a Weasley by mere inches. Lucky bastard. Gibbon came back from conjuring the Dark Mark above the tower, and fell down to the ground in the next second; it took Draco a moment to process the fact that this had been a Killing Curse – Dumbledore's guys used Killing Curses? But no, this one had come from Greyback, who was in some kind of bloodlust, pointing his wand at Gingerhead, firing non-stop and closing in on her. Mysteriously, he missed her each and every time, maybe he did it on purpose, he liked his meals fresh, didn't he? But no – he seemed more infuriated with each miss. Draco didn't want to see this, but he was hypnotised, Greyback was only three or four feet away from her, an indescribably repulsive expression on his face, showing his fangs now. One of her elder brothers must have noticed the same and jumped between them, just in the moment when Greyback swung back, and knocked him down with one mighty strike. Ginger shrieked and wanted to help her brother, but Greyback brought down enough of the ceiling to make her retreat, and with unspeakable horror, Draco saw him assault the unconscious wizard with fangs, claws, magic. Blood was spluttering high into the air, but Gingerhead had fought her way through the debris and threw a curse at Greyback, driving him away from her brother.

"Go, Draco!" Alecto Carrow barked. "We can do this easily, _go_!"

Yes – of course – he hadn't come here to fight McGonagall, had he – he turned around and nearly stumbled over a bloody body on the ground. Trying to shake off the trembling, he sprinted up the stairs, pushed open the door and used a disarming spell to be on the safe side, not because he actually expected anyone to be there. To his sheer surprise, he spotted Dumbledore – and even more amazingly, Dumbledore's _wand_ falling down over the edge. It took him a second to grasp that much.

"Good evening, Draco."

He beckoned at the two broomsticks suspended in mid-air. "Who else is here?"

"A question I might ask you. Or are you acting alone?"

'Get a grip, bloody hell', he told himself, 'show some self-control!' That didn't stop him from feeling sick though, and he put all his defiance into his snide reply, "No, I've got back-up. There are Death Eaters here in your school tonight."

He had put some scorn into his statement, but Dumbledore didn't appear too impressed. In fact, he seemed to mock him still, "Well, well. Very good indeed. You found a way to let them in, did you?"

"Yeah! Right under your nose and you never realised!"

"Ingenious. Yet – forgive me – where are they now? You seem unsupported."

"They met some of your guard. They're having a fight down below. Won't be long… I came on ahead. I – I've got a job to do." What on earth did he tell him that for?

Dumbledore smiled like he always smiled. "Well then, you must get on and do it, my dear boy!" Draco couldn't but stare at him. Was that man totally mad by now? What was he playing at? There was a snag here somewhere, he could smell the trap! Dumbledore was still smiling and said in his most grandfather-like voice, "Draco, Draco, you are not a killer."

"How do you know?" _Keep your bloody mouth shut only once, Draco! _"You don't know what I'm capable of! You don't know what I've done!"

"Oh yes, I do. You almost killed Katie Bell and Ronald Weasley. You have been trying, with increasing desperation, to kill me all year. Forgive me, Draco, but they have been feeble attempts – so feeble, to be honest, that I wonder whether your heart has been really in it…"

"It has been in it!" Draco protested, shocked both by Dumbledore's insight in his plot, and his deduction. "I've been working on it all year – and tonight –"

He heard a feeble scream and shuddered, a flashback of Greyback preying on the Weasley bloke before his eyes.

"Somebody is putting up a good fight. But you were saying – yes, you have managed to introduce Death Eaters into my school, which, I admit, I thought impossible. – How did you do it?"

He couldn't have answered this for his life. He heard the noises from the fight downstairs and every fibre of his body wanted to grab that broom over there and just fly away, Apparate home, drag his mum out before Greyback would get her and… Yeah, that was the problem – and _then_?

"Perhaps you ought to get on with the job alone. What if your back-up has been thwarted by my guard? As you have perhaps realised, there are members of the Order of the Phoenix here tonight, too. And after all, you don't really need help… I have no wand at the moment – I cannot defend myself."

True. And…?

"I see. You are afraid to act until they join you."

Did that old weirdo try to provoke him or what? "I'm not afraid! It's _you_ who should be scared!"

"But why? I don't think you will kill me, Draco. Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe," Dumbledore said kindly. Draco heard an echo of his mum's voice – 'inexpertis enim dulcis est pugna' – and he forced himself not to shake. "So tell me, while we wait for your friends – how did you smuggle them in here? It seems to have taken you a long time to work out how to do it."

Stay calm, breathe, focus and then _just_ _fucking_ _do_ _it!_ _DO IT!_ He pointed at the old Headmaster's chest, but failed to fulfil any of the other necessary preconditions. "I had to mend that broken Vanishing Cabinet that no one's used for years," he said, only to do _something_. "The one Montague got lost in last year."

"Ah! That was clever. There is a pair, I take it?"

"The other's in Borgin and Burke's, and they make a kind of passage between them. Montague told me that when he was stuck in the Hogwarts one, he was trapped in limbo but sometimes he could hear what was going on at school, and sometimes what was going on in the shop, as if the Cabinet was travelling between them, but he couldn't make anyone hear him. In the end, he managed to Apparate out, even though he'd never passed the test. He nearly died doing it… Everyone thought it was a really good story, but I was the only one who realised what it meant… Even Borgin didn't know – _I_ was the one who realised there could be a way into Hogwarts through the Cabinets if I fixed the broken one…"

"Very good – so the Death Eaters were able to pass from Borgin and Burke's into the school to help you – a clever plan, a very clever plan… And as you say, right under my nose…"

"Yeah! Yeah, it was!" It was weird to hear the destined victim of that _clever_ _plan_ recommend him more warmly than the patron of that plan had been, but Draco was proud nonetheless.

"But there were times, weren't there, when you were not sure you would succeed in mending the cabinet?" He arched a brow. "And you resorted to crude and badly judged measures such as sending me a cursed necklace that was bound to reach the wrong hands… Poisoning mead there was only the slightest chance I might drink –"

"Yeah, well – you still didn't realise who was behind that stuff, did you?"

"As a matter of fact, I did. I was sure it was you."

"Why didn't you stop me then?"

"I tried, Draco. Professor Snape has been keeping watch over you on my orders."

"He hasn't been doing _your_ orders! He promised my mother –"

"Of course, that is what he would tell you, Draco, but –"

"He's a double-agent! You stupid old man, he isn't working for _you_, you just think he is!"

"We must agree to differ on that, Draco. It so happens that I trust Professor Snape."

"Well, you're losing your grip then! He's been offering me plenty of help! Wanting all the glory for himself – wanting a bit of the action – _what are you doing? Did you do the necklace, that was stupid, could have blown everything_ – but I haven't told him what I've been doing in the Room Of Requirement – he's going to wake up tomorrow and it'll be all over and he won't be the Dark Lord's favourite anymore – he'll be nothing compared to me, _nothing_!"

There it was again, the smile. Everything might have been fine, but that smile really unnerved him. "Very gratifying. We all like appreciation for our own hard work, of course – but you must have had an accomplice all the same – someone in Hogsmeade, someone who was able to slip Katie the – the – aaah… Of course… Rosmerta. How long has she been under the Imperius Curse?"

"Got there at last, have you!"

"So poor Rosmerta was forced to lurk in her own bathroom and pass that necklace to any Hogwarts student who entered the room unaccompanied? And the poisoned mead – well, naturally – Rosmerta was able to poison it for you before she sent the bottle to Slughorn, believing that it was to be my Christmas present. Yes, very neat – very neat. Poor Mr Filch would not, of course, think to check a bottle of Rosmerta's… Tell me, how have you been communicating with Rosmerta? I thought we had all the methods of communication in and out of the school monitored."

"Enchanted coins, I had one and she had the other and I could send her messages –"

"Isn't that the secret method of communication the group that called themselves Dumbledore's Army used last year?"

"I got the idea from them. I got the idea of poisoning the mead from the Mudblood Granger as well. I heard her talking in the library about Filch not recognising potions –"

"Please, do not use that offensive word in front of me."

'Go and talk to my _mother_, man!' He couldn't but laugh bitterly, thinking of her. God, _Mum_ – "You care about me saying _Mudblood_ when I'm about to kill you?"

"Yes, I do. But as for being about to kill me, Draco – you have had several long minutes now. We are quite alone. I am more defenceless than you can have dreamed of finding me, and still you have not acted."

Breathe, focus, do-it-do-it-do-it – nope, nothing, his head was absolutely blank, he felt he couldn't even pronounce the incantation properly, let alone pull it through.

"Now about tonight – I am a little puzzled about how it happened. You knew that I had left the school? But of course… Rosmerta saw me leaving, she tipped you off using your ingenious coin, I'm sure."

"That's right… But she said you were just going for a drink, you'd be back…"

"Well, I certainly did have a drink – and I came back – after a fashion… So you decided to spring a trap for me?"

"We decided to put the Dark Mark over the tower and get you to hurry up here, to see who'd been killed. And it worked…"

"Well, yes and no. But am I to take it then that nobody has been murdered?"

Fangs and claws, fangs and claws and _blood_, Draco shook himself, hoping to shake these pictures off, too – "Someone's dead… One of your people… I don't know who it was, 'twas dark – I stepped over the body –" He swallowed hard, feeling as if he'd vomit any second now. "I was supposed to be waiting up here when you got back, only your Phoenix lot got in the way…"

"Yes, they do that," Dumbledore said sympathetically, and instead of vomiting, Draco was now afraid of starting to cry, he couldn't account for it. "There is little time, one way or another, so let us discuss your options, Draco."

"My options!" he snorted. As if he had _options_, like more than two! Do this now, or see his parents' deaths as well as his own! "I'm standing here with a wand, I'm about to _kill you_ –"

"My dear boy. Let us have no more pretence about that. If you were going to kill me, you would have done it when you first disarmed me. You would not have stopped for this pleasant chat, about ways and means."

'Old man, you don't know what you're _talking_ about!' As if it was that easy! Draco felt all the tiredness of the past year suddenly hitting him. Yeah. The old man was right. He wouldn't do it, because he was a complete failure, and before dawn, Fenrir Greyback would be striking his stinking fangs into Narcissa Malfoy's milk-white neck and –

"I haven't got any options," he said, hearing his own voice reduced to a mere croak. "I've _got_ to do it! He'll kill me! He'll kill my whole family!"

"I appreciate the difficulty of your position. Why else do you think I have not confronted you before now? Because I knew that you would have been murdered if Lord Voldemort realised that I suspected you."

He didn't know what was worse. The _name_, or the Headmaster's nonchalant revelations, and he continued in the same friendly manner, "I did not dare speak to you of the mission with which I knew you had been entrusted, in case he used Legilimency against you. But now at last, we can speak plainly to each other – no harm has been done, you have hurt nobody, though you are very lucky that your unintentional victims survived… I can help you, Draco."

"No, you can't, nobody can… He told me to do it or he'll kill me. I've got no choice," he heard himself whisper, shaking with the effort to keep the tears at bay.

"He cannot kill you if you are already dead. Come over to the right side, Draco, and we can hide you more completely than you can possibly imagine. What is more, I can send members of the order to your mother tonight to hide her likewise. Nobody would be surprised that you had died in your attempt to kill me – forgive me, but Lord Voldemort probably expects it. Nor would the Death Eaters be surprised that we had captured and killed your mother – it is what they would do themselves, after all. Your father is safe at the moment in Azkaban – when the time comes, we can protect him too. Come over to the right side, Draco… You are not a killer."

Nobody, _nobody_ could withstand the Dark Lord! Why wouldn't he understand!

"But I got this far, didn't I?" he murmured, trying to talk himself into some desperate self-confidence. "They thought I'd die in the attempt, but I'm _here_ – and you are in _my_ power – _I'm_ the one with the wand – you're at _my_ mercy –"

"No, Draco…It is my mercy, not yours, that matters now."

He stared at the old man, who leant weakly against the railing, looking as if he was about to die before long anyway. It'd be so easy to blast away a piece of the wall, and have the old man fall to his death, wouldn't it? No, it wouldn't. He had learnt, and mastered, far more difficult spells than a simple _Reducto_ – but this wasn't about the _difficulty_ of the magic. Draco had known it all this time – he had felt it since setting his foot here – this wasn't about breath and focus and will – and he wouldn't be able to do it, he would not, he would _not_, and by tomorrow, his mother would have paid for her son's foolishness, and follow him to both their graves… He hardly noticed that he was pushed out of the way in this moment.

"Dumbledore cornered! Dumbledore wandless! Dumbledore alone! Well done, Draco," he heard a voice, but barely perceiving who this was.

"Good evening, Amycus. And you have brought Alecto, too – charming…"

"Think your little jokes'll help you on your death bed, then?"

"Jokes? No, no, these are manners."

"Do it," Greyback said, waking Draco from his reverie.

"Is that you, Fenrir?"

"That's right. Pleased to see me, Dumbledore?"

"No, I cannot say that I am."

Draco could see blood dripping from these disgusting teeth, making his stomach revolt. Greyback grinned wildly. "But you know how much I like kids, Dumbledore!"

"Am I to take it that you are attacking even without the full moon now? This is most unusual – you have developed a taste for human flesh that cannot be satisfied once a month?"

"That's right. Shocks you, that, does it, Dumbledore? Frightens you?"

Draco didn't know about Dumbledore, but _he_ couldn't possibly be more repelled. Mum, Mum, MumMumMum!

"Well, I cannot pretend it does not disgust me a little. And, yes, I am a little shocked that Draco here invited you, of all people, into the school where his friends live…"

"I didn't, I didn't know he was going to come!" Draco had spoken before realising that he ought to keep his bloody mouth shut.

"I wouldn't want to miss a trip to Hogwarts, Dumbledore. Not when there are throats to be ripped," Greyback said merrily. "Delicious, delicious… – I could do you for after, Dumbledore!"

"No! We've got orders! Draco's got to do it. Now, Draco, and quickly!"

He _had_ to do it, or Greyback would have _him_ as a middle course, before doing in Dumbledore even. But Draco was numb, incapable to do as much as _blink_.

"He's not long for this world anyway, if you ask me! Look at him! What's happened to you, then, Dumby?"

"Oh, weaker resistance, slower reflexes, Amycus. Old age, in short… One day perhaps, it'll happen to you – if you're lucky."

"What's that mean then, what's that mean! Always the same, weren't yeh, Dumby, talking and doing nothing, _nothing_! I don't even know why the Dark Lord's bothering to kill yeh! _Come on, Draco, do it!_"

In the distance, Draco perceived someone – could it be Snape – shouting and coming closer. Rowle urged him to do it, but Draco was so shaky, he couldn't even point his wand straight.

Greyback volunteered, "I'll do it!"

"I said no!"

A jinx hit Greyback, and with something like relief, Draco saw Snape coming towards them with a horrible expression, and he didn't know whether to rejoice or collapse right here on the spot. Professor Snape wouldn't allow that anything happened to Draco – he was the Dark Lord's favourite – he was in love with Draco's mum, he'd save her, too – Professor Snape, be he a Death Eater or not, would make it all right – he would – his mum trusted him – he'd make it good, he'd –

"Draco, do it, or stand aside so one of us –"

"We've got a problem, Snape, the boy doesn't seem to be able –"

"Severus," Dumbledore said very softly, and Draco knew he'd die of a heart attack before his eighteenth birthday. His pulse was beating so hard, he could scarcely hear – he had to observe the speaker to get what they were saying, and even then, he didn't grasp any of this.

In a daze, he saw Snape march straight on with a ferocious face edged in stone, Dumbledore said something to him, and in the blink of an eye, Snape had done it. Just like that. With a little flick. Draco couldn't move – he had never seen someone die, he couldn't believe that this was it, life couldn't end like this, could it, a little flick, what… If Snape hadn't grabbed him by the collar there, he would have sunk to his knees, unable to support himself, unable to do anything, unable to _think_ straight.

* * *

_Si alteram…_ If I accomplish another victory like this one, I'll be lost.

_Inexpertis... _Combat seems sweet to the inexperienced.


	93. Victorious

Lily Potter wasn't the only mother prepared to go to any length for her child

* * *

**- 3.43. -**

Victorious

* * *

_Audendo magnus tegitur timor._

_LUCANUS – Bellum Civile_

_

* * *

_

Her nightmares had long become unbearable. What if Draco was injured, or killed? What if Savvy wasn't there in the crucial moment? What if the Dark Lord decided that he had waited long enough? What if –

And then the crucial moment had suddenly come, quite unexpectedly, when all her careful preparations finally paid off. It wasn't a night of triumph though. It was late after midnight when she was woken up by the characteristic sound of a house-elf Apparating into her bedroom, and in the same moment, she knew this was _it_. Elsy squeaked, "Milady! Master Draco's here – he – he –"

Although she had been asleep, if only lightly, she was on her feet in a second. That Draco had come could mean only one thing, and now time was of the essence. Since at least half a dozen Death Eaters were loitering around the house these days, she had instructed the servants to keep watch. Day and night, one of them was hiding in the gate house, supposed to see if the young master showed up, and ordered to grab him and Disapparate with him into the dungeons at once, before anybody else could notice his presence. Without even bothering for a morning gown, she grabbed the vials she had carried around with her for weeks now, sprinted down the secret staircase that lead into one of the more remote vaults, where she found her darling – pale, shaking, sweating.

"Mum," he groaned, falling into her open arms. "Mum, you've got to flee, Greyback – he'll come for you – Mum, I've cocked it up –"

She embraced him briefly but fiercely, then cupped his face and made him look into her eyes. "Where's Professor Snape, darling?"

"He did it – I couldn't, but he did it as you told him –"

She was relieved to hear it – relieved to hear that he had carried out the task and must therefore be alive still. Or had one of Dumbledore's people – or Greyback perhaps – "Come, come, love. We've got time for everything, but later! Is Severus all right?"

"He fell back, but I think –"

She kissed her son's forehead, gave another sigh of relief and signalled the house-elf who had brought Draco here, to go back and see if Severus would come, too. Nobby disappeared in silence, and Narcissa forced Draco to swallow a soothing potion. Then she made him re-tell what had happened, and even though he was still out of himself, despite the potion, he made sense enough for her to roughly grasp the events of this night. He had barely finished when Nobby returned, dragging Severus along, who looked even worse than his devastated student.

His face was dead white, and he was more than just slightly dishevelled. Was that blood on his…? Never mind now! She let go of Draco and threw her arms around her oldest, her only real friend. He was alive! He had saved Draco, in more than one meaning of the word! He had prevented her baby from becoming a killer, which was a catastrophe is some respects, but too wonderful for words otherwise.

"Thank you," she whispered and hugged him with all her might. "Thank you, thank you, thank you –"

"That's _enough_, Cissa," he croaked and tried to free himself. "Where are they?"

"Upstairs. Graham, The Eel, that Pettigrew character and some nobodies whose names elude me –"

"They're _here_?" Draco shrieked in unveiled terror. "Already? They'll murder us! They'll murder _you_, Mum! You got to leave, flee, you –"

"Shhh, darling. It's all right. It really, really is. Now please, be quiet for a moment, will you?" She cast him her most loving smile and turned back to his teacher. "They don't know yet that you're here, so we have a couple of minutes. Where's Bella?"

"I have no idea, if she isn't here."

"She – she was with the Dark Lord," Draco moaned flatly, and looking as if he was about to swoon, she took him into her arms once more.

"I guess somebody alerted him already, so _if_ you have a reason to summon us down here, Cissa, you had better be quick!"

Yes, he was right. She made Severus report what had happened, filling in quite a few gaps that Draco had left out in his account of things. The boy looked blank, his eyes imploring. She embraced him again, not letting go this time, muttering words of comfort into his ear – that he was alive, oh, she had never been so happy in all her life – then gazed over to Severus, and she could read the words from his lips, 'We're doomed'. She faintly shook her head, backed out of the embrace and grasped Draco by his shoulders.

"I think I took care of pretty much everything, and the situation is even better than I had dared to hope. I will take care of all this, but you must trust me. Do you understand?"

"I'm so sorry, Mum, I should have listened to you, I –"

"It's fine, love! Everything's fine between you and me, but now you must have faith in me. I will sort this out for you, _I will_, you must not worry."

"He'll kill you! And Dad! And me!"

"No, he won't. I will talk to him, and you know that I can be quite persuasive. You and I have time to talk, but not tonight. Now – the tooth of mine that they made me send to you – where is that?"

"What?"

"Where is that tooth, mon trésor?"

He nestled with his collar, producing the gruesome talisman, and she severed the leather string with a spell. She pushed it into Severus' hand, who looked rather perplexed. Draco opened his mouth, "But –"

"_Tomorrow_, Draco, we will talk," she said very urgently and waved with a small vial. "Drink this, _now_."

"But I've got to see the Dark Lord! Mum, he'll –"

"He'll be in very high spirits because Dumbledore is dead, mon trésor. _Trust me!_ All right? You've got to _trust_ _me!_"

"I do, but –"

"Drink," she said imperiously, but he merely goggled at her, helpless.

Severus was an expert potioneer, he did recognise the potion at once, and shot her a very intrigued glance. "I admire your foresight, Cissa –"

"You'll hopefully admire me some more, after tonight…" She ushered Draco to swallow a bit of the potion, seeing him transform into herself, and transformed his school robes likewise to resemble her own night gown. Next she jinxed her own apparel into Slytherin robes, sipped from the second vial, and ten seconds later, she was the spit and imagine of her son.

"You or me, Savvy?"

"You, Cissa. I – I'm really not –"

"He'll Cruciate me though, and it's essential that Draco _remains_ Imperiused, no matter what!"

"What?" Draco's gaze changed between them, plainly horrified. "Mum, I won't let you –"

"I won't let _you_, my darling, and now please, _be quiet_. Time's of the essence, they'll be here any minute now!"

Severus groaned, "I guess I understand what you're up to, Cissa, but –"

"Go ahead, Savvy!"

Draco stared at him, fumbling with the unfamiliar robes to find his wand and defend himself, but his teacher was quicker. "_Imperio! _Swap wands, Cissa! He'll recognise if it's not Draco's!"

She did, pocketing Draco's wand and slipping her own into the pocket of the night gown. Severus observed her moves with a look nothing short of bottomless horror. "What if… What if he decides that mere punishment isn't enough to satisfy him?" he whispered. "What if he kills Draco – or the one looking like Draco –"

"You've got my tooth, Savvy. That'll be enough for a big cauldron of Polyjuice Potion."

"Oh my god, Cissa!"

"_If_ he chooses to kill my son tonight, you'll keep Draco under the Imperius and have him drink it until Lucius is finally free. He'll know what to do then… Anyhow, I know you'll manage, and we've got to hurry now. Tell me once more what exactly happened, just to make sure…"

She had been right, not three minutes later, Bellatrix had found them, assuring that they needn't hide away from the Ministry wizards – 'we got everything under control!' – and made all three follow her upstairs again. There was a huge party going on already – after all, the great foe was dead – and all of them were hailed and received ample of applause. Narcissa – looking like Draco – smirked timidly and let herself be dragged along by Severus and her own, Imperiused child until they found the 'master'. They kneeled down at once, muttering words of awe and respect and kissed the hem of his robes.

Severus was the first to be interviewed. Predictably enough, after expressing his delight to have not been mistaken in his faith in his most valuable spy – _of course not_, because the Dark Lord was infallible! – Lord Voldemort would immediately address the downside of all this. Narcissa repeated everything she had heard form her son and her old friend, Severus helped out now and then, until she finally got the crucial bits. She made her – Draco's – voice quaver, "My lord, I had no chance to complete the task! I have never performed the Killing Curse before, I was still _focusing_ when _he_ –" She beckoned at Severus. "He just wanted to outshine me! I would have killed him, I've worked so hard for this, I've come so far and –"

The Dark Lord intensely looked at her, then turned back to Severus. "He's got a point there, Severus! Please, remind me why I have ordered you to keep your hands off Dumbledore?"

"So I would be able to keep my role as a spy some longer, master. But please, allow me to remark that my role as a spy was done with in the very moment of Dumbledore's death this way or that. He was the only one fooled by my ham acting, and only because of his influence over them, the others tolerated my presence! Dumbledore had his Phoenix Order patrolling the school tonight, there was fighting in the hallways and staircases, and when I got to the top of the Astronomy Tower, I found that Draco had already disarmed Dumbledore and was composing himself to be able to perform the Killing Curse. Since half a dozen members of the Phoenix Order were threatening to break through the barricades that our comrades had put up, I measured that we had no time to lose, and what is more – I didn't think it beyond Dumbledore to have some tricks yet up his sleeve, even if he had lost his wand. So I killed him straight away without thinking twice."

'Well done, Savvy,' Narcissa thought, thinking that he was the only one she knew capable of lying even more smoothly through his teeth than she could – and how hard it had been to teach him at first, but she continued to scowl at him to keep up appearances.

"Summarising, the job has been done, not by the one assigned for it, but you've succeeded much farther than I had expected you would. I hope you do not expect me to refrain from punishment though, Draco!"

"My lord, I am yours. I can only hope for a mild punishment, though I know… I have failed you, master, but not for a lack of good will or true faith!"

Voldemort announced that he'd give it a thought and that they were dismissed for the moment. Narcissa took another sip from the small flask, hiding it just in time before her sister appeared on the scene again, wildly embracing her. "I _knew_ you'd make it, boy!"

"But I didn't, Aunt…"

"Because that idiot there butted in!" She, too, glared at Severus, and rolled her eyes to the ceiling next. "And I had thought we'd finally get rid of you, Snape!"

He sneered. "So sorry to have let you down, Bellatrix!"

"However, I'm so proud of _you_, Draco! Cornering Dumbledore! Disarming him even! Alecto's told me all, you know. And that idea with the Cabinet – I've got to admit at last that you've been right all the way! Smart like your mother, and you'll have a share of your dad's determination in time!"

"Please, Aunt Bellatrix, you're the Dark Lord's most treasured follower, _please_, put in a good word for me! Don't let him kill me, please!"

"Nonsense, kid! The master won't _kill_ you, I'll see to that! I cannot spare you a just punishment, but it will be adequate, to be sure." She turned to her sister, or rather say her nephew, though she of course didn't know that. "If anyone deserves punishment, that's _you_, Cissy!"

"But –"

"That the kid hadn't got the chance to come to the very end wasn't his fault but his own mother's – screw you, Cissy, _you _of all persons ought to have faith in your own flesh and blood! I won't allow that all the hard work I put in this boy comes to nothing. He'll achieve greatness, he has the natural disposition for it – not even his overprotective, overanxious mother can change that. Your detrimental influence has made Lucius soft, but it's not too late yet for your son!"

Severus made Draco look so sheepishly, it was almost comical, and Narcissa had to suppress a little laugh seeing her own face looking so silly. Then Bella went to see the master and begged for her nephew – successfully so. He hadn't meant to kill the boy anyhow – originally, he thought his death would be the perfect punishment for his father's failure, but Draco's tenacity, his resourcefulness, and his aunt's pleas convinced him that he could be very valuable to their cause. And what was more – he had got the boy's parents in the palm of his hand as long as he could threaten them to have Draco killed.

Draco – or who appeared to be Draco anyway – was called for, and the Dark Lord contented his wish for punishment by briefly practising the Cruciatus Curse on him. He took it better than anyone would have expected, and afterwards, 'Narcissa' and Severus coddled over him and ushered him to drink something, which was universally believed to be a painkiller, but actually contained a sip from the hip flask, that Narcissa had slipped into Draco's over-robes, to maintain the transformation. Narcissa pretended to drink reluctantly and continued to shoot belligerent glares at her friend – like a sullen schoolboy who thought he had been robbed of his rightful glory.

"Dumbledore is dead. I think after atoning for your failure to complete the task, it's finally time for some just rewards as well," Voldemort cried more cheerfully than any of his followers had seen him in a very long time. "Make a wish, Draco!"

Narcissa fell on her knees once more. "My lord, you are gracious. I beg you, my lord – please, help my father."

"That's your wish? Nothing for yourself?"

She shook her, Draco's, head. "I know he has disappointed you, master, but _please_, regard his punishment done!"

"All right then. I will regard it done. I meant to have him killed, you know?"

Narcissa shuddered and averted her gaze, kissing the hem of his robes. "I am your servant, master, thank you for sparing him!"

"And you, Severus? What is _your_ wish?"

Severus bowed and declared in a low, solemnly sounding voice, "Once your lordship's reign is in supreme order as it ought to, my lord, please allow me to become the new Headmaster myself, Sir. I – I craved it for so long, and I –"

The Dark Lord laughed raucously. "I love the irony, Severus. Oh yes, you shall have your wish granted! The wizard defeating old Dumbledore shall be his successor then!"

Severus fell to his knees, too, next to Narcissa, and kissed the robes of the 'master', too. He had to get away from here, the sooner, the better. He wouldn't manage to maintain this charade much longer; by now, the full impact of his deed had finally caught up with him. He had killed Dumbledore. He had. Oh, how he had hoped that providence would save him! 'For Lily,' he thought, clinging to this idea like to a life saver. 'For Lily, who would have wanted to see this monster undone!'

* * *

_Audendo…_ Brave deed hides great fear.


	94. Love Conquers All

If nothing else matters any longer, you can just as well be with the one you love

* * *

**- 3.44. -**

Love Conquers All

* * *

_I have so much to tell you, the problem isn't that I'm running out of time, I'm running out of room, this book is filling up, there couldn't be enough pages… I spent my life learning to feel less. Every day I felt less. Is that growing old? Or is it something worse? You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness._

_JONATHAN SAFRAN FOER – Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close_

_

* * *

_

"Where will you go now?" Arthur asks quietly. Remus shrugs, he hasn't spared one thought on the matter so far. Obviously, he can't go back to the other werewolves; by now, Greyback must have informed them all that Remus has shown his true colours. It doesn't matter, his mission has been a failure anyway. But nothing really matters anymore, does it? Without Dumbledore, they don't stand a chance to fight Voldemort.

He looks around; Minerva has left with Scrimgeour and the other Ministry wizards, Horace Slughorn has volunteered – reluctantly, but still – to be the Head of Slytherin House for the time being, and scurried away to talk to the students. Hagrid has gone to the Gryffindors, Flitwick and Pomona Sprout have returned to their own Houses, too, so the only ones left in the Infirmary are Madam Pomfrey, whose face is as white as her neat coat, the still sobbing Molly, Arthur and their soon-to-be daughter-in-law, dabbing her fiancé's wounds. And Nymphadora.

He furtively squints over to her. She has settled on a bed close to Bill's, drawn her knees up, leaning her face against her knees, and judging her constant shaking, she appears to be silently crying, too. He feels the compelling urge to go over to her and embrace her, for her comfort as much as his own, but he must not give in to that notion. They mustn't start with all this all over again.

"Come to the Burrow," Arthur says tonelessly, absent-mindedly patting his wife's shoulder. She has closed her eyes and leans heavily against him, her fingers clenched.

"What will happen with Headquarters now –" Remus just can't bring himself to say, 'with the Secret Keeper dead'. He doesn't dare to speak it, as if those words would confirm what none of them dares contemplating. They are _lost_.

"Well, no one really knows – Dumbledore invented that spell, didn't he?"

"He's taken the secret with him," Nymphadora says. She hasn't raised her head, and her skirt muffles her voice. "When a Secret Keeper perishes, he takes the secret to his grave. But everyone in the secret can reveal it, and create new Secret Keepers – he explained that to Kingsley, last autumn…"

Molly shudders and gasps, and Arthur strengthens his embrace on her. "I see," Remus mutters. "So – so do you think that it's still safe?"

She merely shrugs. Remus has no mind to go to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place anyhow; the house woefully reminds him of Sirius. He has merely asked to say something, to delay his decision what to do now, where to go… He appreciates Arthur's kind invitation, but he isn't sure whether he should accept. Knowing Molly, she will go on wanting to debate his relationship with Nymphadora, and he hasn't got the strength for this.

Neither has he got the strength to resist Arthur's and Molly's urging, so in the end, he returns to the Burrow with them. Nymphadora has come, too, carefully avoiding to look at him though, or to address him personally. Whether she is so badly stirred up by the dreadful events of the previous night, or if she's so quiet because she is cross with him as well, he couldn't say. She has changed so much since last summer…

She has become awfully thin, and serious to a degree that's unsettling – he has heard that from Arthur, Molly, even Minerva McGonagall and Dumbledore have hinted this. Every now and then, he tries to steal a glance of her now, sitting in Molly's kitchen, her face stony and her eyes bloodshot. Is this his fault? Sure, she's anguished with Dumbledore's death, but that her face's so hollow and worn-out must have other reasons. Her hair that has been so colourful and lovingly groomed then, is now lank and mousy, her skin has lost all its peachiness and she must have lost two stone at least.

Molly has brewed a strong coffee and pours them all a cup; Arthur has added a good shot of Whiskey each. The hot beverage doesn't yield much of an effect. They are miserable and an entire vat of Whiskey couldn't change that. Nymphadora sips her cup, her entire appearance defeated, and asks after a while, "Will Fleur not join us?"

"She wants to stay with Bill," Arthur replies with the shadow of a smile.

"Understandable," she whispers. "If you've found the right person, you don't want to part again, come what may…"

Remus swallows hard, but Molly sighs so loudly, no one would hear him this way or that.

"I have been mistaken in the girl's character. I thought – well – I hadn't imagined that she could be so – so –"

"Truly attached to Bill," Arthur finishes the sentence for her, smiling for real now and stroking over her hand.

"Yes… I am sorry that I have always been so cold to her, but I sincerely doubted that they could be serious. I thought it was all just – some sort of infatuation, you know… They're both so young and –"

"What's age got to do with it?" Nymphadora asks with unexpected forcefulness. "Why is it that everyone assumes that you couldn't be serious – couldn't truly _love_ – only because you're still young, eh?"

"I didn't mean to –"

"It's okay. I got what you mean," Nymphadora spats and gets to her feet. She rushes out of the kitchen door and into the garden, and they hear some frightened chicken cluck and flutter around.

"Remus," Arthur says heavily, "go and talk to her, for good gracious' sake. Just look at the poor girl!"

"I _have_ looked at her, Arthur! I don't want to make it even worse!"

"_Worse?_ Listen, Remus, you know that I usually prefer not to stick my nose into other people's business, but this is ridiculous, really! You are very fond of her, are you not?"

Reluctantly, he nods lightly, and stubbornly stares into his cup. Arthur goes on, "So what are you doing here then? She _needs_ you now, can't you see that?"

"Dumbledore's gone and –"

"And what's this got to do with it? Last year, you claimed that your job with the werewolves kept you from being with her. That's over, you know that, don't you? You can never go back to them now!"

"I like her far too much to do that to her, is that so hard to understand?" Remus cries angrily and gets up, too, glaring at his host. "I am _dangerous_! I _am_ a werewolf! You've seen what one of my kind has done to your son tonight!"

"Fenrir Greyback is none of your kind, Remus," Arthur replies softly. "You might both be werewolves, but that's not the material point. _He_ is malicious and savage, you are not. Just look at it! Even your caution for the girl shows your consideration and great kindness. And kindness is all that matters."

He couldn't say what he means by it, but despite himself, Remus finds himself marching out of the back door, too, following Nymphadora to the garden. He'll talk to her, one last time, he'll explain to her what she doesn't want to hear, doesn't want to understand. She _must_ understand him this time and give him up. It is no good.

He spots her sitting under a yew tree, her arms swung around her knees again, her eyes shut and silent tears streaming down her cheeks. It breaks his heart, or what's left of it, to see her like this. She must have heard him coming, for she opens her eyes and hectically wipes away the tears. "I'm fine," she says defensively. "You can go back and tell Molly that I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it."

"Perhaps you shouldn't… But in essence, you were right –"

She frowns. "Now am I? I thought _you_ of all persons…"

"Nymphadora, I never – never doubted in you… Or in the depth of your – well, your affection. _That_ isn't the problem. _I_ am the problem. When I spoke about the difference in our age, I only meant that I am too old for you, and that the one point in which I feel being your senior is that I know… I know what this will lead to."

"This? This what?"

He hesitates, closely observing the hazelnut bush next to the tree. "Our love," he mutters at last.

She gives a mirthless little laugh. "You've made sure that it's come to an end, Remus. _Our love_, since when do you give a –"

"Don't say that! Don't – of course I do care! _Because_ I care – look, during the battle, with all the Death Eaters firing curse after curse, I felt almost paralysed with fear that you could be hit. When Greyback appeared, I was horrified that he could attack you. I – can't you see that this isn't the time for a love affair?"

"And what about _my_ fears? The whole last year – I didn't hear anything from you, and whenever there were news about werewolves, attacks, casualties – my heart would stop beating until I knew that it wasn't you, and it wasn't _you_ who soothed me, but some of my colleagues, unwitting and oblivious how frenzied I really was! Did you care? Did you do anything to –"

She bites her lip and looks away. He sits down opposite of her, clears his throat and begins anew. "Please Nymphadora –"

"Don't call me like that! Did you forget how I hate that sordid name?"

"And I hate addressing you by your surname, as if you were only a friend to me!"

"So what _am_ I to you then!"

"You are my love," he says almost inaudibly, straining to look elsewhere.

"Excuse me?"

"You are my love," he repeats, louder. "As you well know."

"I know nothing! You say you love me? So how can it be that we're not together then? Because I love you, I'm tired and exhausted so much I'm in love with you, but you don't appear to acknowledge this only one bit! – _Look at me!_"

He does, finding her gaze pierce him, and he winces back with the intensity of that glance. There is sadness in it, exhaustion, but also anger and disbelief. "That's not true. I do… Look, I am indeed very sorry that you – that you seem to have taken things so badly –" She snorts indignantly, and he adds quickly, "No, that came out wrong. It's just – I had hoped you'd get over it – over me – and go on to live the happy life that I wanted you to lead…"

"And? Do I look _happy_ to you?" She sneers at him and he shakes his head slowly. "That's _because_ I'm not _happy_! I feel sore and heartbroken and lonely and let down! If you've truly believed I'd get over you just like that, I'm afraid I've got to tell you that your calculations turned out a complete failure!"

He can't argue with that and turns his eyes down again. "I'm sorry."

"I don't need your pity! I don't want it! What I need is you, Remus! I want _you_! I _need_ you!"

"But we cannot do that, Nymphadora! You must listen to reason! We're in the midst of war, Dumbledore's dead, none of us can be sure to see another day!"

"Yes, I know," she says fiercely. "That's why I think it even more important to be with you. If I die tomorrow, I want to know that I've been happy, and if you were to die, I'd want to take comfort in the fact that we've fully seized the time we've been given together."

Her look, her words are defeating. He gazes at her, before his resistance crumbles, before all the reasonable objections and hesitations vanish. He leans towards her, reaches out for her cold hands, and in the next moment, she is in his arms, her head on his shoulder, shaken by sobs. 'She's right', he thinks vaguely, holding her tight. When nothing matters anymore and tomorrow you might just as well be dead, there is no point in listening to sense and be deaf for the demands of the heart.

Molly and Arthur stand behind their kitchen window, observing the couple in their garden, and when those two close in for a kiss now, Arthur pulls his wife away and gives a heartfelt sigh. "At last," he breathes. "That's good…"

"We're lost, Arthur. We are lost. Without Dumbledore –"

"Shhh, Molly. We will continue the fight, and perhaps there is a chance –"

"There is no _chance_, Arthur!" Molly can't keep the tone of hysteria out of her voice. "Our names are down on the list of the next victims! Everyone knows that we've been in league with Dumbledore! We will be murdered in our beds, now that –"

"Don't, Molly. We must not despair. Dumbledore wouldn't want that."

"No, he wouldn't! But he didn't want to die either, and still it happened!"

Arthur wraps his wife in his arms, and kisses her instead of speaking his mind on this head – maybe it's sheer denial, maybe the exhaustion blurring his perception, he just feels that some things aren't what they seem to be. This wasn't it. It isn't over like this. It can't be. And the young couples – in his garden, in the Infirmary – sticking together despite everything – they seem to support him in that notion. This isn't over yet.


	95. The Prince's Sanctuary

This is truly the last place on earth taht Severus would ever have regarded as a safe haven

* * *

**- 3.45. -**

The Prince's Sanctuary

* * *

_What have I become, my sweetest friend? Everyone I know goes away in the end… But you could have it all, my empire of dirt – I will let you down. I will make you hurt._

_NINE INCH NAILS_

_

* * *

_

He only got away with it because everyone else was having a ball. Even the Dark Lord was distracted by the unforeseen success. When he had sent the little party to Hogwarts with Draco, he hadn't believed that either of them would return, and that, Severus suspected numbly, had also been the reason why he had merely sent some of the back seat lot. Greyback – effective, but only a werewolf. The Carrows – they had disavowed their allegiances back then, too. Gibbon and Rowle – the same. Yes, the Dark Lord had been taken by surprise by young Draco's – or rather say, Severus' – _success_.

Severus had seized the first chance to get away unnoticed, and gone to the only place he could think of that might still be safe now. There were no protective spells on his parents' house, he obviously couldn't go back to school, and since he could hardly break down in the middle of the street somewhere… His wand in his pocket, unwilling – incapable – to strike, he marched into Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, and desperately hoped that nobody was here. They must all know by now that Dumbledore was dead, and ought to have rushed to Hogwarts. They must all believe him to be a traitor by now, and hopefully did not dare to enter this house again. Hopefully? For all he cared, Shacklebolt or old Moody could be here, and finish him off straightaway. He really, really couldn't care less…

Predictably, the house was empty, with the exception of the portraits. "You!" Black's mother in her portrait form screeched and stabbed her finger into his general direction. "You! I know you! You're a half-blood, too!"

Severus couldn't bring himself to give much of a reply to that reproach. He smirked at the portrait in passing, muttering, "And too right you are, mother-of-the-scum-of-the-earth. I am the bloody Half-Blood Prince."

Curiously, something in that statement shut her up at once. He reached the staircase, and for the first time, he asked himself what he was even doing here. What had he come here for? To mourn for the loss of a man that he had regarded as a friend for many years, only to find out he had been betrayed? To beat himself up for executing the old man's last will? To feel sorry for himself? Or had he just figured that at least tonight, this place was a safe haven for him to do all that, get drunk, and finally do what he should have done that night sixteen years ago? Well, drinking seemed like a reasonable start to any of these options.

He vaguely felt the effects of the Cruciatus Curse when descending to the wine cellar. He found he ought to be feeling much more pain. He deserved to feel pain. And maybe that physical pain would drown out some of the throbbing hurt he was feeling on the inside… He had done it. He couldn't wipe away that thought, and what was much worse, the images in his head. Dumbledore's half-dead figure, leaning against the battlement, his desperate plea, those begging eyes, the visions he had flashed to him, the last inquiries of a dying man – and then, the green light that had extinguished whatever life had still been left in the cursed body. He had done it. Until the last moment, he had truly believed he'd rather die himself than do it.

It took him two seconds to choose a bottle, but as indiscriminately as that choice was now, as longsome undecided he had been about the task that had brought him here, to carry out his promise to Dumbledore, the Vow he had made to Narcissa. In a twisted way, he had made that Vow to cheat himself into doing it, or die instead. Really, when uttering those words, he hadn't quite believed that he'd fulfil it in the end.

'Try looking at the bright side,' he told himself sternly, but the sternness dissolved at once and was replaced by bitterness. Yes, Draco was safe. Hopefully. So were Lucius and Narcissa. Hopefully. Idiots, all of them, to some degree! What had Lucius been thinking! What had he done! If nothing else, he ought to have safeguarded his family! No, Lucius' bum was safely seated in Azkaban, so he could rely on his wife and old friend to sort it all out for him! And Draco – that little fool! Frankly, he had always been fond of the kid that resembled his parents so much, and he had also thought that the boy was rather shrewd, like his good mother. What had got into him? Pledging his life to the Dark Lord! After all that had happened! What a dimwit! Since when did Draco resemble Vincent Crabbe so much? Oh, if only he _had_ resembled him tonight! After all that big talk! Because Vincent Crabbe, Severus did not doubt it – Crabbe wouldn't have hesitated for a single second. Scruples and doubts and hesitations needed a brain to begin with! He wished with all his heart that it had been Draco's spell that had undone Dumbledore tonight, and not his own. Or – if he could have it all the way like he wanted – if only Dumbledore had perished because of that odd curse on that stupid ring! If only he had never put it on, more like! If only Dumbledore was still alive! They were all lost! Lost!

He knew enough of the other Order members to understand that they'd lose their heads like panicking chicken! The only two with calm, strategic heads on their shoulders were Kingsley Shacklebolt and Minerva, and what could they do against the overwhelming trepidation of someone like Molly Weasley, or Alastor Moody's paranoia? And the Ministry – what a joke! A good portion of it was under the Dark Order's control already, with or without Dumbledore's death! And Potter? How on earth should the child stand up to Vol- him, before it was time for him to… God, he got sick just to think of it! Before the 'opportune moment', as Dumbledore surely delighted to call it, had come for him to be slaughtered like a scapegoat? Lily's baby! The baby she had died for!

He had made himself 'comfortable' – well, as physically comfortable as possible in a situation like his – and settled on the cold flagstone floor, leaning against a rack of bottles. Just to do something, he read the label on the half-empty bottle he was drinking – 'Chateau Au Chute'. His French was fragmentary, but he understood what a marvellous coincidental pick he had made there; he lifted the bottle in a mock solemn toast. "To you," he said loudly, "the noble dead! If you meet Dumbledore in afterlife, Lily – please kick his arse for me!"

In his youth, he had been a great drinker. It had been a point of honour in Slytherin then to be capable of holding as much drink as possible, and also – it had allowed him to manoeuvre himself into a state of oblivion that he had found quite desirable. Starting college, joining the Death Eaters – yep, plenty of opportunity to continue that promising career to become a professional like his old man. He still remembered the first sober night – the first night in three or four years in which he hadn't drunk as much as a thimble of beer, and also the first night of an ensuing period of seventeen years of soberness. Sure, he had now and then drunk a glass or two of wine or a shot of whiskey, and each year on Halloween, he had got as sloshed as possible, but that was rather common, wasn't it? Being totally drunk once a year didn't make one an alcoholic.

Curiously, he hadn't stopped drinking for the realisation how much he'd resemble old Toby in this respect – that realisation had come much later. He had stopped because… Well… He had thought, then, that he didn't deserve to soften his agony, and he still thought the same, basically. But not tonight. Not tonight. The bottle was empty and he hurled it into a corner to see it smash. He gave a start; the smashing battle suddenly reminded him of Dumbledore's falling body crashing to the ground 150 feet below.

Why had he done this? How could he have done this? He had killed him! With his bare hands, nearly! Oh Lord! He should never have given in to Dumbledore's plea! He ought to have told Minerva – Madam Pomfrey – Narcissa perhaps – together they might have found a cure for that wretched curse! Together, they might have been capable of keeping him alive! He should have – maybe he could have… He was choking; desperately trying to keep the tears at bay – he hadn't cried in one and a half decades – he must not cry now – but if this wasn't the proper moment for a major breakdown, he couldn't say what a proper moment was!

Dead! Dead! He had the blood of his friend on his hands – one of the few people who had ever believed in him, who had believed in him even though he hadn't believed in himself, didn't believe in himself now either! And it wasn't just Dumbledore's blood – there was Lily's, too, and her insufferable husband's, and before long, there'd be plenty more blood still, because without Dumbledore, the war was as good as lost already! Minerva – Pomona – Filius – Hagrid, of course, and ultimately, the boy – Lily's boy – he, too, would have to die, and it was all, all Severus' fault! He had set things in motion! He had betrayed them all! He had tried and tried and tried to make up, he had risked his life for the boy, and for what! So Harry Potter could march to death like a lamb to slaughter! He had failed, utterly, totally failed! Oh, if only he hadn't listened to Dumbledore in that night then! Lily's child would die this way or that, and at least he would have spared himself an ocean of grief and pain and self-loathing, at least he wouldn't have been the one to make an end to Albus Dumbledore's life tonight!

Without looking, he fumbled for another bottle in the rack behind him. He twisted his arm, lost his grip, and this bottle smashed on the floor, too, drenching him in dark red wine. He giggled hysterically. There it was! The blood! Visible at last! All over him! He carelessly reached down to touch the sticky liquid, deliberately cutting his hand on the shards, and taking considerable satisfaction to see the wine mingle with real blood – his blood – now. He didn't have enough blood in himself to repay all that had been spilled on his account.

He felt so empty. In fact, he hadn't thought that he could possibly feel any worse than he had been feeling anyway, every single day and night in the last seventeen years, ever since hearing that curse, since seeing her lifeless body… These two little words, quite inconspicuous – _Avada_ _Kedavra_ – two words only, so easily spoken if one didn't stop to think what they meant. He had never spoken them before with a wand in his hand. Becoming older, he had understood how lucky he had been in this respect – the only stroke of luck he had ever had. He had never before been forced to kill; the Dark Lord had had other plans for his little 'prince' then. He would have done it, wouldn't he? God, back then, he would have done anything.

And tonight, he _had_ done it. At last. And not even on that lunatic's orders, but on the order of his own _friend_. Because he had once given his word to Dumbledore to do anything, no matter what it would take. 'Why did you do this to me?' he thought. 'How could you even ask me to do that?' He thought he could hear the answer. 'Because you deserve it.' The emptiness in his chest expanded; his guts felt hollow, he could barely feel his limbs – only his head wasn't affected, sadly enough. His head was cramped full with thoughts and memories, with reproaches, regret and remorse.

_Avada_ _Kedavra_ had taken his only love away from him then… And now he had repeated those words and the incantation, and robbed himself of the only person that he had dared to reveal himself to… He couldn't grasp this. Or rather – he understood just too well, but he refused to believe it. Had he truly killed a man tonight? A dying man, yes, but living and breathing still – he had killed him – he had – he…

Just to do something, he picked the shards out of his hands and got up. Dumbledore was dead – like Lily – like Emmeline Vance – like the Diggory boy… They ought not to have died for nothing. And Severus was the only man who could help bringing this about, as far as he knew. He wouldn't kill himself tonight. There'd still be ample of time to do that when that piece of filth was done with. When that rotten butcher had got what he was in for. Oh yes, Severus would see to that, no matter what it would take.

With a bitter smile, he remembered a conversation he had had with Dumbledore last year. How the old man had tried to figure out how far his faithful lieutenant Severus was willing to go. How he had wanted to ascertain that Severus would execute Lily's will. Had Lily wanted to see her son live? Obviously, or she wouldn't have sacrificed herself for him. Would Lily have wanted to spare her child, for the price of countless other lives? Severus had known her too well to wonder about this question for long. In the same night after Dumbledore had let him into the secret, alone in his bed, he had already understood what Lily would have chosen. She'd never have yielded to the Dark side. Never ever. Even if that meant that even her beloved child must die.

Despite the alcohol that he was no longer used to, his thoughts were curiously lucid. This had been the Headquarters, protected by the Fidelius Charm cast by Dumbledore. With the death of the Secret Keeper, anyone in the Secret could make anyone else a Secret Keeper, too. And before long – before the next morning, if they were unlucky – the Dark Lord would have figured this out as well. As soon as the elation of Dumbledore's demise would have sunken in, he'd plan his next moves, and probably, he'd force Severus to take him here. And then the place had better be empty.

Suddenly all resolute, he marched up again, kicking over the umbrella stand on his way. He opened the next best door and cast some random spells to ravage the interior – ignoring the screeching portraits blurting out their outrage – and went on in the same manner, all through the ground floor and up to the first floor. In one of the bedrooms, he spotted the portrait of a former Headmaster, who looked as if he had been waiting for him.

"Dumbledore's sent me," the man said coolly. Severus could merely smirk. "He sends his regards, and wishes me to tell you how relieved he is, and how grateful. Personally, I don't think anyone should be praised for murder –"

"Aww – no congratulatory rose bouquets from you then," Severus snarled in cold contempt.

"However," the wizard continued unabashedly, "he meant me to ask if everything went about as planned."

"It did. The Dark Lord thinks I'm his most devoted – and from this day on most senior – follower. I was granted a wish, even. Tell Dumbledore that his school is safe. I'll be made his successor."

"You? A half-blood?"

"Direct your complaints to my predecessor, good man."

The wizard curled his lips into a subtle smile. "Testy, are we?"

Severus didn't bother to answer; he had turned on his heels and walked out, casting a debonair jinx over his shoulder that ripped off the curtains and tore the bed linen. The next door he faced, however, he approached with sudden uneasiness. Black's room, the childish sign on the door said. He shook off the trepidation and pushed open the door. For a minute, he marvelled at the place; stepping back and reading the sign once more. This _was_ Black's room – and every bias Severus had ever had about that idiot were confirmed once more.

This was the place of a sixteen-year-old child. As a matter of fact, it was the travesty of a teenage room. Surely, Severus' room had never been decorated so utterly without taste, or sense. Neither would he have tolerated any of his students, regardless of their age, to pin half-naked girls to the walls of their rooms. There were Quidditch memorabilia, inane graffiti, and countless photos of girls in scanty bikinis, or straightaway topless. Good heavens. In the middle of all the bottomless grief he had gone through tonight, he suddenly found himself laughing, laughing so hard that he was actually cringing. Black! That poor, pathetic bastard! A big-headed idiot on the height of puberty, stuck in the body of a thirty-something!

That he had lived in this room aged fourteen was one thing. But that he had kept it like this in his thirties was just too ridiculous for words. Head-shaking, Severus opened the next best drawer, curious beyond expression. What other 'treasures' had Black stored? His Chocolate Frog Trading Cards? Dirty mags? The little notes that the girls in school had kept on slipping him?

In the first drawer, there was nothing more interesting than three dozens of mismatched socks. No surprises here. The second drawer contained motorbike magazines – from the Seventies, but strangely enough, from the Nineties, too. Yes, Black had always fancied himself to be the epitome of 'cool', hadn't he! Geez! The third drawer contained huddled T-shirts, and Severus was on the verge of giving up when opening a forth drawer at last. The merry laughter died away at once. He looked at a framed photo, depicting Lily – in a white wedding dress – with her husband in an old-fashioned tux, and their best man next to them. All three smiled like mad and toasted towards the camera, and Severus banged shut the drawer in shock. As if he had just discovered a snake, he cautiously opened the drawer again, his wand at the ready, and vanished the photo at sight.

He exhaled, but only for a minuscule moment. Underneath that first frame, a second one appeared – this one showing a baby, with a shock of black hair. The baby giggled, on the arms of a red-haired woman, of whom only the back was visible. Without knowing what he was doing, Severus grabbed the frame and hurled it into a corner, suddenly desperate to find a picture showing her for real. But in this particular chest, there were no other photos, and before long, he had ransacked the entire place, and not in fake like the previous rooms. He found two postcards with casual greetings from far-away places, another photo of Lily surrounded by the infernal quartet, a signed year book, and then –

He sank to the floor, staring at the letter, and the enclosed photo. It was the kind of letter that young mothers would send to their best friends – he had received the same kind from Narcissa many times – he would have received the same from Lily, too, if only he hadn't… The photo – he could barely endure looking at it, and couldn't draw his gaze away in the same moment. Lily and her boy. Lily. And the child that she had died for, and that had to die nonetheless. On this photo, he didn't resemble Potter yet – or at least, no version of Potter that Severus knew – he was merely a baby, a happy, chirpy baby, innocent in the most original sense of that word.

He was torn between wanting to keep the picture, to save it from the flames that the Death Eaters would surely set to the place soon, and the sickness connected to seeing Lily's child – her baby – the baby that would be sacrificed for what Dumbledore called The Greater Good.


	96. Waking Up

Draco wakes up in a new world

* * *

**- 3.46. -**

Waking Up

* * *

_A man's dying is more the survivors' affair than his own._

_THOMAS MANN – The Magic Mountain_

_

* * *

_

She had forced another potion down her child's throat, a potent sleeping potion this time, sat with him all through the night and waited patiently until he'd wake up. She watched him sleeping, and it hurt her to think what must be on his mind – he tossed and turned, he winced and contorted his face, mumbling incomprehensible words, beads of sweat shining on his forehead. She swapped them away with her handkerchief and stroked his cheeks. Her poor darling. If only she could have saved him all this… Where had they gone wrong? When had this one moment been that had doomed them eventually?

When Draco had been born, she had sworn that she'd do everything in her power to protect him, and so had Lucius. They had promised themselves that they'd be the world's best parents, that he should have everything he could ever need, not only the material goods that went along with the territory of being the heir of Malfoy Manor, but everything else, attention, love, care, the best education. And they had not failed, had they? So how come her baby was here now?

And why didn't anyone from the Ministry show up here? Right now, she thought she'd feel more comfortable knowing her son in Azkaban prison than under the same roof like this motley crew of assassins, mad sadists and their kingpin, that obnoxious piece of filth… Severus had saved him. Had killed his own friend Dumbledore only to save her baby. She had no words to express her gratefulness. Not only had Severus saved Draco's life, but what weighed just as heavily in Narcissa's books – his soul. She didn't believe in the old saying, that murder would tear the killer's soul apart. It never had affected Lucius in any way. But Draco was of a different kind – a murder would have torn him asunder for sure. Her little darling, her –

His eyelids fluttered, and she strained to smile, so the first thing he saw when opening his eyes was his beaming mother. "Mon trésor," she murmured tenderly, "you're awake. How are you?"

"I – where –" He insecurely gazed around, then the memory seemed to hit him. "Oh god… Oh Mum! I – the Dark Lord – I got to – he –"

"Shhh. It's all right, chéri." And since she had cast a whole lot of security charms on the door, she could give him a rough sketch of the previous night's events. Leaving out the more unpleasant details like the Cruciatus punishment, of course. He was agitated enough as it was.

"I'm so sorry, Mum! I was so bloody stupid – forgive me – I was _so_ silly not to listen to you – so disrespectful – please, I didn't mean to –"

"Say no more, my love. I understand. And what is more – it was _good_ that you didn't listen to me. You had to follow his orders anyway, and this way you've secured us all a chance to get through this. I am very proud of you."

"No, you're not."

"I am. You've been quite ingenious! Finding a way into Hogwarts – excellent, indeed!"

"And for what end? To bring that total maniac Greyback into the school? I've stepped on some corpse, Mum! I – oh lord – and it's all my fault! Dumbledore – even there, he _still_ offered to help me! Can you imagine that? He _knew_ I've meant to kill him all the time, and he _still_ wanted to save us? You, and even Dad!"

"Because he has believed in you, darling, and so do I."

"Yeah?" He chuckled bitterly. "I'll let you all down, you know that? I can't do this, Mum! I _can't_! I thought I could, but I'm just a coward, I –"

"It isn't cowardice when one risks the Dark Lord's wrath to spare another human being, dear. It is right, it is brave, it shows maturity and strength of character. Dumbledore wouldn't have wanted to help you if he had believed you were a killer. And I wouldn't be so proud of you either. I'm very, very happy that you couldn't do this."

"But he'll murder us all!"

"Not if we're lucky – and careful. I've taken ample of precautions, trust me."

"But he'll have Dad killed!"

"That's all taken care of, darling. You were allowed a wish for your success tonight, and I hope you'll not be cross with me to hear that I begged for your father's life in return for your deed."

He tightened his embrace on her still. "Oh Mum – Mum, I'm – you're great… But shouldn't I – you know – leave? The Ministry…"

"Don't ask _me_ why they haven't come here yet, honey. I believed this would be the first place where they'd come to search for you… But the Dark Lord seems to have undermined the Ministry far enough already. Incidentally – did you know that he's chosen your home to be his new Headquarters? I guess we ought to feel _honoured_." Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. "As things are now, I'd be happy, truly happy if you could join your father in Azkaban, for the time being…"

He got tense, and she stroked over his sleek hair that was in dire need of a cut. He had lost so much weight in the last months, she could feel his spine through the fabric of his pyjamas, his cheeks were hollow and his eyes had lost their shine. These bastards, they'd pay, she'd make them _pay_ – she didn't know how, yet, but she wouldn't let this go unchecked.

"I love you, Mum. I was an idiot to ever doubt you…"

"No, darling, just young. If someone's at fault, it's your father and me."

"No!"

"Yes, mon trésor. Now don't start arguing with me again. I'm so glad to have you back here with me, safe and sound…" She kissed the top of his head and took him in her arms again. It felt so good – she had missed him so badly. Additional to everything else she hated Voldemort for, the alienation from her baby had weighed heaviest. She didn't need to hear Draco's excuses, his pleas for forgiveness; it was enough that he endured her embrace, that he no longer pushed her away, that he was her little boy again, confiding in her, trusting in her…

They hadn't got much time for their little reunion – Aunt Bellatrix wanted to be attended to. For safety, Narcissa put the Imperius Curse on Draco, so he could give the right answers, show the proper attitude. He willingly permitted her, because he was terrified enough as it was, because he thought that he didn't have one ounce of strength left inside him. It all went smoothly; his aunt didn't become suspicious, no one else did either, and finally, Narcissa was permitted to take her son with her again, undoing the Imperius and giving him another mild sleeping potion. He needed rest – and Narcissa needed to see the 'master'.

The potion didn't work for long though, and Draco woke up again, unable to keep from violently trembling. Never in his life, he would have been able to imagine the anguish he could be feeling. Every time when he thought it couldn't get any worse, he'd receive another blow, and right now, he didn't think he could take any more. How had he come here? He gazed around the familiar room, twitching with the sight of Emma on the chair beside his bed, sleeping on his robes that he had thrown away carelessly.

Nothing had prepared him for this; for sixteen years, he had been a little prince, almost oblivious of that privileged state. He realised that _now_, wistful, scornful against himself. Somehow, he had thought it was always going to stay this way. Maybe it was true that one could only appreciate things once they were lost. He had been born to the oldest family in all England, born to wealth and power, to parents who would adore their only son. Regarding his start in life, it was hard to understand how those favourable conditions had come to nothing in the end. Now, he could hardly picture how much he had worried for trivialities, only a year ago – who would win the House Cup, to beat Potter in Quidditch and Granger in their school subjects, or the latest racing brooms. What would he give to be able to go back in time!

Everything had been a game then – although he hadn't understood that yet, and taken it ludicrously serious. Even the war had seemed like a huge play, it had been thoroughly beyond him to see that it was _real_. But in his silliness, he had only seen the petty advantages for himself; he had believed he could finally get even with Potter, or Weasel Bee, or Granger; he had thought he would see his worshipped father seize the power that truly belonged to him. He sneered at himself for that thought – yeah, there it was again, the little prince, sitting between his royal parents.

It had all started out so promising, but somewhere in between, things had run out of hand. He couldn't put the finger on the exact moment, on the true culprit, all he could say for sure was that he was doomed. As a child, his parents had taken great care to give him a perfect education, he had had the best tutors that could be bought with means of money, just as with fame. People had been smitten to get a job with The Malfoys, it must have appeared to be the perfect career step.

He had been poised for success, had been told how great he was, and that he was bound to become just as powerful as his father, just as acknowledged and respected. Their predictions had turned out true, partly. He _was_ after all to walk in his father's shoes, though it weren't the elegant evening shoes, but the ragged sneakers suited for escape, to run for one's life. He had believed that he couldn't go wrong, doing exactly what his father would have done, and wasn't it ironic? He was hardly better off than this one. In fact, he found that his mother was right; his father was still in a slightly better position, imprisoned in Azkaban.

The little spoilt boy that had intended to become Minister for Magic, or a Quidditch pro, or sometimes, while watching his mother, dreaming to become a famous pianist, that boy no longer existed. Without noticing it, he had lost more and more of his options, finding himself left with no chance at all eventually. When had that happened? When his father had been arrested? When he had joined the Death Eaters, glowing with pride to be given that chance at such a young age? He sneered with his own naïveté. Becoming a Death Eater was no chance – it was a sentence.

His mother had tried to warn him, set him on his guard. But being that smug brat that he now knew that he had been, he had dismissed her good advice as belittling, offended with her apparent lack of faith in his talents. Well, he had spent a good deal of time hating himself for that complacency already, at last coming to the conclusion that this wasn't the only thing that had gone wrong. Even if he had had so much sense as to realise what he had been doing there, it wasn't as if he had been in a position to choose.

The Dark Lord had sought revenge, and it hadn't been Dumbledore in the first place that he had wanted to get back on. Only a naïve child such as himself could have been so foolish as to believe that, bloody hell. His mum hadn't dared speaking plain words, and he couldn't blame her. He had been so blinded, he might have brought her into greater peril yet if she had been entirely open. The Dark Lord was furious with his father, for that one's failure in the Ministry of Magic, and there seemed to be something else, too, although Draco had no clue what it could be. However, the short of it was: his glorious father, that he had meant to be infallible, had messed it up, and his master was none to humour with.

The idea had been brilliant, in a sick and twisted way. Let Lucius' son replace his father, send him on a suicidal errand, during which he would be killed either for trying, or for failing, no matter what, the outcome had been pretty obvious. Lucius Malfoy would have been punished with the loss of his only child, and in the same moment have seen his famous old lineage cease for good. There could only be one Malfoy in each generation.

Well, he had survived, hadn't he? But he couldn't be proud with so much even; that he was still alive was owed to Dumbledore's magnitude, his mum's interference, to Professor Snape's determination and influence. He wasn't so childish any longer as to presume that it had anything to do with _him_. The only thing he indeed had achieved was cornering the old Headmaster and introducing a bunch of killers to roam the school, among them the ferocious Fenrir Greyback, and the sheer thought still made him want to throw up. What if Greyback had attacked little Linny? Or Panse? What if –

He was haunted by the memory of that one's blood-smeared fangs, the savage glow in his yellowish eyes. He would dream of the nauseating sensation shaking him when accidentally stepping onto that corpse, or what he had supposed to be a corpse, because his mum had reported that the Weasley brother had survived. He had caught a glimpse of his cousin, who had been attacked by two Death Eaters and fought them in style – the very same cousin whose mere existence he had denied half of his life. Nymphadora, his half-blood cousin – how ashamed he had been of that relation! In that terrible night, he had spotted her, being impressed despite himself, realising that she must be as embarrassed with _him_ now as he had always been with her.

If that night had produced any effect at all, it was this – he now knew for certain that he couldn't do this. No fucking way. Perhaps it was the fact that he had nearly died himself, that evening in the bathroom. That second after Potter's curse had hit him, and he had been positive that he was drawing his last breath… The frenzied thought that _this _mustn't be _it_ – that he was too young still – the thought of everything he'd never have done, all the things unsaid – how he had thought that he'd die before he could even beg his mother's forgiveness. _That_ was what dying was like. _That_ was what killing was like. Ts! Even Potter, Holy Potter, could do it – but Draco could not. He wasn't cut out to be a Death Eater, or to kill, or to show any of the traits that would be necessary to come through this war and live to tell the tale. As much as he had always craved it – he wasn't like his father. He lacked pretty much everything that distinguished Lucius Malfoy, the ruthlessness, the cold blood and will to stop at nothing. Draco had admired him for those qualities, at the same time despising someone like Dumbledore, who had represented the complete opposite. Only in the night of this one's death on that roof top, he had come to understand his true greatness of mind.

Lucius Malfoy was no longer his son's hero, which was as bitter as everything else, perhaps even more. Draco surely wasn't the first boy to understand at last that his parents were only human, too. But he had fallen from a greater height, and the impact had taken his breath. Did it need a situation like this, pointing a wand at a defenceless old man with the order to murder him, to get what killing was about in the end?

Snape had been able to do it, and so would his father have. Greyback did it on a monthly basis, his aunt Bellatrix seemed to regard it as some sort of sports, the Dark Lord would do it with an ease as if he were to squash a mosquito. Being a child still, he had believed it to be the easiest thing in the world, everyone could do it, so why shouldn't he? 'Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe', Dumbledore had said… Professor Snape had killed because he had wanted to save his best friends' child, because he would have perished himself otherwise. He had given the Unbreakable Vow to Narcissa Malfoy. Professor Snape, who might be an old friend of his parents, but was not more than a teacher for Draco – a teacher that he had treated with disparaging contempt for the whole last year – the Professor had risked his life only to save Draco's…

To his eternal disgrace, he had to admit that he had never taken them completely serious, his own mother and Snape. The latter being a little teacher, alas, living by Dumbledore's mercy, compelled to hide who he truly was, as if being a mighty Dark wizard was something to be ashamed of. On the other hand his mum – gentle and lovely, beautiful and gracious – an asset to be proud of, sure, but not from this world, and as much as he had always loved her, even when they had been fighting – he had basically thought that all she knew were books and songs, but nothing that truly _mattered_.

Stupid boy! He smirked at himself, angry, bashful, contemptuous. If only he _had_ been more like her! Imitating his father had brought him half the way to the point of no return that he had reached now. And worse, much worse – her own life depended on him, too. He and his father had manoeuvred her into a situation without a possible escape. Aunt Bellatrix and Snape would stand up for her, hopefully, but one more mistake on Draco's part, and they couldn't help her either. Whatever plan she had, it would never work out, not in a million years – he had gathered some experience with impossible things.

Still, he'd do whatever she'd ask of him. He owed her. He owed Professor Snape, who had saved his life for the second time yesterday. He even owed Dumbledore, the one person whose death he had desired for so long. If his mum demanded that he'd jump down the weir tower of Malfoy Manor without a wand, without a net, he'd do it. It no longer mattered, nothing mattered any more.


	97. Storming The Stronghold

Azkaban is liberated once again

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**- 3.47. -**

Storming The Stronghold

* * *

_For where the instrument of intelligence is added to brute power and evil will, mankind is powerless in its own defence._

_DANTE ALIGHIERI_

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* * *

_

Everyone had known that it was going to happen, sooner or later. The Death Eaters outside of Azkaban had merely waited for the signal. The Death Eaters imprisoned inside simply had wondered how long it would take until the Dark Lord had forgiven them at last. The Phoenix Order knew because Dumbledore had predicted it. The Ministry knew because Rufus Scrimgeour wasn't the new Minister for nothing, and what had happened before was just likely to happen again. And finally, every witch and wizard older than ten could easily guess that it was only a matter of time until You Know Who got back some of his most high-ranking followers.

What did come as a surprise though was the gentle silence with which it all happened. The last time… This time, it was Sirius Black all over again. Well, not quite, because only a handful of people knew how this one had managed to weasel his way out of one of the best secured prisons in the world. The third outbreak in Azkaban's history – more than thousand years, it had been safer than a dragon's egg, and in the last four years, three outbreaks? – was well conceived, and executed in quiet stealth.

There had been ample of clandestine preparations. Nobody had known all the details, everyone was strictly forbidden to speak about them. After the last breakout, and due to the fact that the Dementors had defected from service, the security measurements had been increased tenfold, but nevertheless didn't present much of a challenge for the greatest Dark wizard of all times.

It was a stormy night in the middle of July, torrential rain poured down through thick fogs – and that was just the London weather; on Azkaban Island, it was looking even worse. One could hardly see one's own hand before one's eyes. The Dark Lord gave the signal, and Severus suddenly found himself accompanied by Bellatrix Black, who gave him her most sardonic grin, tightly gripped his arm and did a Standby-Apparition with him as soon as they had left the boundaries of Malfoy Manor. Well, that was the price for being praised as the Dark Lord's most faithful, highest-ranking follower; one got paired up with the number two on the list. Severus took some comfort in the idea that she found their companionship as offensive as he did.

Before he could ask himself where the hell she thought she was going – Azkaban was Apparition-proof, they found themselves aboard a small boat, mercilessly knocked about by the raucous sea. He knew that there were at least nineteen other boats like this one, even though he couldn't see them. Despite the anyway icy temperature, he sensed hordes of Dementors floating above them; Bellatrix next to him clenched her teeth, for once looking not oh-so-fierce. They weren't close enough for harm, but Bellatrix had suffered from them for too long to be relaxed around them still, and as for his own cruel memories haunting him in their presence… Those memories never let him forget why he was doing all this in the first place.

A faint rumbling was rising, increasingly louder, sounding like thunder – he could suddenly tell where the island was, because in the midst of all the clam darkness around them, a gleaming black dome appeared. Severus had heard about this spell, but had never seen it – this was what had got him into the Dark Arts back then, spells like this one, mightier than anyone could imagine before they didn't see it themselves. This incantation would knock down the first wave of defence enchantments, including the Anti-Apparition-Magic. He knew only a single wizard who could have defied such a forceful spell – Dumbledore had successfully protected Hogwarts against something like this for many, many years. The poor lads stationed on Azkaban Island didn't stand a chance.

The dome grew bigger and bigger and so did the thunder and lightning accompanying its growth, until a ridiculously quiet plop indicated the implosion. The dome vanished, and so had the Anti-Apparition-Magic, the Anti-Intrusion-Jinxes, and all means of communication with the outside world. Bellatrix gave a triumphant yell and grabbed his arm once more. They Apparated to the part of the battlements closest to them, but no Ministry wizard, no dragon, no nothing was to be seen or heard.

Why didn't anyone show up? Oh, sorry – because the Dark Lord had planned it this way, of course. He wanted Rufus Scrimgeour to see that he and his men could walk into Azkaban just like that – they could walk in anywhere they wanted just like that. Thanks to his own people in the Ministry, he knew who the wizards on shift were that night. Four belonged to his own order. Seven had been Imperiused, and another four wouldn't put up any resistance because their families were in the Dark Order's grasp. These wizards had sneaked up to their unwitting colleagues and either confounded, stunned, Imperiused or straightaway killed them.

Severus followed Bellatrix, who clearly knew her way, passing lifeless guards on the floor, Dementors, and an astounding number of vampires, both corporeal and in bat-form. In revulsion, he saw two vampires feeding on two injured guards. Bellatrix dragged him into a door, but instead of following the corridors, she simply blasted holes into the walls. She was the straightforward type, he'd give her that. They sprang open every cell they came past; he could only imagine what scum they were setting free there. Further down and down until they had arrived in the deepest dungeons; she didn't hesitate a single time, but headed for a certain door at once and cried, "Stand back!"

He didn't know if she meant him or the convict inside, but it was always better to stay on the safe side. Three spells, one explosion, and the iron door was gone, and so was Bellatrix, running inside with a freakish scream. "Rodolphus!"

'Oh, there you go', Severus thought, watching the reunion. But no passionate exchange of kisses followed; instead there was chummy shoulder-patting and some 'Good to see you!' Severus had never been married, never led any comparable relationship, but he still found their hello weird. It was none of his business however, and he simply did likewise with the other doors around. Rabastan Lestrange, Mulciber and Dolohov – speaking of the scum of the earth – greeted him, half grateful, half sneering as if to say 'What took you so long?' In the fourth cell, he saw whom he had been looking for. Good heavens! Not in his wildest nightmares, he could have imagined to see grand Lucius Malfoy in such a pitiful state!

He was thin, his face gaunt, his hair had lost all the silver shine it had used to have, and he clearly hadn't got a chance for shaving in more than two months. They exchanged one, intense glance, Severus showed the shadow of a smile to indicate his old friend that everything was fine with his wife and child, and Lucius understood.

"At last," he croaked and came out with insecure moves, like someone who had used neither voice nor limbs in a long time. Severus handed him the wand that he had been carrying with him since the night of Dumbledore's death now, 'with best wishes from Narcissa', and together with the others, they made their way back to the surface. They passed another number of unconscious or confounded gaolers; the escapees used their chance to murder those who seemed to have harassed them the most, but Lucius was astonishingly reserved, even dragging Mulciber on, who had stayed back, using the Cruciatus on a guard.

"We have no time for vindictiveness now, Dev! All in due time!"

Yes, Severus thought, Lucius had probably understood the signs of time. If one wanted to file for amnesty after a war, a certain restraint was in order. Or had his time in jail given him some new sense of direction, after all? As soon as standing on the battlements again, Lucius demanded exactly four things. A mirror for getting a shave. A shower. Fresh robes. And 'someone goddamned bring me to my family!'

"Interesting priorities," Severus murmured with a soft smile.

Lucius returned it without much humour. "You think I dared to face Narcissa like this?"

"Trust me, Lucius, she couldn't care less how well groomed you are!"

"I'm not so much afraid how she finds my beard, Severus," he growled under his breath.

"Let me run a quick up-date past you, Luce… Your wife loves you, for better and worse. The Dark Lord has set up the new Headquarters in your house. Your son has managed to smuggle Death Eaters into the school, Dumbledore is dead, and your family successfully bargained for your life in return for this feat."

Severus had spoken deliberately quiet and cast a quick silencing spell on his friend to stop him from saying anything rash. Then he grabbed his arm and they Disapparated together, straight in front of the gates of Malfoy Manor. The gates were open, other Death Eaters had advanced them and they were followed by more, but Lucius stopped dead in his tracks before his own property. He deeply inhaled, unable to suppress a feeble moan, and Severus thought that it was obvious that his friend had long stopped hoping that he'd ever get a chance of returning home to his wife and son.

He pushed him in, and they hadn't yet walked a quarter of the way when they saw Narcissa and Draco run down the long, winded path towards them. Lucius gave a little start, a dry laugh, and despite his not-too-resilient condition, he sprinted forth to meet his loved ones. Severus remained behind, watching after him in a moment of genuine movement.


	98. Welcome Home

Lucius returns home

* * *

**- 3.48. -**

Welcome Home

* * *

_Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration._

_CHARLES DICKENS – Martin Chuzzlewit_

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* * *

_

Narcissa's constitution was far better than her son's these days, but he had been an active athlete for all his life, so their running speed was fairly matched when they sprinted down the way in this moment. They had grabbed each other's hands in any case; neither of them had spoken a word since the second when the first formerly imprisoned Death Eater had burst into the Manor. They had exchanged one swift glance instead and started to run.

More prisoners passed them in the opposite direction, their robes shabby and ragged, their faces showing defeat mingled with cautious hopefulness. Draco scarcely noticed any of them, but his mother was more attentive, or rather say, wary. She didn't trust the Dark Lord's word to spare her husband, and thought she might spy some hints in the expressions of the liberated prisoners. But her heart and mind were too occupied to ponder; in the distance, she could spot two shapes that she suspected to be Lucius and Severus – one black from head to toe, the other one's head gleaming light even in the stormy darkness.

Her lips formed a mute 'Lucius', and her heart made a leap when seeing him stir, taking up pace and heading for Draco and her in turn. They met half-way, the vigour and impact of the embrace knocking them almost off their feet, all three of them.

"Dad!" Draco moaned, trying to keep the balance.

"My love," Narcissa breathed, not knowing what to do first – kiss him, hug him, press her face against his chest, or take a closer look at him. "My love, you're back!"

Lucius didn't dare to speak, his mind was blank except for overwhelming elation. How often had he pictured these two dead in his nightmares, how dreadful had his fears been to never hold them in life again… He pressed them close, kissed the tops of both of their heads, until Narcissa's lips found his and they kissed for real. He faintly noticed that her cheeks were wet with tears, but her lips were soft and sweet, softer and sweeter than he had remembered even.

They got soaked in the rain, but wouldn't have bothered, if it hadn't been for Severus who had caught up with them, and gently ushered them to go back to the house. "Don't worry," he murmured into Lucius' general direction. "Not too much, anyway…"

"Do you think he'll murder –" Lucius bit his tongue when feeling his wife stiffening with the mention of that word.

"I can't make promises, but I'll try my best."

"Didn't you say he promised to spare Dad?" Draco muttered, appalled. He squinted over to his teacher, torn between happiness to see his father again, reawakening mistrust that Snape might misuse his newly gained status to dispose of his rival, and at the same time deepest shame about ever doubting the Professor in the first place. In the last days, he had closely watched him around Narcissa, but hadn't spotted any signs of affection surpassing true friendship. There clearly _were_ a number of guys who weren't adverse to the idea of getting off with his mum, but Professor Snape wasn't among them. That Yaxley character, yes, or Rowle, he wouldn't even put it past that creepy Pettigrew git, who his mother couldn't refrain from calling Ratface, in rare accordance to Aunt Bellatrix. The Professor however didn't seem to pay the least bit attention to Narcissa Malfoy's physical advantages, strange as that might be. Nevertheless – Snape had managed to fool Dumbledore, the second-greatest Legillimens of their time, and Draco's assessment of his own powers had shrunk to a reasonable measure. If Snape wanted to hide anything, it surely wouldn't be his student to discover the truth!

It was his own father who answered the question, unable or unwilling to disguise the disdain in his tone, "It is time you'll learn that the Dark Lord's word must not be trusted, Draco."

"But he had you freed as well! He needn't have if he –"

"I reckon he wants to see me during the punishment. I'm high enough in the food chain to be killed by him personally."

Narcissa was grinding her teeth while Draco opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced by his teacher. "No need – and no use! – to protest, Draco. It is of literally _vital_ importance that you'll keep your pose now. You must remain calm, no matter what. You understand me? _No matter what happens_, you don't move, you don't speak, the best thing would be if you didn't do as much as twitch."

Narcissa and Draco had taken Lucius' arms, while Severus marched next to the boy, and kept on uttering urgings under his breath. The boy answered to every admonition with a disheartened, "Yes, Sir…"

"I can Imperius you, if you want. To make sure."

"I think that'd be good, Sir…"

Lucius cast his old friend a side glance. "You'll look after them if – if – I can't, right, Savvy?"

Draco caught his breath and Snape sighed, "Of course! You needn't ask me that. But you – you _will_ be capable to do that yourself."

Narcissa squeezed her husband's arm with that assertion. No, she usually was not exactly an optimist, but tonight, her hope overcame her fear, her joy overcame her reason. Lucius was back – with her and Draco – back at home! Severus, the Dark Lord's most high-ranking follower these days, was going to watch their backs, he'd prevent the worst from happening – everything would finally become good again! She couldn't stop gazing over at her husband, familiar despite the differences, _because_ of the differences. The unkempt beard, the neglected hair, his dramatic loss of weight – pah! She'd see to feed him back to his old built, she'd wash him and groom his hair and shave his face, she'd make him forget the time of their being apart, and it would be _all right_ again!

They had reached the house, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Severus flick his wand and knew he had put the Imperius Curse on Draco, and then they went in already. She felt Lucius' tension, shooed the servants who wanted to hail their master, and led him into the Crystal Parlour, to which the Dark Lord had taken a particular liking. Lucius fell on his knees at once.

"My lord… My lord is gracious…"

The room was full of people; the escaped Death Eaters kneeling on the floor, the other Death Eaters standing around, and among them – her breath caught, she spotted Fenrir Greyback. Was this a very ill omen? What was this heinous beast doing in their house? But it didn't matter, nothing mattered as long as Lucius and Draco were with her. Let them take the house, the gold, let them bring here whoever they wanted – tonight she didn't care.

When the last escapees had arrived – Dolohov, Rodolphus and Bellatrix, Lucius could easily imagine what had taken them so long – the Dark Lord lifted one of his spider-like hands and the entire room fell silent at once.

"My faithful friends… Long I have nourished the plan to break into Azkaban once more to reclaim what is rightfully mine, and tonight you have witnessed that there is no place that your master couldn't conquer single-handedly, like I have lately defeated our enemy of old. The same old enemy who got you into Azkaban in the first place. You think you got anything to say on that head, Lucius?"

This one stirred slightly, but he kept his face on the floor while answering, "Master, I am utmost thankful that you haven't forgotten us, just like I have rejoiced with your lordship's triumph –"

"Of course you have. My sources tell me you did have doubts that I could succeed though?"

"I never doubted in you, master! Never!"

"So how come you snivelled each day and night in your cell then?"

Some Death Eaters laughed, and cold fingers clenched around Narcissa's heart. Lucius' voice was trembling. "I – I never lost my faith in _you_, my lord. I merely… I merely doubted that my son would be capable of defeating Dumbledore…"

Narcissa's gaze darted to Draco for a second – but Severus had everything under control, making the boy smirk wryly with his eyes glued to his own shoes. She, too, put on a contrite face and continued staring at Lucius' cowed shape.

"How well you know your son, Lucius… Like his father, he doesn't stand up to the expectations put in him."

More contrition on Draco's face, heartfelt horror on Narcissa's, a good deal of chuckling from the Death Eaters, and Lucius whispered, "I did everything in my power, my lord –"

"Not much then, or why were you defeated by a bunch of children?"

"Master, I tried not to damage the prophecy, and also obey your prohibition to kill the Potter boy –"

"But I didn't get to hear the prophecy after all, Lucius. Did you, maybe?"

"No, my lord, but –"

"Silence! I'll come back to you in a moment!" He dressed down the other cowering Death Eaters, giving Narcissa just enough time to master her laboured breathing, but also ample of time to panic. He had _sworn_ he wouldn't kill Lucius, he had… And then, close season was over. Lucius was ordered to get up, Draco was ordered to step forwards, opposite of his father, both were told to get their wands. "There can be only one Malfoy in each generation, isn't that right?"

Severus made Draco nod, and Lucius whispered, "Indeed, master –"

"I have found there is only place for one Malfoy in my inner circle as well. Both of you have failed me. You were mighty once, Lucius, very mighty indeed, but you have gone down. Your son on the other hand might be rising still, might still become as capable a wizard as his old man used to be. I don't know. I suggest you fight it out yourselves."

Draco looked confused, just like his father. "My lord?"

"Oh, why make bones about it. Frankly, Lucius – I meant to have you killed for your failure. And I wanted your son to execute the sentence. But as it turned out – your son isn't capable of killing – _yet_. And, what's more, he did succeed with his mission to an unexpected degree – Albus Dumbledore _is_ dead, if not by his hand, and I granted him a wish for that feat. He begged me to spare your life – so don't you worry. You're off the hook."

Lucius swallowed hard and his gaze flew to his wife for a second. She looked plainly horror-stuck, and pushed away her sister's hand on her shoulder with a furious little move. Lucius thanked the Dark Lord once more for his mercy and generosity, but he cut him short.

"Your son chose your life over any other reward, Lucius. Touching, isn't it." Some of the other Death Eaters tittered, and so did their master. "I'm curious about your next choice. Will you reclaim your place, Lucius? Or dare you being cast out, and having your son be your successor? And does your son have the nerve to fight his own father and prevail upon him? One of you will remain in my inner circle. The other one will be less than a slave's worth. That's up to you two now."

Draco, Imperiused as he was, couldn't but look slightly stupid, his father observed. "Thank you, milord," he murmured and smiled at his son, lowering his wand. "Thank you, you are kind."

"Am I?"

"Indeed, master, you are. My son will make you an excellent servant." He saw Narcissa twitch with that sentence, but rapidly recompose herself and force her face back to impassivity.

"We'll see about that. Go ahead, or you'll both pay the price for disobeying me!"

Severus was a brilliant puppeteer, Lucius would never deny it again. He made the boy shudder, shoot some more helpless gazes at his parents, the Dark Lord and the jeering crowd surrounding them, and brandished his wand then with an energetic move. "_Stupefy!_"

Lucius went to the ground at once, but of course, this had not been it yet. The Dark Lord demanded more, demanded punishment, and Severus made Draco use the Cruciatus Curse on his own father. Narcissa felt close to a faint, grateful for exactly one thing – that Draco wouldn't know what he was doing there, that he _wasn't _actually doing it at all. He was a mere vessel, and Severus, who in fact performed the curse, was so masterful a wizard that he would use the lowest dose possible. She hoped that her husband was acting at least half of the pain down there, that the screams were only half-real, but she couldn't persuade herself to believe it, and after a while, she was so desperate, she even tolerated Bella's arm around her shoulder stabilising her.

"You're holding yourself grandiosely, Cissy," she breathed into her sister's ear. "You know he deserves the torment, yes…"

Narcissa ground her teeth, straining with every fibre to remain calm. If the atrocious spectacle had taken just five minutes longer though, she couldn't have said what she might have done eventually. Curse Bella, jump between her husband and her son's wand, shout at the Dark Lord, try to murder him instead –

But then Draco was allowed to stop, and Lucius' agonised spasms slowly ceased. Other punishments had to be done, Lucius was simply left where he was, and a little gesture from Bella signalled Narcissa when she was finally permitted to run over to her husband. She coddled over him, swabbed the icy sweat from his forehead, the blood from his lips and cheeks, cautiously stroke his limbs that she knew must feel broken. She and Draco were allowed to take him away, upstairs, and only then she knew that it was over. The punishment had been severe, but not lethal, and she vowed that she'd regard that as a good thing, that for once she'd try to see the bright side of things… Lucius was _home_, with _her_, with Draco, he was alive, his punishment done, and so was Draco's… Sod the rest.

They had put him in bed, Narcissa had conjured a bowl of hot water to wash away the more blatant reminders of torture and imprisonment, and just then, Draco made a jerky move, and she understood that Severus had finally lifted the Imperius Spell. Her baby goggled at her and his father, clearly wondering what on earth had happened, but she merely put a finger to her lips and mimicked at him to be still. She put a silencing charm on him before boring into his eyes to show him what had happened, and when he tightened and clasped his throat, she took him in her arms, and so did his barely conscious father.

"It's okay, Draco," he whispered hoarsely and pressed his son close. "It's okay. There was no other way, and better this way than vice versa."

Draco mouthed a hundred protests, but couldn't voice a single, unlike his mother – who softened her discontent with this particular point for the sake of her husband's frail state, and said as gently as she could under these circumstances, "I tried to prevent him from this, Lucius. He can't do it. He isn't like you!"

"I know that, Cissa," he croaked. "Every minute in Azkaban, I thought I'd never see either of you again because I knew exactly that. Draco is like you – both of you are not cut out to be murderers –"

"Give me another evening like this and five minutes alone with your _master_, and we'll see about _that_!" she scoffed, pressing his hand in great animation.

"My point, however, was that I know what would have been in store for him otherwise," Lucius continued in that strained manner. "The blame is mine and _I_ will be the one to carry the burden. 'Less than a slave', Cissa – I know what _that_ means –"

Draco looked horrified but was still incapable of speech, and Narcissa gasped, "What _does_ it mean?"

"We'll see," he replied evasively. "In any case, _I'd_ have been unable to torture my own child. Tonight, and any other. Severus' idea of the Imperius Curse gave me the notion that you and he and I – we can get Draco through this. We can make him do what he couldn't do otherwise."

He felt her trembling and stopped, clinging as much to her as she clang to him, and the three of them embraced each other in perfect silence for a while. At last, Narcissa lifted the Silencing Spell on Draco, and he burst out, "I'm so sorry, Dad! I'm so sorry, I'm –"

"It's fine. It was the only way, shhh. I'm so glad to have you two back with me, nothing can seriously hurt me tonight, least my own son."

"But –"

"We'll talk tomorrow, Draco. Now be a good boy and go to bed, please," Narcissa said and kissed him. "Take the sleeping potion I put in your bedside locker."

They watched after him long after the door had closed and Narcissa had restored the incantations to protect it. Suddenly, she didn't dare to look at her husband, and he seemed to feel the same; their hands entwined, they stared at the heavy oak door in complete silence.

Lucius broke it eventually. Like his son, he couldn't stop apologising, no matter how much Narcissa tried to stop him. He repeated over and over how sorry he was, how much he loved her and how he had missed her, and oh Merlin, how very, very sorry… She silenced him with a kiss after all, and slipped underneath the covers, too, snuggling up to him to – at last! – take their old familiar sleeping position.

"Tomorrow, mon amour," she whispered and brushed a dozen kisses on his chest. "Let us talk tomorrow. Whatever it is, there will be time for it. For now, let me just hold you and feel for real that you're back where you belong."


	99. Family Ties

Narcissa tries to warn her sister but Andromeda won't listen

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**- 3.49. -**

Family Ties

* * *

_Amor perenneis coniugis castae manet._

_SENECA THE YOUNGER – Octavia _

_

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_

Draco swallowed twice as much of the sleeping potion as needed, anxious to numb himself. On the one hand, he was unspeakably happy – his dad was back! Everything else however… He could hardly grasp that, via the Imperius Curse, he had Cruciated his own father. That Professor Snape had truly made him do this. That the Dark Lord had truly demanded such a heinous act. Asking him to turn against his _own_ _father_! And while Draco thought he had some bills to settle, questions to ask Lucius – questions to which he dreaded the answers, and felt he just _had_ to hear them at the same time – well, that man who had returned last night bore hardly enough semblance to the powerful Death Eater that he had meant to confront. Lucius Malfoy, the prisoner, was too pitiful a sight to feel resentful of.

Before sunrise, his mum crept into his room the next morning and explained things to him – that his dad had stepped back to have Draco take his place, that he had done so to spare Draco the punishment, that the Professor had behaved admirably, because the torture had been as mild as possible. She reassured him that it had been the only way, and that now everything would fall back into place like it ought to. He believed her because he _wanted_ to believe; it had just been too much for him to resist any solace whatsoever.

As it turned out however, his mum had been woefully mistaken. For a start – the Death Eaters didn't abandon their new Headquarters, even though the rightful Lord and Patron of the Manor had returned. Dozens of people had usurped the place, one viler than the other, and on top, the Dark Lord himself with that nasty beast of his. Draco had been compelled to feed her, and if it was only that… He had been forced to catch poor Emma – dearest, poorest Emma, their faithful old cat – and feed it to the snake. He was haunted by those pictures… In one moment, he had held Emma in his arms; she had purred and snuggled up to her master in complete trust. In the next moment, the terrible snake had snatched her from his hands, had struck her fangs into Emma's silky white fur, her blood had splashed into Draco's face, she had hissed and shrieked in terror, before the venom had suffused her veins and disabled her. The snake – _Nagini_ – had clearly seen it as starters, and the Dark Lord had demanded that Draco fetched some of their watch-crups as a main course next.

Then, there were the prisoners, wasting away in the vast dungeons. There were loads of people down there, Mr Ollivander, the wandmaker, for example, who had managed to escape from the Death Eaters for almost a year, but whom they had literally unearthed in a hole in the ground in the Austrian Alps and dragged to Malfoy Manor. There were others, mainly family members of Ministry wizards and witches, one Auror who had made the calamitous mistake to look after a fallen colleague when the Death Eaters had attacked them, instead of defending himself. Some people Draco knew by sight, others he had never seen before, but he got to see more than he could bear of them _now_, because the master had decided that it was Draco's job to – uhm – _see after_ them. If it was only about taking them food, oh well…

To see his parents reunited was good, great in fact, but even this didn't come without a downside, and what a monstrous downside it was! "Lucius, you didn't have a chance to practise for so long," the Dark Lord had announced sardonically. "I suggest you do some catching up now. Your wife will surely oblige to help you."

_Help_ him…? The Dark Lord's idea of that concept was that Narcissa Malfoy served as a training object for all sorts of curses – 'and be glad if I'll allow you to train the Killing Curse on someone else, Lucius!' He had initially refused, and more upset than he could afford these days, and was punished accordingly – unlike Professor Snape, the Dark Lord did _not_ hold back when using the Cruciatus – but then Narcissa had prevailed, and persuaded her husband to obey his orders. She had whispered into his ear that the only thing that _mattered_ was that they were together again, that he knew what would happen if he did not submit, and that she would _never_ forgive him if he got himself killed, and thus left her alone with these people, who'd be free to do as they pleased once the house's rightful master was gone for good.

Draco had been commanded to watch the cruel spectacle, had seen his mother's agony, had heard her screams and whimpers, had witnessed how she had screamed herself hoarse and how tears had rolled down his father's cheeks, had seen him shake so badly that he could hardly hold his wand still. When Narcissa had passed out the umpteenth time, after hours and hours, Lucius was finally allowed to stop and carry her away together with his son.

"She'll be all right again," Bellatrix commented lightly when spotting her unconscious sister, following them upstairs into the bedroom. "Stop pulling such a face, you two!"

Lucius bedded his wife and tugged up the blankets before turning around and face his sister-in-law, breathing flatly, his face a waxen mask. "Bella," he growled, clearly trying to restrain himself. "Either you leave this room _at once_, or you're going to be my next _training object_!"

She smirked contemptuously. "You wouldn't dare that! What's more – you wouldn't as much as _manage_ to overwhelm me."

"Want to give it a try?" He straightened to his full height, which was some inches taller than even Bellatrix, and shot her a look like daggers.

She grinned smugly. "I'm the Dark Lord's most treasured follower, Lucius."

"Are you now? Why, and I thought that Dumbledore's murderer had replaced you in that position!"

Her cheeks adapted an ugly scarlet and she spat, "I would have done the same for the master! And if your son wasn't such a soft little fool, _he_ could be holding that position now!"

"But neither of you _did_ it, and now _get out of here_ before I forget myself!"

Grudgingly, she left, and Draco watched his father's composure leave the room with her. Lucius' features slackened, he suddenly looked old and exhausted, his eyes turned lacklustre, despite the tears welling there, again. He almost broke down, heavily settling on the mattress next to his wife. "Forgive me," he sobbed, but not in Narcissa's direction, but Draco's. "Forgive me… Draco, please… Please, your mum has – she must have – a couple of – of painkillers – of strengthening potions – blood replenishing potion – whatever… Draco, _please_…"

At that day, Draco had seen the light go out of his father, just like he had watched all life nearly leaving his mum. She recovered in the next few days, but he didn't; Lucius resembled the walking dead. He didn't see anything unless Narcissa held it directly underneath his nose. He didn't listen, unless she whispered into his ear. He wouldn't have managed to set one foot after the other, if it hadn't been for her taking his arm and leading him about. He clang to her, not leaving her side – or the other way round, no one could say. He was such a pitiful sight altogether that his son couldn't bring himself to reproach him for doing all these things – not even the Dark Lord felt like tormenting Lucius some more; he had won and lost all interest in his old lieutenant, concentrating on the more important matters at hand.

He wanted a lot of things, half of which Draco didn't understand – not that he cared the tiniest bit anymore. There was something he wanted from Mr Ollivander; he had also abducted some witch that Draco thought he had seen before somewhere – but he avoided to look at the hostages too closely to figure out where. The Dark Lord wanted to overthrow the Ministry at the soonest possible occasion, and most of all – of course! – he wanted to get Harry Potter into his clutches.

According to that awful, awful Yaxley git, the Ministry was about to fall soon. According to Professor Snape, Harry Potter was to see his last day on earth sooner than that even. The woman in the dungeons turned out to be the teacher for Muggle Studies; she was killed en passant and fed to the snake. Draco had managed just so not to vomit right on the spot. Even worse – if that was possible – was the Dark Lord's order regarding Dory and her new husband. Because Dory had indeed got married, shortly after Dumbledore's death, and guess whom she had married! Remus Lupin, Draco's old Defence teacher, and – incidentally – a werewolf. Once upon a time, Draco would have been grossed out by that idea – a _werewolf_, for goodness' sake! – but nowadays, he didn't give a shit anymore. It didn't matter any longer. What _he_ minded about this wedding was that Dory had got herself on the death list, and Aunt Bellatrix had instantly volunteered to carry out that task.

Dory herself, her husband, and to make it complete, Uncle Ted and cousin Lenny, had a death sentence pronounced upon them, and knowing Aunt Bella by now, it could only be a matter of time until they met their gruesome ends. He ought to consider himself lucky yet that it wasn't _him_ assigned for that hunt, just like the fact that he still possessed his own wand. His father had been forced to give up his.

That night, when helping his mum to take his father to bed, he finally dared to ask quietly, "What did you ever see in them, Dad?"

But Lucius didn't perceive that his son was speaking; his gaze was glued to Narcissa who just now spread the duvet over him. She answered in his stead, "It wasn't like this, then, mon trésor."

"But… I know, Dad was high up in charge back then, but…"

"It's not only that, darling… _He_ was – he wasn't – he wasn't _so_ inhumane."

"You mean Lord V-"

"_Shh!_ Don't speak it! Don't speak the name, Draco!"

"But _you_ always said it was mere superstition, _you_ said –"

"I know what I said, darling, but among the countless things that have changed… _He_ thinks that only Dumbledore's lot, or other _traitors_, would dare speaking it, so he put a taboo on it. He will _know_ when you've spoken his name, and trust me, he isn't going to take it kindly."

"Okay – but this – this isn't what I meant… How – how could Dad do that?"

She smirked. "Ask yourself why _you_ were so keen on joining up, darling, before you pass any judgement."

He looked mortified and didn't persist, and Narcissa made herself ready to go to bed, too. There had been an adjustment to her and Lucius' traditional position since she had recovered from the torture. They had swapped places since then; now it was her lying on her back, one arm around her husband's shoulders, the other one caressing his back, while he curled up in her embrace, one hand on her belly, one in the small of her neck. She would caress him, hum a tune and speak to him until he'd find a light sleep eventually, frequently waking up at night, haunted by terrible nightmares, and she had to rock him back to rest.

"I cannot go on, Cissa," he breathed against her chest. "I cannot _bear_ to see you like this… To know that I am the means to –"

"Shhh, mon amour, don't say that! For a start… That he's taken your wand means you're out of the line of fire for a while, and –"

"No," he moaned. "It means it'll be easier to kill me, but before he does _that_ –"

"He won't. He won't, angel. If he wanted that, he could have done so already."

"He enjoys procrastinating the fear and pain as long as possible. He _knows_ how much you and Draco mean to me, that it destroys me to see you two suffer, and he is going to exploit that knowledge until… – Let me finish this before _he_ does; let me go, Cissa, before he forces me to hurt you even more!"

His tone was so desperate, it broke her heart just as much as his meaning, and with uncommon vigour, she cupped his face and made him look into her eyes. "_No!_ You hear me? _No way!_ Lucius Apollonius Malfoy, _you_ will _not_ leave me! _Ever!_ You have given an oath to stay with me for better and worse, and that's what you will do, no matter what!"

"But Cissa – I…"

She held his gaze, fiercely, and spoke in her most insisting manner, quiet but forceful, "You know what these beasts are going to do to me if you're no longer there?"

"But I cannot protect you any longer anyway, Cissa!"

"But you will be capable again once you've recovered –"

"I don't even have a _wand_ to do that," he interrupted her.

She ignored this. "And for now, the Unbreakable Vow will do. No man can force me, as long as you are alive and the Vow intact!"

He didn't seem as if he had even heard her. "Perhaps – I'm sure Severus would marry you, he can protect you, he –"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, chéri! _You_ are my husband, you, and you alone! I'd rather die than turn away from you! And don't put poor Severus into such a dilemma, he's taken on enough for all of us!"

"It's not a _dilemma_ to become your husband, ma belle," he muttered fondly. "It's what any man would dream of, even Saint Severus makes no exception _there_!"

"I wouldn't be too sure of _that_, mon amour. But don't you deviate now. I know what you've been hinting at, and mark my words, Lucius – there is nothing I wouldn't forgive you, but _this_. Don't leave me alone. Don't you _ever_ leave me. You've got to think of Draco!"

"Draco… Don't you think I hadn't seen the look upon his face, Cissa. He detests me –"

"Rubbish!"

"And he's got every reason, I suppose."

"Stop this nonsense at once, Lucius!"

"If I hadn't been so incredibly _stupid_, none of you would be in this situation now. And without me –"

"Oh, drop it, Lucius! Draco's got a whole life ahead of him, what is he supposed to do if his parents are no longer there to take care of him, in _these_ times?"

"But _you_ would still be there."

"No, I wouldn't. If you – if you leave me for good, I'll vane away in no time, too. I don't know how I managed to come through your imprisonment – I guess it was the mere hope to be with you again eventually. I wouldn't survive to bury you. I _need_ you, Lucius. Nothing else matters!"

He was silent for a minute, then took her hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed her fingers. "I love you, Narcissa… I always knew that I didn't deserve you, but –"

"Will you finally stop talking such nonsense, mon amour! Not _deserve_ me, ph! You were, you are, and you always will be, the only one I _ever_ wanted. You are my light, my life, my love… We deserve _each other_, for better or worse, you hear me? _Forever_. I have always loved you, I always will, and you've got to _live_ with that."

She kissed his forehead, his nose, his lips, and very tenderly, he returned that kiss, succumbed to it completely. "Forever," he repeated her words between two kisses. "Forever, for you…"

They rose early in the next morning, both of them, even though Lucius stayed in bed, apprehensively watching his wife getting dressed. She wouldn't say where she was going, only that she had to leave because it was something very urgent, and he left it at that. In the old days, he had kept secrets from her because she had found things unsettling. Nowadays, she kept things from him, because they both knew how superior she was to him in Occlumency, and their safety might depend on it. 'Datum die est mulier sensata et tacita,' Abraxas had used to say regarding Narcissa, and for once in his life, the old fool had been perfectly right.

Narcissa slipped out of the secret door, used the secret staircase leading down into the dungeons, and from there on she left the Manor and its boundaries without meeting a single soul. She hid in a hollow tree; using a small mirror, she changed her appearance, put on old-fashioned gloves to disguise her very distinct and easily recognisable rings, and Disapparated once she was satisfied.

She emerged in a busy street in a seaside resort, took a swift look around to get her bearings and slowly limped past a row of Muggle shops then, taking a few turns until she had reached her destination. The house was nice. It was small, cosy and handsome, with white-painted shutters and climbers meandering around the doors and the gutters, with a well-kept little garden and a low white fence. Pretty. Narcissa tried to remember when she had been here for the last time – ten years ago? Twelve? More?

She went up to the front door, rang the bell, put up her best smile and stretched her arm out, tinkling with the tin pot in her hand. Andy opened the door, smiling, too, and Narcissa disguised her voice, claiming she was collecting money for charitable purposes – children in need – and when Andy quickly dropped some coins in the tin, she pretended to be unwell and asked for a glass of water.

She was very proud with her disguise, not even her own sister recognised her. She had turned herself to look pretty old, with white curly hair and lots of wrinkles around benign, hazel brown eyes. She had even adopted a special walk, slow, onerous, like old women would walk when their hips were aching. Narcissa rarely flattered herself, but she found this to be her transfiguration masterpiece, for the time being.

Andy, being herself, was terribly kind, asked her in, offered her a chair, a glass of water, or a cup of tea, offered to fetch her husband to take the exhausted lady home… As soon as she had shut the front door though, Narcissa said in her normal voice, "Please, Andy, don't get a shock now."

Her sister's jaw dropped. She narrowed her eyes, scrutinising her visitor closely, and asked in a tone of utter incredulity, "Cissy? Is that you?"

"Yes, it's me. Please, can you jinx your windows and door imperturbable? No one must see or hear me here."

"Still ashamed with me then," Andromeda taunted her, not moving a finger. "In that case, you can go as quickly as you've come!"

"Oh, stop talking such nonsense, Andy. Why do you think I had come, anyway?"

"That's a very good question, indeed!"

Narcissa drew her wand and performed the necessary spells herself, before pointing it at herself and regaining her usual appearance. "For a start – how are you?"

"Never missing the proper form, are you?"

"Thank you very much, I am fine, too!" Narcissa said scornfully. "For heaven's sake! So how _is_ Ted? And the children?"

Andromeda looked flabbergasted. "Listen, Cissy, you cannot just walk in here, and –"

"I think I just have, and excuse me, but you could calculate that I haven't made such efforts only to hear how you are. These false teeth were truly uncomfortable. Is your offer of a cup of tea still valid?"

Andromeda nodded reluctantly, leading her into the kitchen. Narcissa settled on a stool, waiting in silence for her tea and taking a look around. Andromeda had made herself a very cosy home, yes. Not quite Narcissa's own style or taste, but nice and inviting, with small, unmagical paintings on the walls that Ted might have done, of ships and piers and the sea.

Andromeda handed her a cup, asking once more, "So? What _have_ you come for?"

"As a matter of fact, I've come to warn you. You must get away from here, Andy, the sooner the better! All of you, _especially_ Dora and Ted. There's a death sentence on all of you, and Bella has set her heart on executing it."

Andromeda stared at her for a full minute, her expression changing from mockery to shock to resentfulness. At last she muttered, "How would you know?"

"Because I was present when that sentence was pronounced. _He_ has rendered the judgement himself, and you know Bella, she couldn't be quick enough to volunteer –"

"How is Bella these days?"

Narcissa chuckled malevolently. "Think 'insane' and you're not even halfway there. Azkaban has destroyed her last ounce of common sense."

"And Lucius?" Andromeda asked with a lurking expression.

"What about him?" Narcissa asked back innocently, standing up to her sister's close watch.

"I've heard rumours that Azkaban was liberated once more, so I thought your husband might have returned home to his little wife."

"If I was in a position to confirm those rumours, I'd say that his first way would surely have lead straight there. The Dark Lord –"

"Signa suo nomine, Cissy! It's Vol-"

"Shhh!" Narcissa interrupted forcefully, waving at her sister to shut up at once. "One word of _serious_ advice, Andy – don't, _ever_, speak that name again! He's put a taboo on it! In pricipio erat verbum – and the next thing you'll know is a riot squad kicking in your front door! They're after you!"

"And you're one of them now?" Andy asked quietly, gazing at her sister's left arm, which was covered though.

"Guilty by association, I guess that's what they call it, isn't it?" Narcissa smirked wryly, pulling up both her sleeves and showing her milk-white wrists. "I wouldn't have believed that the byname 'Cissy' could prove useful one day, but that day has come at last. The old bastard doesn't demand me to join up because he thinks I'm too soft anyway."

"That's how you call him now? Why, Lucius won't like you to speak that way," Andromeda said scornfully.

Narcissa laughed. "I dare say Lucius has got a whole set of stronger expressions for him, but is smart enough not to use them. You know what he – _he_ – has done, don't you? Hasn't Dora told you?"

"His plans for Draco, you mean? Oh well – he had it coming. Nemo cum diabolo iocatur impune!"

Narcissa bit her lip and sipped her tea instead. "Draco is but a child, Andy. Leave _him_ out of this."

"He wasn't that childish when receiving the Mark, was he?"

"What else was he for ever _wanting_ that Mark, you think?"

"His father's son!"

"Lucius never wanted him to get it either."

"Sod Lucius, for goodness' sake!"

"Whatever crimes you accuse him of, you cannot deny that he has raised a decent child that has –"

"That has almost killed two perfectly innocent other children, Cissy! Whatever you say, don't give me that nonsense about Lucius' qualities as a principle-giving father! That man will be your undoing, I knew it all along, this vile little bastard, this –"

Narcissa took a deep breath. "Don't you talk of him like this, Andy!"

"And why not? That's what he _is_; he wasn't serving his time in Azkaban for speeding on his broomstick!"

"Please, Andy, don't –"

"Fact is that you have married a man who wouldn't flinch from killing some helpless children if he's asked to! Who's the principal officer of a crazy murderer! A cowardly hypocrite! I despise Bella for what she's done, but at least _she_ had the guts to stand up for what she believes in! She went to Azkaban, while your good Lucius sneaked back to our side, pretending he had never done anything at all!"

"That's what he is to _you_, Andy. To _me_ he's been never anything but a caring and loving and attentive husband, and a good father for my son. Don't try and make me defend the Dark Lord or the Dark Order, I don't care for them, or what Lucius has done for them!"

"The hottest circle of hell is reserved for those who in time of great moral crisis maintain their neutrality!" Andromeda gave her a long, grave glance. "You are wrong to assume that there was more to people than their actions, or omissions, Cissy. In the end, these actions and omissions are all that matter."

"I've got no more room for these subtleties, Andy. Perhaps you'll remember one day that I _did_ come here today to put you on your guard, and _omitted_ to kill you at sight as I've been ordered to do."

"What set of people have you got involved with, Cissy! I hope Lucius is worth it, but then again, I know he's not!"

"He's worth every minute and every pain, Andy. Of all people, I thought _you_ would understand," Narcissa hissed, affronted beyond expression. After her husband's breakdown in the previous night, she wouldn't endure to hear _any_ criticism of him.

"Understand how you could throw yourself into the arms of a ruthless scoundrel? Certainly not! 'Tis madness! Do you think you can win this game?" Andromeda gave a dry chuckle, void of any humour. "You can't play on both teams, Cissy!"

"I've never been a team player to begin with, you know that. I want to protect my family, Andy, and you'll do the same if –"

"I won't go away," Andromeda cried firmly, irritating her sister by that sudden vigour. "I won't allow these bastards to chase me out of my own house, my whole life!"

"None of you will _have_ a life if you're not careful! Didn't you listen? Ted's on their list for being a Muggle-born anyway, and Dora – blimey, what was the girl thinking? To get married to a _werewolf_, in times like these! With Bella on the run!"

"She loves him," Andromeda retorted stubbornly, but something in her face belied her rebellious tone.

"Yes, I understand _that_, better than you might think even. But _marry_ him? _Now?_ And put it in the papers? Speaking of _madness_, were you!"

Andromeda was silent for a while, and prodded the fire under a cauldron that seemed to contain porridge. Supporting herself on the poker, she turned around then with a very different expression. "How is Draco, then?"

Once more, Narcissa bit her lip, struggling for countenance. She whispered, "Not – not very well… He… He is so scared; I can't bear to see my baby like this, and…"

"Why would _he_ be scared? Any of you? _You_ placed yourself on the winning side, did you not," Andromeda spat scathingly, having found her old verve again. "_My_ family is the one that ought to be scared!"

Narcissa merely smiled at her, a sad, knowing smile. "It's good you finally get there at last. Pack your things and go, Andy. Leave the country at once. If you need money –"

"We don't need your money, and we won't go away!"

"Andy, please!"

"I appreciate that you've come, Narcissa," Andromeda said under her breath. "I really do. Thank you. I wish you all luck, and Draco. If you ever come to leave Lucius behind, you and your son are more than welcome here."

"I'll _never_ leave Lucius behind me, not as long as I live!" Narcissa thundered with uncharacteristic vehemence.

"Then the next time we'll meet will be in battle, but on opposite sides, I'm afraid."

"If that be the case, I shall hope that we won't meet again, Andy."

She got up without another word, stormed out of the house without taking any of the necessary precautions and Disapparated back home.

* * *

_Amor perenneis..._ The love of a faithful wife lasts forever.

_Datum die..._ A sensible and taciturn wife is a gift from the gods.

_Signa... _Speak his name!

_In pricipio... _In the beginning, there was the word.

_Nemo cum... _No one plays with the devil without punishment.

'_The hottest circle of hell..._' – Inspired by a speech from Winston Churchill, based on a phrase coined by Dante Alighieri.


	100. The Tempest

In dire times, family and fairy tales can be the last resort

* * *

**- 3.50. -**

The Tempest

* * *

_If by your art, my dearest father, you have_

_Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them._

_The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,_

_But that the sea, mounting to th' welkin's cheek,_

_Dashes the fire out. O! I have suffered_

_With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel,_

_Who had, no doubt, some noble creatures in her,_

_Dash'd all to pieces. O! the cry did knock_

_Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perish'd._

_Had I been any god of power, I would_

_Have sunk the sea within the earth, or e'er_

_It should the good ship so have swallow'd and_

_The fraughting souls within her._

_WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE_

_

* * *

_

Despite the closed curtains, Draco could perceive the lightning outside, faint flashes of light edging around the heavy brocade curtains, and the thunder rumbled and growled for hours now. He couldn't sleep, and it had little to do with the storm outside. He had looked death in the face this evening. Not for the first time, no, but he doubted that he'd ever accustom to that kind of fear, or the revolted shock of seeing somebody die.

Seven Potters! He smirked wryly; as if one Potter wasn't enough already. The idea had been good though. Unable to Disapparate, unable to use the Floo Net, The Order had been forced to evacuate Potter _on broomsticks_. Now Potter was fairly easy to identify, so they had Polyjuiced half a dozen of his pals to resemble him to create as much confusion as they could. Draco would tip his hat to whomever those unfortunate replacement Potters had been. They must have known what had been waiting for them – but still, they had been ready to risk their lives on behalf of him.

Potter was the Chosen One after all. Even Draco's mum said so. But it wasn't just that. Chosen One or not, they had been willing to die for him, and that was more than the Dark Lord's followers would have done for _him_, at least voluntarily. The Dark Lord had _followers_. Potter had _friends_. All right, so there was always Draco's aunt, Bellatrix – _she_ would gladly give her life for her master, but face it, the woman was completely bonkers. '_Meschugge_', his mum called it. To think that Draco had _ever_ set _her_ word above his mother's still made him flush with shame.

If only there was something he could do for his mum… As it was, the only thing he could do was play along as good as possible. He had today. Lucky that he _was_ an excellent flyer, he had dodged one curse after the other, hurling only three or four curses himself, and missing for _miles_. He had been to busy to try and survive the hunt. For his dad, the situation had been even worse. Lucius had scarcely been capable to _walk_ upright, let alone hold himself on a broomstick, the Dark Lord had taken away his wand and sent him into battle – no doubt thinking he had sent him into certain death. He had even made sure to pocket Narcissa Malfoy's own wand so she couldn't give it to her husband. But his mum was cleverer and better prepared than that, ha! Draco had always been proud of his mother for many reasons, her wit, her skills, her beauty, but when he had seen her slip his father a spare wand in an unguarded moment, Draco's heart had swelled with more pride than ever before.

"It won't work for you as well as it would for me," she had whispered, embracing her husband for goodbye. "But it'll suffice for some Shield Charms, I'm sure!"

"I love you," his father had said aloud.

"Prove it and come back to me," she had answered just as loudly, making the Death Eaters around them cackle spitefully. None of them had believed that Lucius Malfoy would return from this battle. Like a lamb for slaughter they had taken him into combat, seemingly unarmed, obviously weakened beyond expression. These _bastards_ – and Yaxley, the worst, or perhaps the second-worst of them all, had rubbed his hands expectantly.

"See you later, then, Narcissa," he had said with a suggestive leer, and it had taken Draco all capacities of restraint not to plunge at the obnoxious man and put his fist into his grinning visage.

Oh, his mum had been prepared, indeed. Inspired by the Weasley brothers' joke shop products, she had enchanted most of her son's and husband's wardrobe, presumably her own, too, to equip them with protective charms. They wouldn't help against Unforgivables – nothing helped against Unforgivables – but their robes, gloves, shirts and shoes would deflect most minor curses. Smart Mum, always looking after –

A particularly noisy peal of thunder made him bolt upright. God, he was jumpy these days. He laid down again, willing himself to breathe evenly. As a kid, he had often gone to his parents in nights such as this, had crawled into their bed for comfort. His mum, usually, sometimes his dad, had told him a fairy tale then to distract him, and cuddled tightly between his parents, he had gone back to sleep eventually. Pity that he was too old for that. The fears of his childhood had been nothing compared to the very tangible panic he was feeling now.

A series of flashes, instantly followed by deafening thunder, tried to penetrate the room's complete darkness, and following a whim, he got up, telling himself that he just wanted to make sure that his parents were all right, that he'd compliment his father for getting through the battle and thank his mum on his knees for her care. He just needed to see them – he hadn't seen them for so long, all last year, and he needed to see them with his own two eyes, see that they were alive and breathing…

Draco's room was on the same floor like his parents' bed chamber, and quietly, he sneaked through the hallway. Not for the world did he want to come across one of these arseholes, for many, many reasons, prevailingly among them that he wouldn't bear to endure their scorn if they caught him sneaking into his parents' room in a stormy night. Very softly, he knocked, and a few seconds later, he heard Narcissa's voice, rather crisp, "What is it?"

"It's me, Mum," he said just loud enough to hope she could hear him.

Her voice did a U-turn when he heard her undo the spells on the door and asked him to come in. He slipped in, finding his parents huddled together in the feeble light of the last bits of fire in the fireplace. Narcissa sealed the door with a few moves of her wand again, and Draco realised that his father seemed to be crying – the sight was almost indecent, and he quickly averted his gaze.

"I am sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you," he muttered and turned around to leave again.

"Nonsense, darling. Come here."

"But –"

"Please, stay, Draco" his dad said hoarsely.

Draco was surprised, and dared to take another look, still hesitating. His mother was leaning against the headboard, while his father's head was bedded on her belly, she had her arms around his shoulders, now lifting one to wave Draco to join them. "Come here, precious," she whispered. "My two only treasures… That I still got you two…"

Lucius groaned, or maybe it was a suppressed sob, for his cheeks were glinting. Draco followed the invitation and gingerly settled on his mother's other side in the large bed. She whirled her arm around him, and his father reached out for his son's hands, pressing them in great animation.

"Do you remember Eric the Idle, darling? We were just trying to get the story back together…"

"Course I do! 'Eric the Idle was friendly but vain…'"

He chuckled, and his mother continued, "Yes. 'Eric the Idle was friendly but vain; he loved bonny Prudence, the good-hearted Prudence, who was all he wanted, his boon and his bane. – He wanted to prove his undying affection' –"

"'He wanted to show her how worthy he was,'" Lucius continued feelingly, "'He dreamt up a plan, a valiant plan, but alas! He'd have to leave her to prove his devotion. To sail out and conquer dragons and riches, to impress the sweetest and best of all witches, yes, that was his plan, his valiant plan!'"

Narcissa laughed quietly and went on, "'Oh Eric, don't leave me, stay right by my side! The fair-hairèd maiden pleaded and cried, but Eric the Idle knew he'd have to go. He signed on a vessel that set out to sea, on the pier stood Prudence, inconsolable Prudence, waving at him in sheer agony…'"

Draco leaned back, taking deep comfort in his mother's embrace, her gentle voice, and the story he had liked to hear so much as a child in nights like this. Eric the Idle, oh yeah, fighting trolls and giants, dragons and the lindworm, whales and sharks. He'd live through many thrilling adventures, encounter Muggles and wizards, and a dervish who gave him a bottle with a djinn, out of gratefulness for rescuing his life from the giant birds Rukh and Simurgh. As a small child, Draco had actually spent quite some time rubbing the Gin bottles standing around in Malfoy Manor, thinking, he could coax the 'Gin' to come out. He hadn't understood then what the tale was about in essence; he had enthused about the adventures, but listening to his mother now, he saw that it was really a story about coming home to one's love, and he thought he understood why his mother would want to narrate this particular story to his father in a night like this.

Eric the Idle eventually got himself into a tight spot, thinking he couldn't survive this. In his last moment, he'd take out the bottle with the djinn and make his last wish – the djinn was supposed to go and find lovely Prudence, to grant _her_ dearest wish, and the friendly, powerful spirit who was so much cleverer than Eric, grabbed this one and Apparated home with him at once, because that was the only thing Prudence truly wanted. Only Eric in his silliness thought he'd have to acquire riches to win her heart, unwitting that he'd always had it.

Narcissa and Lucius had recounted the verses in turns; he had become calmer when reciting the familiar rhymes, but now that Narcissa came closer to the end, Draco, still holding Lucius' hand, noticed that his father had began to tremble again.

"'My Eric has come back, my Eric is there!' cried the fair-hairèd lady and ran up the coast. 'Twas Prudence, dear Prudence who hitchèd her robes. 'My Eric, the one thing my heart craved the most!' And so they lived happy, forever united, Eric gave up to pine for great treasures; they both had got what they longed for the most. Prudence, sweet Prudence and Eric the Idle were merry b'yond measures, forever indebted to the well-meaning ghost!'" Narcissa sighed, fondling her husband's and son's head, and whispered, "Do you remember, honey?"

"Yes," Lucius and Draco replied in quiet unison.

"In the old times, I would have got you a cup of hot milk with honey now. I figure you're not too keen on hot milk any longer, right?" She laughed lightly and waved her wand, summoning a bottle of whiskey and a few glasses. Draco took it on to pour them all a drink, and they toasted.

"Here's to Eric," his mum said.

"To fair-hairéd Prudence," his father muttered fondly.

Draco chuckled flatly. "I got to say 'To the Djinn' now, eh?"

"To the well-meaning ghost," his parents said solemnly, and Narcissa added, "We can do with every bit of well-meaning we can get."

"We got you, Mum, that's what got us so far." He avoided to look over to his father, sipped the whiskey and leaned back against his mother's shoulder. "The thing with the wand was pure genius. Where did you get that one from?"

"I had it for years, I just never needed it. My own works perfectly for me, I'm glad I have it back. I –" None of them could hear what she said next because a peal of thunder drowned out every other sound. When it faded away, she said, "I have an idea. Why don't you stay here for tonight, darling? Let's just pretend it were the good old times still, when a tempest was still the worst that could happen."

He hesitated. His adolescent male pride revolted against the idea, but that pride, he knew, had led him straight into the heart of darkness. Surely, his _pride_ was no good guide – his mother was, though, and being with her was his main source of solace these days. He wasn't merely his father's son. He was his mother's child, too, and he drew strength from that notion, and some timid hope from her unrelenting confidence.

"I… Is that all right by you? – Dad?"

"I am grateful for every minute I can spend with you two, Draco. By all means, stay!"

So that was what he did; they made themselves comfortable, Narcissa in the middle, her arms around her two boys, and those two with their hands entwined on her stomach in turn. In the old days, it had been Lucius' arms holding his two loved ones, with Narcissa pressing her child's hand until he was asleep, but the times had changed indeed and not even they, in that night, could pretend _so_ much. Now it was _her_ power and cunning that protected them all, her son thought sleepily, and why was this so? Because she was the only one of them who had never lost her head to this murderous nonsense. All his life, he had staunchly believed in his father's infallibility. Now it was his faith in his mother's prudence that maintained his only real hope.

Sounding weary, Lucius asked her if she was in the mood for another story, and she agreed, asking in turn what they would like best. Ironically, they at once agreed on another of Draco's favourites of old – 'The Boy Who Lived' – and Draco fell asleep just after his mother had recounted how _You Know Who_ had been turned into mere vapour by his own rebounding Killing Curse.


	101. The Downfall Of The Ministry

Draco watches him mum go to war

* * *

**- 3.51. -**

The Downfall Of The Ministry

* * *

_They let the whole country down. Their egoism was their downfall as this group of outstanding individuals failed to blend into a team._

_ZELJKO OBRADOVIC_

_

* * *

_

Elias Yaxley was a great Law Wizard, though he said it himself. He had a natural knack for twisting and turning testimonies, just like evidence and alibis, until he got what he wanted. Also, he knew every word of the Book of Rules by heart, unlike most of the members of the Wizengamot, or even the presiding wizards and witches. He had won 98 out of a hundred cases, but the greatest victory _ever_, he thought, he had achieved when managing to put a senior Ministry Wizard under the Imperius Curse. Admittedly, Pius Thicknesse had been easy prey in a way, because the man wouldn't be capable to throw off the spell if hell froze over – he didn't have the will power for that kind of defiance. But getting him in private, with the entire Ministry so paranoid lately – _that_ had been a true feat!

Elias Yaxley hadn't been sorted to Slytherin House for nothing. He had great plans. In the past twenty years, he had made a name for himself, eventually outshining his own, rather famous father even, who had founded the chambers. And albeit his father's many successes, old Maxwell hadn't had much talent for dealing with money, leaving nothing but the family house, the chambers and a few thousand galleons after his death. Elias had remedied this in the course of time. He had unremarkably graduated from Hogwarts, but in Artemis College, he had finally got his act together and discovered that he had it in himself to be an excellent Law Wizard. This wasn't about justice. This wasn't about right or wrong. This was about finding a rule along with some ancient interpretation that nobody had heard of in the last two hundred years, but which existed irrevocably still. Ultimately, it was about the money the clients were willing to pay, and good golly, they were ready to pay _a lot_ to get what they wanted, or to keep their arses out of prison.

So, by now, he was successful in his profession, he had a vault full of gold in Gringotts, and a list of famously good-looking girlfriends. Within the Dark Order, he had a comfortable position, too. The last time around, he hadn't been high enough in rank to face too serious persecution, and this time, he was high enough to be heard by the master, but not high enough to rouse too great expectations. Elias had no doubt at all that this was going to change though in no time at all. Haughty Lucius had already fallen from grace with the Dark Lord. So had his choleric sister-in-law including her entourage, even though she hadn't fallen as deep as Lucius, that prick.

Back in school, they had been dorm mates, but Elias had never been admitted to the 'inner circle' of Lucius' _buddies_. _That_ honour had been reserved for such complete dunderheads like Graham Goyle or Marlon Crabbe, who had been ready to worship Lucius unconditionally. Or Bertram Higgs and Damocles Belby, sons of their rich, famous fathers. Or pretty Narcissa, who Lucius had wanted to get off with since… Well, always, really. And that arrogant cow had, naturally, never considered lowering herself by looking at anyone but her later husband either. Not for the world, she would have gone out with the lesser mortals like Elias himself. Well, the times, they were changing. He smiled.

He could only imagine how badly Nasty Narcissa must have cursed her bad luck in the last year. She had betted on the wrong horse, had bedded herself on the wrong pillow, and she must know by now just _how_ wrong she had been. Lucius had lost favour, his reputation, his freedom, his house even, and recently, _his wand_ – how pathetic could a wizard become, honestly! Before long, Narcissa, who was even more famous for her brains than for her looks, would see the light and go looking for a better spouse. And Elias wouldn't stick to old grudges – he'd take pity on her. A marriage to Narcissa Black Malfoy would finally ennoble the money and reputation that Elias already had. And if _he_ took over the negotiations of her divorce, she'd be a fabulously rich divorcee to boot!

Pius Thicknesse had not only stayed under the Imperius Curse – he had cursed four other Ministry Wizards in turn, two of them Aurors, during lunch break. The Dark Lord would be very pleased. In the course of the next day, Elias realised that those four had in turn Imperiused nine more wizards and witches, another two of them Aurors. Excellent. How very, _very_ excellent!

"Is it certain?" asked the Dark Lord, and raised a non-existent brow.

"As certain as it could possibly be, my lord. We have fourteen Ministry wizards under our command."

He had to dampen Elias' good mood, naturally. "Well, the last time, you were wrong, too, weren't you. – Selwyn?"

"Assuming that Yaxley hasn't counted doubles, I can report that I saw to ten more wizards and witches within the Ministry in our services."

Elias shot him a hateful glance, but regained his smooth façade soon enough. "I suggest we compare our lists, Selwyn, just to make sure."

"Bella?"

Bellatrix Lestrange looked very pleased with herself, and said in a drawling tone, "We killed six Aurors in the last week, abducted the family members of fourteen additional Ministry wizards, and I personally Imperiused the witch in charge of the Ministry catering. She's just waiting for the cue to poison lunch with whatever poison you find suitable, master!"

"Excellent, Bella," the master praised her, and if Elias wasn't mistaken, her cheeks turned slightly pink, but that could be due to the light. He let his gaze wander, maliciously settling on the Malfoys for half a minute. The kid was paralysed, simply paralysed. Lucius was only recognisable by his silvery blond hair and the precious robes – other than that, nothing reminded of the high and mighty figure he had once been. He had cracked in the night when the Dark Lord had demanded him to torture his own wife, and Elias was positive that not only his sanity had shattered there. So must Narcissa's conjugal loyalty have.

She didn't betray that sentiment though; in fact, she did not betray _any_ sentiment at all. She had smiled with the good news, but kept her features otherwise impassive. Every now and then, she would exchange a little smirk with Severus Snape, who looked just as unfathomable as she did, and who happened to be the only obstacle that Elias still had to take care of on his way to become second-in-command. Severus Snape, pah! Okay, so he was one hell of a talented wizard, and _yes_, he had smashed the rumours that had denounced him to be disloyal to their cause, by killing Dumbledore, by delivering Potter on a silver plate… But in the end, he remained the lowly son of a Muggle, a little teacher, who had only ever become great because of Lucius' and Narcissa's patronage, and _their_ time was over, too.

Bellatrix, Rabastan and Rodolphus were ordered to Imperius the Aurors Williamson, Oakby and Savage; as soon as this was accomplished, they would take down the Ministry, and get over with _that_ unpleasant chapter once and for all. The Death Eaters were dismissed, the Dark Lord withdrew, and Elias joined a couple of others helping themselves to some vintage wine from Lucius' extended collection.

"You reckon that's Fairy Crystal, Yax?" Thornton Mortlake pointed at the huge chandelier over the table.

Elias tilted his head and appraised the egg-sized ornaments, and Marlon Crabbe grunted, "That's no crystal, man. Those are real diamonds."

Mortlake spluttered his wine at Crabbe's robes. "You're _kidding_ me!"

Elias thought to himself that, under these circumstances, _divorce_ was not an option, and once Lucius was out of the picture and he himself would have married the gorgeous widow, they'd keep this house, definitely. _Diamond chandeliers_, good Salazar! From the corner of his eye, he observed his soon-to-be bride. She was clinging to her husband's arm, or the other way round, more likely. Her other arm was swirled around her son's ribcage, and she conversed with Snape and her sister. Unobtrusively, Elias moved closer, keen to overhear what they were talking.

"…could get a wand from that useless wandmaker downstairs," Bellatrix said just now.

"I'm no expert on that field, but I believe it takes quite some time to produce a good wand."

"D'you have to throw cold water over every good plan, Snape?"

"Only over the not-so-good ones," he replied with a sneer.

"Come with me to the Ministry, Lucius," she persisted, "and make up to the master! And what about you, Draco?"

The boy gazed at his mother and opened his mouth for a reply, but before he could utter a sound, she spoke in his stead, "What about me? _I_ could come. I'm the only one of you who can walk into the Ministry in broad daylight. I could make sure your way is clear."

"Cissy! Good idea!" Bellatrix cried and beamed.

Snape smiled. "I'll go, too."

"No, you won't! You're not going to steal _my_ thunder, Snape!"

Snape didn't stop smiling and beckoned mockingly to her. "As you please, Bellatrix, as you please. It's _your_ assignment after all. Still, I believe that Narcissa should take Draco along."

Bellatrix was as astonished as Elias felt flabbergasted. The kid? Going into the Ministry, right into the heart of a battle? If there was someone unfit to go there – to confront Aurors in combat – it was young Draco. Merlin knew who the boy was taking after! If there was one thing to say in favour of old Lucius, it must be that he stopped at nothing, _ever_. But the kid was just too soft. He had exactly one advantage on his side though – he was the last, the only scion of the most ancient lineage in the entire country – by now, even the Dark Lord himself was smitten not to shed _his_ blood. And so far, Snape had always tried to keep the boy out of danger. If he changed his policy _now_, his reason was obvious. He must have formed the same plan like Elias – get rid of father and son without making the pretty mother too suspicious, and have her for himself alone. That sly old dog!

"If Draco goes, I'll come, too," Lucius said hoarsely.

"No, Lucius. It's madness, without a wand," Snape replied silkily, and Lucius' opposition was silenced by his wife's fiery nodding with that assessment of the situation.

Narcissa trusted her old friend with her life, but what was more, with her child's life. When he had suggested she should take Draco with her, she had been shocked, but believed that he must know what he was doing, and supported the idea at once, secretly pressing Draco's and Lucius' arms to play along, too. Indeed, Severus did have a plan, which he communicated to her later that same night, when they could be sure that no one overheard them. Lucius would stay here, at Malfoy Manor. He was in no condition to pick up a fight with an Auror, and since his own wand had been broken, the odds were worse yet. No, Lucius would stay in safety, but in turn, his wife and son would atone and try getting them all back into the Dark Lord's good books.

Narcissa talked to her sister in the next morning, pretending this had all been her idea, and predictably, Bellatrix was _delighted_. The plan was brilliant, and she thought her little Cissy was a genius – a coward, but a genius nonetheless – anyhow, so she stuck to it _exactly_ like Narcissa had proposed. The following Saturday, Narcissa and her son left the Manor and set off for the Ministry of Magic. Both had donned exquisite robes, groomed their hair neatly, and endured the sudden uproar in the Atrium when Draco was spotted, with utmost dignity. Severus had stolen a couple of replacement wands for them, which were taken away from them at once, after Narcissa had announced that her son – _innocent_ of all charges laid against him! – had decided to turn himself in, to defy the unjust accusations eventually, and in order to be able continuing his education in autumn.

A line or two about Narcissa's outfit this afternoon – all her life, she had taken care to never expose her body to curious glances. This afternoon though, she wore a short skirt underneath her tight, open robes, with high heels, and a corsage that threatened to expose her breasts any second now. Her décolleté was adorned with a flashy diamond collier, from which a gleaming emerald pendant dangled right over her admirable cleavage, and matched her earrings, too. Those earrings were clearly visible because she had tied up her hair and fastened the silky strands with two golden sticks, each adorned with emeralds, too.

Eric Munch, the watchwizard doing the afternoon shift this day, could hardly stop himself from staring at the sexy visitor's décolleté while collecting the two wands. "Oak, thirteen inches, Phoenix feather core, Madam? And holly, ten and a half inches, dragon heartstring, Mr Malfoy?"

They nodded, and made no whatsoever trouble when ten Ministry wizards lead away the young man, followed by his mother, who insisted to accompany him on all accounts. Eric Munch stared after those _incredible_ legs, vaguely thinking that his wife ought to do some work-out, but even then, Eunice's calves would never –

"You think he's truly innocent?" Eric's colleague, Curtis Murray, asked and goggled into the same direction.

"I have absolutely no idea, pal, but the mother surely isn't…"

"Hopefully!"

Both of them were so distraught, they didn't wonder for a second what on earth those craftswizards were doing there, fidgeting around with the newly-repaired fountain on a Saturday afternoon. The Ministry of Magic was located on the south bank of the River Thames, in close proximity to the Muggle Underground. Lord Voldemort and his order might loathe the Muggles, but that didn't mean that they wouldn't seize an opportunity presenting itself so favourably. In this case, a selected group of Death Eaters had cased the territory and organised detailed plans of abandoned tubes and tunnels. A Muggle underground train was an enormous vehicle, where such a thing could go through, a troll, even a giant could move along, too.

And that's what they did. To prevent accidental collisions with trains, Lord Voldemort himself had disabled the electricity mains of half of Muggle London; twenty trolls, seven giants, roughly fifty Dementors and two dozen vampires, lead by ten wizards, used the tubes to get close to the Ministry without raising suspicion. Then they waited for the signal.

Inside the Ministry, Narcissa and her son were interrogated by two Aurors, Mr Dawlish and Mrs Hobday. Upstairs, a number of would-be craftswizards had sneaked out of the Atrium. Bellatrix Lestrange hadn't made a fuss and killed every drugged wizard (the Catering Witch had done her job just fine) coming her way down to the Auror Division, so had her husband and his brother. Rabastan was the first to be lucky – his assigned victim Oakby practically ran into him in the elevator, and after a swift, fierce fight, Rabastan smiled and wiped away some splatters of blood before pressing the Mark on his wrist. Draco gave only a little start and cleared his throat when feeling it, seeking his mother's gaze.

The next one to go was the Auror Savage, even though Bellatrix for once restrained herself and did _not_ murder him. They could do with all help they could get later, so after struggling and naturally, overwhelming him, she submitted him to the Imperius Curse, and pressed the Dark Mark, too. Draco coughed once more, smiling wryly at his mother when this one offered him some cough sweets. He would have accepted, but Mrs Hobday insisted to examine the sweets 'before handing them out to the suspect'. Narcissa smiled at her and nodded. Now they just had to wait.

Eric Munch was waiting, too, though in his case, he waited to call it a day. Blimey, he loved his job. It was so easy, and remarkably well-paid. And except for the beginning and the end of office hours, he didn't have to do very much, so he could pursue his favourite hobby – solving The Big Weekend Crossword Puzzle Supplement of the Daily Prophet. It was half past three, and on Saturdays, none of the normal Ministry employees had to work anyway, so Eric was at leisure now to loosen his bow tie, sharpen his quill and go ahead.

Rodolphus Lestrange would never have made it to the inner circle of the Dark Order, if it hadn't been for his formidable wife. Neither did he manage to overwhelm Auror Williamson, until Bellatrix rushed by, flushed and exasperated, bringing down her wand like a dagger and sending the Auror down to the floor.

"For Salazar's sake, Rodolphus! Do I have to do _everything_ myself?"

"I am sorry, dear."

"Give the _signal_, Rodolphus!"

"Oh, yes, of course, dear." And he tipped against the Dark Mark on his left arm.

In the tubes, the Death Eaters set into motion, Draco Malfoy coughed a third time, his mother smiled sweetly and lifted her hands to rearrange her hairdo. Before either of the Aurors could have said what was going on, Mrs Malfoy had pulled out one of the sticks holding together her bun and had cast a non-verbal silencing spell on them. Shocked, and reduced to non-verbal spells, neither Dawlish nor Hobday managed to withstand her next spell either. She stunned them, collected their wands and tied them to their chairs.

She reached up and removed the second stick, so her long hair fell over her shoulders, and handed it to her son. "There you go, sweetheart. Whatever you do, try not to kill anyone."

"Not _funny_, Mum!"

"I was serious, actually."

"I'm scared to death, Mum…"

She nodded. "I know, honey. And so am I. Just stay close to me, will you –"

"I don't want you to get harmed either!"

"Have faith in me, mon trésor. I once managed to overwhelm even your father in a duel, if that's of any consolation for you. – And now come on, we got to show our faces a bit, don't you think?"

They stepped out of the office, finding the battle in full furore around them already. And for the first time in his life, Draco saw his mother fight – he was so flummoxed, he almost forgot to deflect the spells aimed at him, and in one instance, the only thing that saved him was a plucky plunge behind a pillar – bless five years of Quidditch practise. He decided that this broad, solid pillar was _quite_ a good place, and continued observing his mum from there. She was – just plain _awesome_! She parried every spell with nonchalant elegance, taking out three Ministry wizards at once with a little flick of her wand and a lofty '_Petrificus Totalus_', only to knock out an Auror in the next moment with a spell that sounded somewhat Chinese, and yet another Auror collapsed on the floor, clasping his throat.

"Are you all right there, honey?" she cried, bowing over the motionless figure of a Death Eater and checking his pulse.

"Fine, Mum!"

"Excellent. I think this one is done with. Well… I'd say we stay here for a while, what d'you think, darling? I've taken down five guys. I suppose we're excused for a quarter of an hour."

"That was… That was – good heaven's, Mum! That was frigging awesome!"

"Thank you, precious!" She pointed her wand at her robes, that instantly widened and covered her legs and décolleté, then glided down the pillar and settled next to him with a bright smile.

In the Atrium, Eric Munch was oblivious of anything happening in the other floors. He was munching on a cookie that Eunice had packed in his lunch box, the quill hovering above the crossword puzzle, and faintly wondered about what sounded like a thunderstorm outside. "Oi, Murray! Where were chips invented?"

"In Donnie's Diner!"

"Nah, I need seven letters!"

"My American cousin calls them French Fries!"

"But 'France' got only six let-"

He couldn't finish the sentence, because all of a sudden, out of every single of the twenty fireplaces, black-cloaked wizards with grisly masks jumped out, their wands raised. Before Eric could do as much as drop his quill, a loud blast hurled him out of his chair, and he heard another explosion from below. He grabbed his wand and tried to get back on his feet – curses were screamed, red and green jets of light everywhere, and the last thing he saw was a full-fledged dragon, right in the middle of the Atrium. A curse hit Eric – he was dead before his body touched the floor.

Voldemort had blown up an entire Muggle street to steer the Chinese Fireball through the entrance connected to the phone booth above ground. His Death Eaters, knowing what was coming, saw to get out of the Atrium as quickly as they got in. The few present, utterly shocked Ministry wizards tried to flee to the lower levels at once, but from there, the Dementors and vampires were preying, while the giants, trolls and the dragon pulled down every possible means of escape. No normal wizard or witch could seriously stand up to a Dark wizard, not for long anyway, and certainly not under such circumstances. Only the Aurors put up a serious fight, the most ferocious among them the former Auror and present Minister for Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour. He took down three trolls, a giant and six or seven Death Eaters. Against Lord Voldemort himself, not even he stood much of a chance though.


	102. Recollecting

Draco learns how to break a memory charm

* * *

**- 3.52. -**

Recollecting

* * *

_hopelessly drift in the eyes of the ghost again _

_down on my knees and my hands in the air again _

_pushing my face in the memory of you again _

_but I never know if it's real _

_now the time has gone _

_another time undone _

_hopelessly fighting the devil, futility _

_feeling the monster climb deeper inside of me _

_feeling him gnawing my heart away hungrily _

_I'll never lose this pain _

_to never dream of you again_

_THE CURE_

_

* * *

_

When it looked like the carnage at the Ministry was complete, Narcissa asked for permission to leave with her son and got it. They returned home at once, finding the house empty except for Lucius and the servants, and retreating to the Music Chamber that none of the Death Eaters had ever taken much interest in, Narcissa poured them all a triple brandy. "To you, my dears," she sighed, "and that we've survived yet another day!"

"Thanks to you, Mum," Draco groaned shakily and emptied his glass with one big sip.

"Never underestimate a mother defending her child, darling," she said with an arched brow. "That brought down greater wizards than those morons in the Ministry today."

His father had watched her pensively, refilled their glasses and lifted his own for another toast. "To the noble dead, right?"

Narcissa smiled woefully and lifted her glass, too. "To the noble dead. To all the things that _matter_."

Draco noticed his parents exchanging a strange glance. "What do you mean by _that_?"

Lucius shrugged vaguely and looked the other way, while Narcissa linked her free arm with her son's. "Honey," she said in a casual manner, "you'll understand one day. For now, I want you to trust your father and me, and stop asking questions that I can impossibly answer. What matters to us _now_ is that you are well and out of harm's way. Now that the Ministry has fallen, the Dark Lord has no more serious opposition. The time for combat is more or less over – I don't believe that Dumbledore's men can put up much of a fight without the Aurors backing them up. The time of your aunt and her favourite pastime has come, and we'll have to think of a way to keep you as far away from all _that_ as we possibly can."

"I don't –"

A harassed-looking elf popped in, panting. "Masters – Milady – the _guest_… He's back."

Narcissa smirked. "Good, good… Thank you, Elsy. So let us drink to the Dark Lord."

"To the Dark Lord," Draco and Lucius muttered automatically and forced their faces into a merry grimace. Not two minutes later, the wizard himself appeared, and straightaway summoned Narcissa and Draco to follow him – they hadn't yet finished for today.

Nobody was truly surprised when raiding the wedding party of Bill and Fleur Weasley, that Harry Potter was nowhere to be seen. Neither were his notorious buddies Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger, and nobody could say where they were either, even when threatened with torture. Bellatrix Lestrange was particularly disappointed that her niece and 'the girl's abomination of a husband' had disappeared, too, and she would straightaway have vented her frustration on the next best party guest, if it hadn't been for the Dark Lord's intervention.

"The taboo," he said quietly, restraining her hand. She was ready to go at once, but he restrained her once more and beckoned into the direction of the Weasleys. "Your talent is needed elsewhere, Bella. Rowle, Dolohov – adjust your craftswizard outfits Muggle-style, and go for it!"

"Got it, master," Dolohov replied at once and saluted.

"Selwyn, Rigby, Goyle – you will accompany Mrs Malfoy."

Narcissa looked slightly astonished – she wasn't sure how she had even got to be _here_, let alone elsewhere. Because judging the red sparkle in Voldemort's eyes, he wasn't about to send her home. "Sir?" she asked.

"I want to know where Potter is. You go to your sister's house –"

Bellatrix yelped, "Master, please! Let _me_ go!"

"Oh, get real, Bella! You'd kill them before asking them the first question," Narcissa said quickly, daring to annoy Voldemort for cutting him short. But the thought of Bella in Andy's vicinity was enough to take risks.

"That's what I thought," Voldemort said with a dangerous tinge to his voice and shot her a glance.

"I will not disappoint you, sir," she said smoothly and automatically linked arms with her son – but to her utmost horror, she had to hear that Draco was supposed to stay, as Voldemort's 'personal assistant'. That could mean anything – _anything_ – and Narcissa felt at least as sick as her son suddenly looked like. Voldemort noticed their uneasiness very well and sniggered.

"Narcissa, Narcissa. The Muggles have a name for _your_ sort of problem, though presently, that name of course eludes me. It's not healthy for a boy of his age to always have his mother coddling over him –" Bellatrix gave a loud chortle, but seeing her master's glare, tried to disguise it as a coughing fit. "Don't you agree with me, Draco?"

Draco looked petrified. "Sir?" Catching his mother's warning glance, he hastily added, "Of course, sir!"

"Bella? Pick your crew and see what these bloodtraitors have to say. And restrain yourself. They're purebloods, after all. And why are _you_ still here, Narcissa?"

"Er – of course, your lordship – consider us already gone!"

Instead of Draco's, she grabbed Graham's arm – she needed some support now, to be sure, and let him lead her off the boundaries. Pretending to be her self-assured self, she talked about the place where Andy lived – Brighton – how there surely were any number of alerting spells on the house and its surroundings and how they'd best try to Apparate half a mile away from their actual venue. All the while her mind was racing, and she didn't know what weighed worse. The thought of poor Draco as Voldemort's _assistant_ – or the question how on earth she could avoid of torturing her own sister – a demand which was utterly out of bounds.

But at least the second problem could be remedied. Selwyn and Rigby were no extraordinary wizards, and remarkably unsuspicious. They probably didn't even notice Narcissa's Confounding Charms hitting them in the back, straight after they had arrived in Brighton. Graham shot her a peculiar glance, but didn't say anything until they could see the house.

"Which spell do you intend for me, then?" he asked with a strange, flat voice and looked the tiniest bit reproachful.

She smiled awkwardly. "I meant to erase your memories, I guess. I haven't – I haven't really got a plan, you see – I'm making this up as I go along…"

"I've got a better plan for you – I just stay here and keep watch, and you – you do whatever you think necessary."

"You're… You're the best, Graham." She gave him a radiant smile. "Thanks!"

"You're welcome, Cissa. Vince mero curas et, and all that ballyhoo, right?"

"You still remember that?"

"I sure do. At least those that rhymed. Now off you go, before the spells wear off." He indicated at the two other wizards walking fifteen feet behind them. She nodded and ordered them to hurry a bit and explained her _plan_. They nodded in obvious confusion and followed her like little ducklings to the front door, which she blasted without further ado. This was supposed to look really violent, after all.

Andy came running into the hallway, her wand at the ready, and Narcissa disarmed and stunned her. She ordered the two confounded wizards to guard – but not touch her, and she went upstairs, casting that _Muffiliato_ spell that Severus had taught her for such occasions. "Ted," she called out, "Ted? It's me, Narcissa. I'm not going to do anything to either you or Andy, but you've got to help me, all right? Ted?"

One of the easels transformed into a chubby, apprehensive-looking man, who pointed his wand at her. "Na- Narcissa…? What –"

"Listen, Ted, and quickly – and don't be offended that I must wreck your house a little –" She brandished her wand, taking down a large shelf and causing an explosion. "The Ministry has fallen. All spells maintained by them are gone. I managed to be assigned questioning you about Harry Potter's whereabouts – and be glad it's me, because Bella craved that task." Another explosion. "Downstairs are two confounded Death Eaters, but they won't do a thing if we can help it. You'll come down with me now, I'll pretend to crucify you and you scream your lungs out, okay? It needs to look good and real. Then I'll threaten Andy – and then you crack, and give me _some_ made-up place. Got me?"

"What the –"

She pushed over another shelf. "Trust me, okay? I have no whatsoever wish to find out where bloody Harry Potter is, and I won't stand by and watch how my own family is made suffer for that cause. But for that, you need to look _really_ convincing. And – there are traitors among your people, Ted, so _please_ – tell _no one_, not even your daughter, about this fraud. Come on now. Oh – and hide your wand."

She summoned one of his paint brushes, transformed it into something looking like a wand and put it into her belt. Nodding at him, she indicated him to go ahead with his arms raised, and lifted the _Muffiliato_. As soon as Rigby and Selwyn came back to sight – goggling stupidly at the stunned Andromeda – she yelled at them, "You _idiots_! Didn't you hear me screaming? Do I have to do _everything_ by myself? Why did I even bring you here? Oh, get out of my way, moron!"

She pointed with her wand at her brother-in-law and this one, giving his best to look scared, but unfortunately looking rather puzzled, crouched down next to his wife and looked if she was all right. Narcissa ostentatiously snatched the fake wand and broke it with her most malicious smile.

"I can do the same with your backbone, Mudblood, and your wife's. Don't think I'd hold back only because she's my sister. She stopped being that when she chose you over the honour of her family!"

Ted merely goggled. "Er –"

"Potter was here?" she bellowed.

He stared at her. "I –"

"No need to lie, we already _know_ he was here, maggot. Where is he now?"

"I – I don't know!"

"Where did he go after leaving your house? – Or is he here still?" She turned around to Selwyn and Rigby. "You – go and search the house. But don't damage the paintings, they're worth a fortune."

As soon as they were out of earshot, she activated the _Muffiliato_ again and undid the Stunner keeping down her sister. She emphasised once more how utmost important their credible contribution would be – 'or someone else will come, and that somebody might well be Bella!' – and that they must keep their mouths shut under all circumstances, when she was interrupted by Andy.

"What do you mean – a traitor?"

"Potter's escape plan was betrayed, was it not? _He_ clearly has some source in your quarter!"

"Who is it?"

"I don't _know_, Andy! Oh, for heaven's sake, why are you even _here_ still? I _told_ you they'd come, and the next time I might not be able to save your neck!"

"Thank you," Ted said quietly and gave her a long, earnest look.

Andy nodded. "Yes, thank you… But – why are you doing this?"

"Because you _are_ family, if you want it or not" she replied stubbornly, and added as an afterthought, "And also – you made me think, the last time we met, and I realised that my son might need a proper role model."

"How is Draco?" Andy asked, and that question catapulted Narcissa back to her – presently – greatest worry. Where might he be right now? What might he be forced to do, and would he manage to pull it through? She would have been relieved to hear that Draco had followed his 'master' back to Malfoy Manor – and alarmed beyond words if she had known why.

"Come, Draco," Lord Voldemort had said silkily, when returning to the Manor with his young apprentice, who didn't quite trust his apparent friendliness. "I promised to train you up myself, and a possibility for training has just happened to walk in."

Draco acquiesced, of course, trotting after the Dark Lord with less enthusiasm than he might be supposed to show. Downstairs, down into the dungeons, past the vaults with the prisoners… Draco's blood felt like freezing, and for a horrified minute or two, he wondered if the master was about to torture him and call it a 'useful lesson' afterwards. But then, he pushed open a door with a flick of his wand, and Draco spotted two cowering figures on the floor. On a second look, he recognised Thorfinn Rowle and Antonin Dolohov in some eccentric Muggle costumes.

"So, Draco, what would you do to obtain a truthful testimony from either of these two?"

He could confidently answer this without doing any harm, right? "Sir, _I_ would probably use a truth potion like Veritaserum, but I believe your lordship could use Legilimency to reach the same end."

"Indeed. Now what if I told you that I did try Legilimency already, but couldn't find what I was looking for?"

"Veritaserum, Sir?"

"Unfortunately, we seem to have used Severus' entire stock for questioning Ollivander, and it takes too long for my purposes to wait until he has brewed some more. Furthermore – in a case like this, it'd be useless. Can you imagine why?"

Draco had no clue what to say, or what the Dark Lord might expect from him now. He lifted his shoulders for the tiniest fraction and tried to look helpful. "Sir…?"

"Can you think of a reason why I do not find any useful memory in those eggheads?"

Of course he could, but Draco didn't have it in him to say 'They could have lied' – not because of compassion, but because he was too scared to raise the topic of Death Eaters daring to lie to the Dark Lord. He shrugged and almost whispered, "Perhaps they were Obliviated…?"

"Yes, I've come to the same conclusion. Have you learnt yet how to break a memory charm?"

He shook his head. No, he hadn't. The only thing he knew about such spells was that they were pretty likely to damage the brain of the victim. He shuffled his feet and shot Dolohov a swift look. He didn't even like this guy, he was a sadist of a brute. He mustn't argue with the Dark Lord only to spare this bloke's brains, he had his parents' heads to worry for!

"I'll show you. The incantation is easy enough," the Dark Lord said cheerfully. "It's '_Invenient Viam!_' Repeat."

"Invenient Viam," Draco said firmly.

"The wand movement is slightly more difficult. Watch closely." He bowed over Dolohov and made this one sit up. He then traced the man's skull with his spidery fingers, explaining to Draco that he was looking for a certain indentation in that one's small of the neck. After having found it, he showed the spot to Draco and commanded him to try finding it again with his eyes closed. Draco touched Dolohov's neck, feeling the wizard slightly quavering, and he had to swallow hard. When he thought he had found the spot, he showed it to the master, who commended him once more.

"Now you flick your wand like this before pressing it _exactly_ there, and say the spell like this: In-ve-ni-ent Vi-am! Got it?"

Draco nodded and repeated both the incantation and the movement, thinking that this wasn't turning out half as badly as he had feared when entering the vault. The Dark Lord explained that he would have to focus on the question he wanted answered while speaking the incantation, and offered to show it to him. He waved his wand, muttered the spell, pressed his wand into the indentation, and –

Draco gave a terrible start, so piercing was Dolohov's scream; the man reared up and slumped back down to the ground, seemingly unconscious. A sticky, black substance looked like dripping from the master's wand, but didn't, and he exclaimed, "Oh, I _hate_ laymen's spellwork! – Don't be mistaken, Draco, it was an absolute beginner performing this memory charm. Usually, when the memory charm is properly performed, it takes much more persistence to obtain the truthful memory."

The boy nodded as eagerly as he could, but his stomach was still revolting with Dolohov's scream, and his spastic twitching on the floor. He saw the Dark Lord touch the black, tar-like liquid, rub it between his fingers, sniff on it, and wipe it away at last. He smiled and said in an eerily soft voice, "Very well. Look into my eyes, Antonin." But Dolohov didn't move, or rather, he couldn't stop shaking. The Dark Lord petrified him, kneeled over the motionless body and bored into his eyes. "Ah, there we are… Tottenham Court Road, eh… But – what the –"

In the next moment, he was on his feet again and threw a curse at Dolohov. The next curse was destined for Rowle, who broke down next to his colleague, until both were twitching, yelping bundles. They cried for mercy, begged him to stop, and the Dark Lord halted for a moment, but only to scream, "Such incompetence! Such failure! Feel the wrath of Lord Voldemort!"

Only once, Draco had seen the Dark Lord execute a torture personally – on Draco's father – and he wouldn't forget this sight for the rest of his life, so much was sure! He fought against the insurmountable urge to vomit, turning away, but he couldn't drown out the cries of agony. Oh Lord, oh Merlin, make it stop, make _him_ stop, oh Merlin, stop, stop, _stop_ –

He did stop, but only in order to command Draco to continue the torture. The boy's mouth was so dry, he could hardly speak, let alone get the incantation together – he had never used it on another human being himself – the Professor had done it, then – and he couldn't muster the necessary _will_ to hurt that miserable sod sobbing on the floor there either. The Dark Lord wouldn't have it, of course, and reminded him 'of the last time when your dear mother had to sacrifice herself for training purposes!'

Shaking, though not nearly as much as Rowle and Dolohov, Draco pointed his wand at the former, focusing on exactly one emotion and hoping it would get him through – 'it's either this, or Mum!' Indeed, it worked, even though – thank _god_ – not remotely as 'well' as when the Dark Lord had done it. What was more, Draco didn't manage to maintain the curse for long, and when Rowle sobbed and begged him to stop, he lost all his grip on him at once.

"More, Rowle? Or shall we end it and feed you to Nagini? Lord Voldemort is not sure that he will forgive this time!" Draco squinted over to the towering figure taunting the half-dead man. If someone had told him about any of this, he wouldn't have _believed_ it. All of this – most of all the '_master_' – was beyond insane. "You called me back for _this_? To tell me that Harry Potter has escaped _again_? – Draco, give Rowle another taste of our _displeasure_ – _do_ _it!_ Or feel my wrath yourself!"

No, Draco wasn't going to 'feel the wrath of Lord Voldemort himself' that night. Instead, he was supposed to learn and master the curse that the master had shown to him before that. He had to fetch his father – the Dark Lord had sneered, and said, "Surely, your mother's brains are too precious to be tampered with, wouldn't you agree?" – and after rummaging through Lucius' head, the Dark Lord blackened out his memory of how he had first come to meet his later wife.

Lucius had endured the procedure in silence, more or less, only when realising what the master was about to take from him, he had begged, on his knees, "Please, milord, _please_ – not that – something else, _please_!"

"What would you rather have, Lucius? The first time you held your son here? You shall have your wish, then!" And thus, he damaged another memory of his struggling victim. "You see, it's of utmost importance, I believe, that young Draco here understands that his dearest daddy really, _really _wants these memories back, or I'm afraid we'll not manage to – mmh – _motivate_ him to go through with the process to the end."

Lucius stared at his son, nodding, his eyes eloquent with the plea, 'Do it, Draco, do it!' Draco couldn't help himself, tears were welling in the corners of his eyes, just like his father's, and very gently, almost tenderly, he knelt down next to this one, and began to roam this one's neck. He pulled himself together and tried to smile. "No worries, Dad, I think I got the hang of it."

"Of course you have," his dad muttered roughly and tried to smile back, but only managed the travesty of a grin.

"I believe this is going to hurt quite a lot, but please, try not to move too much, okay?"

"Touching, aren't you two?" the Dark Lord taunted. "How did you manage to become such a father, Lucius? Seeing what an abysmal one you had yourself?"

Lucius didn't give an answer; but that didn't stop the master from making gleeful remarks while Draco still strobed his father's neck. "Sometimes I wish Dumbledore was alive still – in my power, but alive… That old fool and his endless tirades about _love_! I wish he could see with his own eyes that _love_ is nothing but weakness. It's what brought _you_ where you're now, isn't it, Lucius? Where is the proud, powerful warlock you once were – before sitting in Azkaban and thinking you'd never see your wife and son again? And now you've got your son back – and what's he doing? Torturing you, time and time again. Was it worth to fret for his sake, Lucius?"

"My lord –" was Lucius' only reply, seeking his son's eyes with an expression that Draco found hard to endure. There was no doubt, or resentfulness in this glance – but trust, and Draco's heart was heavy with fear and repulsion. At last, he found the spot he had looked for, kissed his father on the forehead, and got up again. In his head, he went through every step of the incantation once more, then he closed his eyes, concentrated on the first memory, flicked his wand, whispered, '_Invenient Viam_', and pressed his wand in the small of his father's neck. Foreseeable enough, Lucius screamed out and started to tremble and Draco pulled away his wand in utter shock.

"Now _this_ won't do," the Dark Lord cried in audible amusement. "What are you playing at, Draco? Did you forget – your father _wants_ you to succeed. He wants his memories back. Or do you simply enjoy prolonging the pain? Did your good aunt introduce you to the joys of driving your victim over the edge?"

Draco was petrified, not knowing what to answer, not knowing what to do, unable to draw his gaze away from his squirming father. Lucius managed to regain his self-control and scrambled back to his knees, reaching out for his son's wrist and shooting him a stern look.

"Do it, Draco," he croaked. "Don't stop again before you've got it!"

So Draco tried again. This time, he stepped to stand behind his father – this gave him an easier access to the spot he needed to find, and prevented him from seeing Lucius' agonised face. He touched the neck with the tip of his wand, and Lucius reached behind himself and grabbed Draco's left hand, putting it over his own mouth to keep himself from screaming. The boy took a deep breath, brandished the wand and spoke the incantation. He kept Lucius still with his left hand and put all his vigour into the spell and into the thought that he wanted to regain, but he wasn't strong enough. The Dark Lord ordered him to pull harder, the boy opened his eyes again, finding he had to employ all his physical strength to pull out the black stream, and advancing eventually.

His father broke down. The Dark Lord crudely snatched Draco's wand to examine the substance, and Draco knelt down beside Lucius until this one had regained a bit of control over his spasming body. "Are you all right, Dad?" he breathed, brushing a strand of silver hair out of the pained face. "Can you – can you remember Mum again now?"

Lucius made a light move that Draco was inclined to take as a yes. "You – did – well, Draco…"

"My lord," Draco addressed the master now, willing his voice to be calm. "Please, sir, can we – I showed you that I can master the spell, didn't I? Can we go on tomorrow, sir?"

"No!"

Draco was shocked that this was his father speaking, and stared at him. "But Dad! Dad, you –"

"The more time passes, the harder it gets," Lucius panted. "It won't be easier tomorrow, but more hurtful and take longer. Petrify me and do it once more."

And this was what his son did. They were dismissed at last, and Draco supported his father on their way upstairs, right into his parents' bedroom. By now, his mother had returned and waited there for them, looking grief-stricken and fearful, and performing the silencing charms on the door before saying anything else. Draco put his charge on the bed and was surprised to find his father smiling faintly.

"I'm so sorry, Dad! It's not true what he said! I didn't want it to take longer! I didn't mean to hurt you! I –"

"I know, Draco. It's all right." And now he smiled for real and indicated him to sit down beside him. "You were very good, very good indeed. Most wizards take much longer to learn this spell, and many never advance."

"What was it, then?" Narcissa asked anxiously and shot their son an apprehensive look.

"Breaking through an Obliviation." Narcissa's hand shot to her mouth; her eyes were wide with horror, alternating between her husband and her son, but Lucius didn't stop smiling inadequately happy and ruffled Draco's hair. "I mean what I say, you know? I am proud of you, Draco –"

"Don't be proud of me because of something like _that_!"

Lucius frowned ruefully and went on, "And unspeakably glad that you succeeded so well. I wouldn't want to go to sleep tonight without these memories. Trust me, the hurt was comparably small to the agony caused by the idea of letting go of my memory of your first look at me, or your mother's first smile."

"The _bastard_!" Narcissa gasped, and let out a torrent of curses and vulgar language that appeared almost comical to the two men. The more she swore, the harder these two began to laugh, until she cried very indignantly, "There's nothing funny in this! How _dare_ he! Oh, you wait! You just wait! He'll get what's coming for him!"


	103. Kreacher's Tale

Kreacher remembers…

* * *

**- 3.53. -**

Kreacher's Tale

* * *

_In the middle of the road of my life I awoke in the dark wood where the true way was wholly lost._

_DANTE ALIGHIERI – Divine Comedy_

_

* * *

_

Kreacher had lost track at some point. He couldn't really say when. He wouldn't even have managed to say so much about himself – 'I lost track somehow' – he was merely aware that this was the case, and very vaguely so. When had this happened? When naughty master Sirius had run away, and the Mistress had been shattered with grief? When sweet Master Regulus had disappeared, and both his parents had gone crazy with fear? When Master Orion had killed himself at last? When the Mistress had faded away before time? In the ten or how many years of being all alone in the house?

Or had it been his unspeakable anguish after master Sirius had returned, and demolished the noble house of his forefathers? Or when that awful, awful brat that arrogated to be his heir had sent him to this most atrocious place that dared calling itself '_school_'? Little wonder that master Sirius had gone astray in _that_ freakish place, full of half-bloods, and Mudbloods, centaurs, Squibs, half-giants, and what was worst – _house-elves_ who entertained all sorts of most _dangerous_ ideas, such as – he shuddered to think of it – _payment_, or equality of the magical races…

Swiftly, he had allowed himself to hope. After managing to escape to sweet, sweet Miss Cissy – Mistress Narcissa – however she was called these days… He had truly believed that, once master Sirius was out of the way, he'd automatically belong to Miss Bella instead, but he had been woefully mistaken. The master had bequested poor, poor Kreacher to the Potter brat, and if possible, Kreacher's life had sunken a notch yet. Now, he wasn't even allowed to be _home_ anymore, had been traded like a piece of furniture and sold to the highest bidder, like a slave, he had been sent to the next best master, and house… It was too terrible to think about!

"I kno-ho-ho-how," Winky would sob whenever Kreacher complained about his pitiful state. Because not _all_ house-elves in this cursed place were bad. Winky, too, had been repudiated, even though she was usually too drunk to recount the story coherently enough for anyone to understand. In another life, Kreacher would have strongly disapproved of her dissolute ways, but as things were, he was fairly close to become a drunkard himself. Only last week, he had actually accepted her offer of a butterbeer – and vomited all over the kitchen sink not five minutes later.

How long _was_ he in this dreadful place now? He really couldn't say for sure. Winky knew though, even though she was beside herself most of the time. "Kreacher came before the start of last term… Some time in last July…"

"And what month… year… is it now?"

"It's August 2nd – hic! – 1997."

"Oh _Salazar_!"

"Want a butterbeer?"

He was on the verge of explaining to her that he hadn't sunken _that_ low – _yet_ – when feeling the call of his master, and automatically Disapparated out of the school. He would have cheered to find himself in the Noble House of Black in the next second, but remembering who his new master _was_, and facing the vile toe rag and his notorious friends, Kreacher couldn't but glower. He made a bow – but he intended it satirically!

"Master – back in my mistress's old house with the blood-traitor Weasley and the Mudblood –"

"I forbid you to call anyone 'blood traitor', or 'Mudblood'," the master barked, and Kreacher scowled back in useless defiance. "I've got a question for you, and I order you to answer it truthfully. Understand?"

"Yes, master," Kreacher growled and stooped again. Vile, mean friend of Mudbloods and blood-traitors, nasty abomination of the name of wizard –

The master continued urgently, "Two years ago, there was a big gold locket in the drawing room upstairs. We threw it out. Did you steal it back?"

That question hit the poor elf like a steam-hammer. The golden locket. The _locket_. Master Regulus. _The_ locket. Master Regulus. _The locket_… He realised that the young master was staring at him expectantly, and forced himself to murmur, "Yes…"

"Where is it now?"

Kreacher could hardly catch his breath to answer, "Gone."

"Gone? What do you mean, it's gone?" The master looked as beaten as Kreacher felt – in fact, the elf was on the verge of fainting. "Kreacher, I order you –"

"Mundungus Fletcher… Mundungus Fletcher stole it all!" He got worked up, spitting now, "Miss Bella and Miss Cissy's pictures – my mistress's gloves – the Order of Merlin, First Class – the goblets with the family crest – and – and –"

The pain overwhelmed him. These objects, loathed and despised by master Sirius, had embodied _everything_ for Kreacher, his life, his purpose in this world, everyone he had ever cared for… And this wicked man had simply stolen them, to sell them – for _money_ – as if _money_ could weigh up the true value of these things. My Lady's Thestral skin gloves, which Master Orion had given to her after Master Regulus' birth… The picture of Miss Cissy on her graduation day… And worst – that cursed locket, for which – sweet Master Regulus – the dear, dear Master – oh, how dreadful he had looked – Kreacher hadn't saved him – the Master had saved Kreacher, but this one – hadn't managed – to return that service – had failed him – had failed to destroy the blasted thing – sweet Master Regulus' last wish –

It burst out of him, he couldn't contain himself. "– AND THE LOCKET, MASTER REGULUS' LOCKET – KREACHER DID WRONG – KREACHER FAILED IN HIS ORDERS!"

He jumped up, wanting to punish himself, out of habit, and also because he _deserved_ punishment. The good Master was dead – and somehow, he felt, this was all Kreacher's fault. Before he could reach the hearth with the iron poker though, the Potter boy had thrown himself at the poor elf. Not even that he could achieve – not even could he punish himself as he ought to…

"Harry, let him up," the Mudblood whispered.

"So he can beat himself up with the poker? I don't think so! – Right, Kreacher – I want the truth – how do you know Mundungus Fletcher stole the locket?"

He couldn't help it but sob. "Kreacher saw him! Kreacher saw him coming out of Kreacher's cupboard with his hands full of Kreacher's treasures… Kreacher told the sneak thief to stop – but Mundungus Fletcher laughed and r-ran –"

"You called the locket 'Master Regulus''. Why? Where did it come from? What did Regulus have to do with it? – Kreacher, sit up and tell me everything you know about that locket, and everything Regulus had to do with it!"

This was an order from his legal master, so Kreacher couldn't refuse it, but the pain was eating him up, pumping through his veins with every beat of his weak, old heart. "Master Sirius ran away, good riddance, for he was a bad boy and broke my mistress's heart with his lawless ways," he began, trying to talk himself into some courage before facing the gruesome parts. He told them about the good Master, how he had joined up at the age of sixteen, how his new master had – had – demanded an elf for a special task, and sweet Master Regulus had volunteered Kreacher, and _told him to come home_… He told them about the cave, the Dark Lord, the basin with the poison and how Kreacher had been coerced to drink it, how the Dark Lord had left him behind, how the dreadful, dead bodies had tried to drown him…

"How did you get away?" master Potter asked very quietly.

The Potter brat didn't _understand_, he didn't understand _anything_ about house-elves, like his horrid godfather before him. Kreacher looked him straight into the eye when replying, "Master Regulus _told_ Kreacher to_ come back_!" The master still didn't get it, and Kreacher repeated with more vigour, "_Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back!_"

The other two, blood-traitors and Mudbloods or not, were not quite as thick-headed, _they_ understood all right. Even the little Mudblood did, speaking with some feeling on the subject.

"The house-elf's highest law is his master's bidding. Kreacher was told to come home, so Kreacher _came_ home," he tried to explain to the Potter boy once more. He was Kreacher's master now, he had to understand what it was all about!

"Well, then you did what you were told, didn't you? You didn't disobey orders at all," the Mudblood said in a friendly manner, and Kreacher didn't have it in himself to trounce her for addressing him. He was asked to say what had happened to Master Regulus after that night, and he told them; it tore him apart, but felt strangely relieving in the same moment. He had never before mentioned any of this, to anyone; nobody had ever asked him, not even the Mistress, but her mourning had been so bottomless, and she had clung to the hope of Master Regulus returning after all, so dearly – he wouldn't have managed to shatter her last, desperate hopes by telling her the horrible truth. Also, sweet Master Regulus had expressly _forbidden_ him to speak –

"Oh, Kreacher!" The little Mudblood was weeping and looked horror-struck, too, and then – then – she knelt down beside him, and she – she – _touched_ him – and – the Mistress would _never_ forgive him to allow a _Mudblood_ – touching – comforting – whatever – her very own servant… He shrank away and stammered, "The Mudblood – _touched_ Kreacher – he will not allow it – what would his Mistress say –"

Oh good heavens – he had violated the prohibition – the new master had forbidden Kreacher to – to… He banged his head on the floor, faintly hearing the master reprimanding him. The two conflicting orders confused him all the more, so he went on banging his head to punish himself for not knowing what to do – he had served the Noble Family for all his life, a _good_ servant would _know_ how to behave in _all_ circumstances –

"Stop him! STOP HIM! Oh, don't you see now, how sick it is, the way they've got to obey?"

"Kreacher, stop! _Stop_!"

Kreacher _must_ obey so direct an order. What was more – he hadn't got the strength to continue – he was old, he was weak, he was a failure… The young master asked if Kreacher had destroyed the cursed thing for which the dearest Master had sacrificed his young life, and the house-elf submitted.

"Nothing Kreacher did made any mark upon it! Kreacher tried everything, _everything_ he knew – but nothing, _nothing_ would work! – So many powerful spells upon the casing… Kreacher was sure the way to destroy it was to get inside it, but it would not open… Kreacher punished himself – he tried again – he punished himself – he tried again – Kreacher failed to obey orders – Kreacher could not destroy the locket – and his Mistress was mad with grief, because Master Regulus had disappeared… And Kreacher could not tell her what had happened, no, because Master Regulus had f-f-" He tried to get a grip and _force _himself to speak. "– _forbidden_ him to tell any of the f-f-family what had – happened – in the c-cave –"

He broke down at last, he _couldn't_ go on, the impact of his own words – of the memories – had knocked him out, so much more than the wounds on his forehead from punishing himself, had. The Mistress – poor, _poor_ Mistress – and poor Master Regulus – and Master Orion, who had not overcome the pain of losing his dearest child – so young still, the sweet, sweet young Master – dead – they were all _dead_ – only Kreacher was alive still – no doubt, to live and feel the guilt and shame – his fault – _his_ – he had failed – he had –

"I don't understand you, Kreacher… Voldemort tried to kill you – Regulus died to bring Voldemort down – but you were still happy to betray Sirius to Voldemort? You were happy to go to Narcissa and Bellatrix? And pass on information to Voldemort through them…?"

Kreacher didn't get what the child was talking about, but he was too aggravated to listen much anyway. In his stead, the little Mudblood spoke up, "Harry, Kreacher doesn't think like that. He's a slave; house-elves are used to bad, even cruel treatment. What Voldemort did to Kreacher wasn't that far out of the common way. What do wizard wars mean to an elf like Kreacher? He's loyal to people who are kind to him, and Mrs Black must have been, and Regulus certainly was –" Despite himself, Kreacher found himself nodding, Mudblood or not. _She_ had got it right, she _understood_ – perhaps she was no Mudblood after all, and there had been some misunderstanding – a mix-up – or her parents were Squibs, or something…

She went on, "So he served them willingly and parroted their beliefs. I know what you're going to say. That Regulus changed his mind. But he doesn't seem to have explained that to Kreacher, does he? And I think I know why. Kreacher and Regulus' family were all safer if they kept to the old pureblood line. Regulus was trying to protect them all."

'Yes, _yes_, exactly!' Kreacher thought, gazing over at her timidly, but in something like admiration, almost. _Surely_, there _must_ have been a mistake concerning her birth! The Potter brat wasn't content though, stubbornly crying, "Sirius –"

"Sirius was horrible to Kreacher, Harry, and it's no good looking like that. You _know_ it's true! Kreacher had been alone for a long time when Sirius came to live here, and he was probably starving for a bit of affection. I'm sure _Miss Cissy_ and _Miss Bella_ were perfectly lovely to Kreacher when he turned up. So he did them a favour and told them everything they wanted to know. I've said all along that wizards would pay for how they treat house-elves. Well, Voldemort did – and so did Sirius."

Exactly! _Exactly!_ Miss Cissy – sweet Miss Cissy – always so good – always so gracious – just like Master Regulus had been – Kreacher perfectly remembered how his Mistress had given him this towel, that he had been wearing since the day she had given it to Kreacher… How dear Master Regulus had arranged the little cot in the kitchen cupboard for Kreacher to hide away – the blanket that the Mistress had given to him, to make himself a bit more comfortable… It took him quite a while to process what the young master said next, namely that Kreacher was supposed to sit up – once he was ready… Kreacher checked and double-checked, but no matter how he twisted the order, he didn't find a reason _not _to take a couple more minutes, and he allowed himself to accept that offer, because he _really_ wasn't fit to obey at once.

Once Kreacher had pushed himself up again, the Potter boy spoke again, very gently now. "Kreacher, I am going to ask you to do something… Kreacher, I want you – _please_ – to go and find Mundungus Fletcher. We need to find out where the locket – _Master Regulus' _locket is. It's really important. We want to finish the work Master Regulus started… We want to – erm – ensure that he didn't die in vain."

Kreacher must be mistaken, and he gaped at the boy. "Find – Mundungus Fletcher?"

"And bring him here, to Grimmauld Place. Do you think you could do that for us?"

Kreacher didn't dare trusting his old ears, hope kindling in his heart. Finish Master Regulus' work – honour his sacrifice – get the wretched thief and bring him to justice – it was just too good to be true! He got up, insecurely, both because his head was thumping, and because he was scared that he misunderstood – the new master could impossibly be so kind to permit poor Kreacher to set things right again – he was in league with the wretched old master, master Sirius…

"Kreacher, I'd – uh – like you to have this," the boy said, and gave Kreacher the gold locket – Master Regulus' locket, the real one, the one he had left in the cursed cave. He couldn't but gape at it, in perfect incredulity. This _couldn't_ be the _real_ one – how had the Potter boy – but if he truly had – then it must be true – and if it was true – then Kreacher would finally get the chance… "This belonged to Regulus," the Potter boy went on, confirming Kreacher's most secret wish, and most pressing urging. "And I'm sure he'd want you to have it, as a token of gratitude for what you –"

Kreacher had stared at the precious object in his old, withered hand, feeling as if he was dreaming. Of course, this couldn't but be a dream – soon, he'd wake up, back in the dreadful school, void of hope, void of a family, void of his home, but for now, he dared to indulge himself and believe that the dream was real. It took him a few seconds to grasp that the new master had actually given the treasure _to Kreacher_ – as his own – Master Regulus' own locket! _As a token of gratitude_… His head was spinning with joy and excitement… It _couldn't _be true – soon, he'd wake up, and he'd feel his misery and solitude all the keener because he had allowed himself to hope – he'd pay for this moment of happiness, and bitterly so…

"Overkill, mate."


	104. The Sheep In Wolf's Clothing

Remus thinks he sees reason after all

* * *

**- 3.54. -**

The Sheep In Wolf's Clothing

* * *

_Made the fatal mistake,_

_Like I did once before,_

_A tendency just to take,_

_Till the purpose turned sour,_

_Strain, take the strain, these days we love._

_Yeah, the only mistake was that you ran away,_

_Avenues lined with trees, strangled words for the day,_

_Yeah, the only mistake, like I made once before,_

_Yeah, the only mistake, could have made it before._

_And the only mistake, led to rumours unfound,_

_Led to pressures unknown, different feelings and sounds,_

_Yeah, the only mistake, like I made once before,_

_Yeah, the only mistake, could have made it before._

_JOY DIVISION_

_

* * *

_

This morning he woke up, and the first thing he saw was her face. Her beautiful, peaceful face – so soundly asleep as if nothing was wrong, as if death wasn't waiting for her around the next corner. He contemplated her face and his gaze glided down her young, tight body under the covers, settling on her stomach. Her stomach is still as fit and flat as ever, but he knows it won't remain like this for long. Inside of her, a potential monster is growing – the next Fenrir Greyback, perhaps. Or another angelic girl like its mother. No one knows for sure. Being her optimistic self, she believes that the child will be fine. Remus on the other hand isn't so sure of that. Why weren't they more careful. He hates himself for being so careless. If this child is condemned, he is the one to blame.

He _knows_ when the little fellow – somehow, he's staunchly convinced it'll be a boy – he knows when he was made. It was the only time they've ever been negligent to contraception, and _bam!_ It was enough. But that morning, they were both just so bloody exhausted – grieved and distraught by Dumbledore's death, shocked by Severus' betrayal after all the faith that the old man invested in him, but most of all, enthralled to be so close again, after all this time. It seemed as if nothing had changed, and everything, all at the same time. To hold her again – Remus can still recall the peculiar feeling… It always felt special to hold her, but never more than on that morning. His precious, precious girl, snuggling up to him in a way that made him think neither of them were whole if they weren't clinging to each other, like two pieces of a jigsaw. Her warmth, her tenderness – he actually cried, so overwhelmed he was to have her back. It was irresponsible to forget about everything else, there can be no excuses. But this is his explanation, he's got no better to offer.

He knows how her parents think about this, they needn't speak it out aloud. Ted and Andromeda are very kind people, they really are. And they love their daughter to bits – they've gone through a lot to _have_ these children in the first place. Before becoming a famous artist, Ted Tonks had to take on loads of lowly-paid jobs, both in the magical and the Muggle world, only to get the family through. They went through a long hard slog to raise their two kids, and one of them has turned out to be the world's loveliest creature. Remus hasn't yet met her sibling Lenny, who lives in Spain, so he's got to reserve his judgement (on him) for the time being. However – he recognises a lot of himself in that story.

Of course, Ted Tonks is no werewolf. But in the eyes of his in-laws, he might just as well have been one. The long times of hardships and unemployment. The practical impossibility to earn enough to feed his children. The gracious woman enduring all that, only to be together with him, and all this during wartime, when being connected to him might have resulted in her death. But there are material differences, and the differences are what really count in this respect! Because Remus _is_ a werewolf! _His_ child is not unlikely to become one as well! And that isn't even the worst about it, can you believe it?

They managed just so to escape when the Death Eaters raided Bill's and Fleur's wedding. After quite an odyssey to make sure they hadn't been followed, they arrived at the Tonks' house at last, only to find the place in shambles. Death Eaters had already been there, damaging the house and torturing the inhabitants. "They're looking for Harry Potter," Ted Tonks said, but he and his wife kept on exchanging strange glances, and Remus knows why. They weren't just searching for Harry, were they? They were searching for him and Tonks as well, he knows it, he can tell by his in-laws' surreptitious glances.

The protections are gone – all of them. Whatever safety the Ministry could procure, now it's over, as they had to find out twice yesterday in the most brutal way. The Ministry has fallen, and immediately, the Death Eaters invaded the protected zones – first they came to The Burrow, two dozens of them. And roughly at the same time, they also overran the house of Ted and Andromeda Tonks, together with the houses of how many others, who are said to be connected to Harry in some way or other. Maybe these two got off lightly – well, comparatively lightly, anyway – because Ted Tonks' fame impressed even the Death Eaters. Or maybe because one of the attacking Death Eaters was Mrs Tonks' sister. Or maybe even their bloodlust was satisfied after the blood bath in the Ministry, who can say…

Didn't keep them from torturing the poor people, to find out if either of them knows anything about Harry's whereabouts. Which is a ridiculous assumption in itself. They've met the boy for approximately ten minutes once. But Remus knows that Harry was a mere pretext for the torture. He knows what _really_ infuriated Narcissa Malfoy so much. It's him. His fault. For marrying Nymphadora. And thank god they didn't know yet that she's pregnant, or nothing would have stopped Mrs Malfoy from avenging the family honour by killing her renegade relations straightaway.

The sun slowly penetrates the curtains and illuminates the shabby Muggle hotel room. It's an unlikely place to be discovered – for the time being – and they've put a whole lot of protective spells on it just to make sure. But it won't be safe forever, and in any case, they cannot stay here. Nymphadora wants to do something – they've had quite a fight about this before finally falling asleep, and he knows that they'll continue to argue once she's woken up again. She's an Auror, and 'didn't join the Phoenix Order to give up like that' – that's her position. He, on the other hand, is freaked out by the idea that his wife – it's still inconceivable for him to call her that – that his _wife_ wants to fight against the Death Eaters, and in her state! He won't have it, and tried to use all his eminence to prohibit her – but she merely laughed.

He was so hurt by her laughter – he locked himself up in the bathroom and smashed a mirror in his helpless anger. When he finally returned, she was sleeping, and tucking her up in sudden tenderness, he sneaked out of the hotel room and took a walk. This is all wrong. _Everything_ about it is _wrong_. They wouldn't have had much of a chance together under the best conditions. But now it's even worse still… How could he let this happen? How could he – it's taken him all his will-power to break up with her then. How could he be so weak to make that break-up undone? It was for the best. She was safe. Well, _safer_. His next – and worst! – mistake was to forget about the contraceptive spell. He gets nauseated whenever he thinks of _that_ pending disaster. And why the hell he allowed Nymphadora to drag him to the proverbial altar is still beyond him.

Naturally, the ceremony was no big thing. Nothing like Bill Weasley's wedding yesterday. They just went to the Ministry of Magic; Nymphadora used a couple of her connections to quicken the usual procedures – a cross-breed marriage is a big fuss – they sent for Kingsley Shacklebolt and Fleur Delacour, as she was still called then, to bear witness, and the whole thing was over in fifteen minutes. As a matter of fact, it wasn't much more than half a dozen signatures. He glances at his left hand and smirks wryly. Nymphadora even purchased the wedding rings. Is a marriage really valid when the bride bought the rings herself?

How could he be so irresponsible? It all boils down to this one question, in each and every regard. How could he be so foolish to get this whole thing started! How could he be so prepossessed to go on with it – how he set all of Sirius' kindly-meant advise to nought! How he was weak and gave in to her urging and his own heartache. Then the whole pregnancy business. The wedding. God, how he loathes himself for all this.

Despite their fight, they've cuddled up together in their sleep, and it takes him some effort to disentangle their limbs without waking her, and he gets up. He needs to fix this. And he will. He shuts himself up in the bathroom again, like last night, takes a swift, cold shower and gets dressed. Then he takes out his wand and sends a Patronus message to Mr and Mrs Tonks, telling them that they're supposed to fetch their daughter at noon, and take her home with them. He'll have sorted this all out until then.

He sneaks back into the room, finding Nymphadora is still asleep, and very quietly, he snatches her wand from the bedside table beside her and pockets it. At the place where the wand was, he puts his wedding ring instead. And now he can only wait. To pass the time, and steel his determination, he opens the minibar and opens the first bottle he sees. It's cheap, substandard Scotch, and he shudders when swallowing it with one big gulp.

She sleeps in late, and concerned that she won't wake up early enough – in less than two hours, her parents will turn up here – he begins to loudly start packing. It's not as if they had a lot to pack in the first place, but that doesn't stop him from banging the wardrobe doors until she begins to stir.

"You need to get up," he says as coolly as he can, and when she does, still sleepy, he averts his eyes. He can't bear to see her in her underwear.

She disappears in the bathroom for a while, and returns halfway dressed, at least. "Where to from here? I think my flat should still be safe for the time be-"

"Your flat isn't safe, even if I'm not there. You'll go to your parents' place."

She shoots him a bemused look. "_I_ will go? If anything, _we_ will go, and even then – after yesterday, I don't think my parents' house is safer than –"

"You'll simply cast the same protection spells like you did on your own apartment. The Death Eaters were there already. I don't think they'll bother to return so soon. And if they do, they won't find anything to disapprove of."

"Oh, no. You don't seriously mean to continue this rubbish," she groans and rubs her temples.

He ignores the remark and says bluntly, "I want a divorce."

Her jaw drops to her chest and she goggles at him for a second. "What? Oh, come on, Remus, _all_ couples have a fight now and then, if _that_ was a ground for divorce, my parents wouldn't have come through their wedding night, for goodness' sake!"

"You mistake me. I want a divorce, but not because of that fight."

"Remus, I've had it, okay? I'm really not in the mood for just another of these fruitless debates. Not after yesterday. I want you, I want this marriage, I want our kid, I want it all, and now bloody stop being so –"

"But _I_ don't want it," he interrupts her and tries to look as cold and scornful as he possibly can. "I don't want you, nor the child, nor this marriage. You bullied me into all this, and I'm not having it anymore."

She stares at him for a few seconds before her gaze wanders over to the little Scotch bottle. "You've been drinking –"

"Yes, but only to pass the time until you'd finally wake up. My resolution was fixed long before that."

"Give me one, too. I need a drink to swallow _this_ piece of codswallop!"

"You won't drink a drop of alcohol, are you out of your head or what!" he cries. "In your condition –"

She puts on a triumphant smile. "So you _do_ care about the child."

Okay. Remus zero, Nymphadora one. But this fight isn't over yet, and this time he won't surrender. _Because_ he cares for the child. And her, if he's honest – but he mustn't think about this now, or she'll use his weakness against him.

"So far, you still _are_ my wife, and you will do as I say," he snarls, and again, she laughs loudly. The laughter helps him to look as unkind as he possibly can. "Shut up and stop acting so childish."

"Me! Childish! Take a look into the mirror, sweetheart, if you want to see the childish one between us. Besides – this is the twentieth century, in case you haven't noticed. Only because I'm your wife it doesn't mean I'll obey you."

"Well, neither of us needs to worry about this much longer. Because if you want it or not, this marriage is _over_. I put your ring back –"

She turns her head and follows his gaze. Her eyes widen when spotting the ring, then she swivels around and cries, "Where is my wand?"

He pats his pocket. "I'll return that to you as well, once we've dealt with this little hiccup."

"Little hic-" She bites her lip, but her expression changes back to scornful triumph. "You're afraid of me, hm? Afraid that your little wife might curse you? I take it you mean to file divorce on the grounds of claiming conjugal violence, or something?"

"My dearest, you misjudge the situation. I'm a werewolf. You're a witch. The new rule will annul this marriage in no time without any further ado. I dare say neither of us will have to give as much as a signature, let alone reasons. I merely meant to give you mine."

"You are starking bonkers, Remus!"

"I was when agreeing to marry you, indeed. The second worst mistake of my entire life." Her eyes are suddenly glistening, and just as suddenly, he's scared that she'll start to cry. He doesn't stand a chance to pull this through if she starts crying now. To trade the hurt for fury, he adds coolly, "The worst mistake, of course, was making the little monster."

"SHUT UP!"

"For once act like the grown-up you always want to be," he goes on without mercy. "Face it, Nymphadora – you are breeding a monster. If I were you, I'd get rid of it before it's too late."

"_SHUT UP!_"

"He'll hate you anyway, don't forget that."

"Like his father, then?" She glares at him, challenging, and he returns that look likewise.

"Well, _if_ I'm his father –"

"_If?_" she scoffs.

"It's pretty unlikely that I should be the father, after all. Come on, what do you take me for. We forgot about contraception exactly once – do the maths, honey. I did it. God knows who got you knocked up, and then you simply went without the necessary spells to make me believe t'was me."

She's out of her armchair with one leap, and with four long strides, she's rushed over to where he's standing and slaps him with all her might. He doesn't ward her off, but merely sneers. "Conjugal violence, eh?"

She's shaking with fury, her right hand still raised and ready to strike, and he can see how she forces herself to lower her arm again. "I _never_ –"

He cuts her short, "Spare your breath for I don't care. If it's mine, I don't want the little monster. If it isn't mine, I don't want the little bastard either."

She doesn't slap him this time but deals him a blow right to the chin, and he teeters backwards with the force of the punch. He rubs his jaws. "Pull yourself together, daisy. You tricked me into submission once. You won't beat me back into it."

"Submission," she screeches. "Now have you finally lost the last bits of sanity, you –"

He whips out his wand and immobilises her, catching her by her arm before she falls, and more roughly than necessary, drags her back to the bed. She glares at him and spats, "Oh, how _manly_, Remus! This is, I can't deny it, pretty low, even for you!"

"How lucky you won't have to endure me any longer, then."

After this, they're both silent. She continues to glare at him in cold fury, and after returning the hostile staring for a while, he finally can't take it any more and draws his gaze away and looks out of the window instead. Time ticks away much too slowly; it's not yet eleven, and he's got to make sure. He doesn't dare to leave before her parents haven't turned up, and also, he needs to return her wand to her. He can't leave her without a wand, in times like these. But if he gives it back to her _now_ –

On a second thought… She can't move, this way or that. He takes out her wand and puts it on the little desk, before turning around to her one last time. "So this is it, I guess. No more need to hang around here. Good bye, Nymphadora. I don't hope we'll meet again."

"You leave me here _like this?_"

He shrugs, not looking back again on his way to the door. "I'll send someone to get you, don't worry."

Once outside in the empty, dimly lit hallway, he staggers and glides down to the floor. He can't breathe, his pulse is hammering so rapidly, he feels like getting a heart attack, and his head slumps to his knees. Oh god. What has he done! Not today – this was the only way – the more she hates him, the better… But that he ever put her into a position where all this was even necessary… He'll never forgive himself for _that_.

But Mr and Mrs Tonks mustn't see him like this, so he scrambles to his feet again, and forcing himself to breathe calmly, stalks to the elevator, goes down to the – no, one can impossibly call it a lobby – and out to the street, right into a dazzlingly bright Manchester day. He feels too numb to perceive the beautiful weather, the cheerful people around, and clings to one thought alone – find Harry. He must find Harry. The poor boy. He'll need all the help he can get, and _his_ situation can _not_ be worsened by Remus' presence. But where can the boy be?

His first notion concerns The Burrow. Could Harry have returned there…? Unlikely… But Molly and Arthur, or Ronald, might still know where he would go to hide himself. He tries to focus only on this, and has already entered a telephone booth and taken out his wand when the suspicion hits him that the Death Eaters might still be lingering on the premises, nurturing the same idea. Under the present circumstances, he must not endanger poor Molly and Arthur by having them seen with a werewolf! It doesn't take much shrewdness to circumnavigate _this_ problem, though. Nymphadora might be a Metamorphmagus – oh god, he _mustn't_ think of her! – but he, werewolf or not, is a wizard, too! Copying some of the passing Muggles outside, he jinxes his clothes to look more Muggle-like, next he bleaches his hair blond and makes it longer, and a couple of spells let his features alter sufficiently, too. He conjures a bouquet of tulips, and a card – _CONGRATULATIONS – Simon and Paula_ – and only then he Apparates to the far end of Ottery St Catchpole and walks all the way to The Burrow.

From the distance, the house seems unchanged, but he doesn't trust appearances. Neither can he spot any Death Eaters lurking around, but not to blow his cover, he doesn't dare to look around too conspicuously. His cover is good, isn't it? Yes, it is! Something to be proud of! Unlike all the rest he's done in the last – _no_. He must _not_ think of it!

Predictably, Molly and Arthur are more than just slightly dishevelled. After being 'interrogated' by Bellatrix Lestrange and her lot, it's surprising how well they're holding up. Well – comparatively. Arthur is all right – Molly is a weeping mess. Seems like Ronald has accompanied his best friend on the flight – of course he has. Sirius wouldn't have left James either. The boys have plotted their escape quite carefully, and Remus is proud to hear about their decoy plan. With his father's help, Ron has enchanted the ghoul living in the attic – it helped driving the Death Eaters out after they heard that a family member suffers from the Spattergroit. That's no pretty sight, and even if Azkaban diminished Madam Lestrange's beauty, she clearly wasn't keen on catching it either.

However – Arthur has taken some risks and sent out a number of Patronus messages, and one of them was actually delivered successfully. Harry, Ron and Hermione are in the former Headquarters. Remus swallows, thinking of Severus Snape – but they have put a number of spells on the house, so hopefully these keep him out, right? He tells the Weasleys that he'll look after the kids, and before Molly can ask about Nymphadora, he already leaves again. He's supposed to have delivered some flowers; he can't afford to stay too long, right?

Leaving the premises, he finally sees them. And not just a few. These jerks don't even bother for much of a disguise. There are at least three Death Eaters monitoring The Burrow, and he manages to flee just so. Damn it! Now they'll harass Arthur and Molly all the worse! He Apparates to Grimmauld Place, only to find that the Death Eaters are there, too. He recognises Thornton Mortlake before instantly Disapparating in the middle of the street again – sod the Secrecy Statutes! The Muggles will notice the war surrounding them soon enough!

It takes him days until figuring out at last what he can do. Repeatedly, he returns to Grimmauld Place, using many covers, and thus finds out that Severus obviously hasn't figured out the weak link yet. Grimly satisfied, he grasps that Dumbledore was less unguarded than they believed – or why did he tell Kingsley about the problem with the Fidelius Charm, but not his oh-so-trusted Snape? Ha! However – he needs to distract the guards, at least for a minute, and his patience pays off. Disguised by a heap of Muggle garbage bags, he manages to aim a spell at a straying cat, transforming it into a Kneazle and sending it towards the Death Eaters, savagely hissing and bristling its fur.

It's now or never, and squeezing his eyes shut, Remus Disapparates out of his hideaway. He manages to Apparate straight onto the topmost step before the front door, and suddenly not trusting the impression that Severus hasn't yet given away the location to his buddies, quickly undoes the magic that locks the door, and enters. Next he encounters the security spell set up to keep Severus out, dismisses it and –

"Don't move!"

This is Harry's voice, Remus realises happily, but in the next second, the portrait of Sirius' mum throws one of her usual tantrums. Through the settling dust, he recognises Harry, who's joined by his two friends, and smiling, Remus raises his arms. "Hold your fire. It's me, Remus!"

"Oh, thank goodness," Hermione's feeble voice can be heard, and she and Ron lower their wands, but Harry does not.

"Show yourself!"

He obeys, identifies himself until even Harry is satisfied. For the first time in days – or weeks, even – Remus allows himself to feel good. Spluttering, he fills the kids in on the latest news, while they all settle in the kitchen. Which, perhaps, isn't the best of choices, although Remus suggested it himself. The kitchen reminds him of Sirius, with whom he's spent quite a few evenings down here. In this room, he also met Nymphadora for the first time… To shake off that memory, he asks ostentatiously cheerful, "So you came straight here after the wedding?"

"No, only after we ran into a couple of Death Eaters in a café in Tottenham Court Road."

Remus spills half of the butterbeer he's just opened. "What?"

It seems impossible, but it clearly isn't, and after some more explanations, they rack their brains how the Death Eaters might have found them so quickly. Tottenham Court Road is a _very_ remote place, for wizarding standards… He is interrupted in his musings though by Harry, who wants to know what happened in The Burrow and elsewhere, and leaving out some of the more gruesome details, Remus tells them that, too.

"And are they bothering to give an excuse for torturing Harry's whereabouts out of people?" Hermione asks shrilly. Remus bites his lip, but decides it's for the best, and gives Harry the latest issue of the Daily Prophet. The boy merely glances at the headline before pushing the paper back again.

"I'm sorry, Harry –"

"So the Death Eaters have taken over the Daily Prophet, too? – But… Surely people realise what's going on?"

He sighs. "The coup has been smooth and virtually silent. The official version of Scrimgeour's murder is that he resigned. He has been replaced by Pius Thicknesse, who is under the Imperius Curse."

"Why didn't Voldemort declare himself Minister for Magic?"

Remus has to laugh with that amiable stroke of naïveté. "He doesn't need to, Ron. Effectively, he _is_ the Minister, but why should he sit behind a desk at the Ministry? His puppet, Thicknesse, is taking care of everyday business, leaving Voldemort free to extend his power beyond the Ministry. Naturally, many people have deduced what has happened – there has been such a dramatic change in Ministry policy in the last few days…"

He gives them some more explanations, glad to have something to dwell on, and they keep on asking questions. It's good he's come here, he decides. Yes, it was certainly the right thing to do. James and Lily wouldn't have wanted it any other way. Neither would Dumbledore have. Harry needs him now, he needs all the help that even a werewolf can give him.

At last, he addresses this point, "I'll understand if you can't confirm this, Harry, but the Order is under the impression that Dumbledore left you a mission…"

"He did. And Ron and Hermione are in on it and they're coming with me."

"Can you confide in me what the mission is?"

Harry hesitates for a moment, but shakes his head then. "I can't, Remus, I'm sorry. If Dumbledore didn't tell you, I don't think I can."

Remus can't help himself – he twists his face. "I thought you'd say that… But I might still be of some use to you. You know what I am! And what I can do. – I could come with you to provide protection – there would be no need to tell me exactly what you were up to," he says almost imploringly.

Harry looks not uninterested, and Remus' heart swells with growing hope, but the other two look less enthusiastic. "But what about Tonks?" Hermione asks.

Demonstratively casual, he replies, "What about her?"

The girl doesn't look like she's easily fooled. "Well – you're married. How does _she_ feel about you going away with us?"

"Tonks will be perfectly safe. She'll be at her parents' house."

He hopes that this hasn't sounded too testy – he really doesn't feel like discussing this, least with a bunch of kids, who are too young to understand the situation. Not surprisingly, Hermione objects, "Remus – is everything all right – you know – between you and –"

He interrupts her, "Everything is _fine_, thank you!" The poor girl blushes, and feeling compelled to explain some more, he adds, "Tonks is going to have a baby."

The kids are _delighted_ with this revelation, and Remus is instantly sorry he ever mentioned it. Nymphadora bearing his child is no cause for jubilation, it really, really isn't, and with the mere mention, the by now familiar nausea returns with a vengeance.

"So," he asks and hopes he sounds casual, "do you accept my offer? Will three become four?" He pushes away the memory of the last set of four – who never truly were four either. It was always just two, wasn't it, James and Sirius, with the addition of a traitor and a freak. He quickly goes on, "I cannot believe that Dumbledore would have disapproved! He appointed me your Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, after all! – And I must tell you that I believe that we are facing magic many of us have never encountered or imagined."

He prays that the last sentence spins their vote in his favour, but judging their faces, it doesn't. Harry frowns. "Just – just to be clear – you want to leave Tonks at her parents' house and come away with us?"

Oh, why does he keep on bringing that up! It's for the _best_! Why won't anyone understand that it's for the _best_ of everyone involved, _most_ of all Nymphadora! "She'll be perfectly safe there," he gnarls coolly, straining to sound unconcerned. "They'll look after her. – Harry, I'm sure James would have wanted me to stick with you!"

The resemblance between father and son has never been more striking than in this moment. The boy's features are calm, but there is something edgy in his gaze. "Well, _I'm_ not. _I'm_ pretty sure my father would have wanted to know why you aren't sticking with your own kid, actually!"

Remus' own kid! The child he's condemned by making it in the first place! That child has one tiny chance, only one – and to be given that chance, his father must stay away from him as far as possible! "You don't understand," he says through gritted teeth.

"Explain, then!"

Harry's expression is challenging, and Remus has to rally himself to speak with some self-control. "I… I made a grave mistake in marrying Tonks. I did it against my better judgement and –" He swallows; suddenly he feels like choking, but the kids must not see. They must accept his help and let him come with them. They must not think… "I have regretted it ever since."

But the speech that has worked so well with Nymphadora has quite the opposite effect on Harry. The boy's gaze is icy. "I see… So you're just going to dump her and the kid, and run off with us?"

The last scratches of self-control he's been clinging to so firmly, are wiped away with that remark. He jumps up and shouts at Harry, livid, trembling with all the pent-up feelings he's so carefully suppressed in the last days – "Don't you understand what I've done to my wife and my unborn child! I should never have married her! I've made her an outcast! _You_ have only ever seen me amongst the Order, or under Dumbledore's protection at Hogwarts! You don't know how most of the wizarding world sees creatures like me! When they know of my affliction, they can barely _talk_ to me! Don't you see what I've done? Even her own family is disgusted by our marriage – what parents want their daughter to marry a werewolf? And the child – _the child_ –"

To think of the child takes his breath away. The poor little tyke – the mere thought of _his_ fate suffocates him. He won't need a father disgracing him even more than he'll be anyway!

"My kind don't usually breed! It will be like _me_, I'm convinced of it! How can I forgive myself? When I knowingly risked passing on my condition to an innocent child?" Nymphadora's words cross his mind, and the tiniest bit calmer, he goes on, "And if – by some miracle! – it's not like me, then it will be better off, a hundred times so, without a father of whom it must always be ashamed!"

Hermione's eyes glisten, and her hazel eyes, full of tears, remind him so much of Nymphadora that it hurts him physically. "Remus, don't say that! How could any child be ashamed of you?"

"Oh, I don't know, Hermione! _I'd_ be pretty much ashamed of him!" Harry has jumped up, too, and glares over contemptuously. "If the new regime thinks Muggle-borns are bad, what will they do to a half-werewolf whose father's in the Order? My father died trying to protect my mother and me – and you reckon he'd tell you to abandon _your_ kid to go on an adventure with us?"

"How – how _dare_ you! This is not about a desire for – for danger, or personal glory – how dare you suggest such a –"

Harry just sneers. "I think you're feeling a bit of a daredevil. You fancy stepping into Sirius' shoes…"

"Harry, _no_!"

But the boy doesn't listen to her, and goes on in the same disdainful manner, "I'd never have believed this. The man who taught me to fight Dementors – a coward."

He can't say what happens next – when regaining the smallest bit of composure, he realises that he's cursed Harry, and is halfway out of the house again. He hears Hermione crying after him, but doesn't slow down. He doesn't even bother for the Death Eaters still stationed in front of the house. From the corner of his eyes, he spots a dark shadow moving towards him, and his wand still gripped so tightly that his knuckles ache, he brandishes it, and hears a muffled yelp in return.

"That's for torturing her mother, you bastards," he whispers in the same second when he Disapparates in the middle of the street.


	105. The Five Phases of Misery

Remus tries to drink himself into oblivion

* * *

**- 3.55. -**

The Five Phases Of Misery

* * *

_Is it getting better, or do you feel the same? Will it make it easier on you now you got someone to blame? You say One love, One life. It's one love, we get to share it. It leaves you, baby, if you don't care for it. Did I disappoint you? Or leave a bad taste in your mouth? You act like you never had love – and you want me to go without. Have you come here for forgiveness? Have you come to raise the dead? Have you come here to play Jesus to the lepers in your head? Did I ask too much? More than a lot? You gave me nothing, now that's all I got. We're one, but we're not the same. We hurt each other, then we do it again. You say love is a temple, love is the higher law. Love is a temple, love the higher law. You ask me to enter, but then you make me crawl, and I can't be holding on to what you got when all you got is hurt. One love. One blood. One life. You got to do what you should. One life, with each other. We get to carry each other. Carry each other. One._

_U2_

_

* * *

_

She reaches out and touches his face – slowly, frightened – finding his skin cold as if he's dead. There's no smile on his otherwise so kind features, only reproaches and resentfulness. Why has he come here? Why must he torment her so much? She opens her mouth to ask him exactly that, but her voice is gone. Why's he staring like that?

"Congratulations," a woman who looks strangely like Madam Pomfrey, and is splattered with blood, says brightly and pushes a bundle into Tonks' hands. "You've given birth to the next Fenrir Greyback. Your son will make it far, I'm sure."

"Congratulations indeed," Remus echoes her words and sneers. "He'll produce loads of other poor sobs just like me."

"But he's your son!"

"I wish he wasn't!"

She starts to cry, pressing the tiny bundle against her chest, and looking at her baby for the first time. The first thing she sees are his fangs indeed – she's never seen a baby with so many – such _huge_ teeth – and she's shocked for a split second. She's staring at a little puppy… But the puppy looks so cute – so peaceful – her heart flows over with sudden motherly affection, and she cries even harder.

"There, there," Remus whispers, and his voice is suddenly as gentle as it used to be. He steps closer and wraps her – and their little puppy – in his arms. "Don't cry, Nymphadora."

"I can't do this on my own," she sobs, clinging to him.

"But we can do it together."

She's overwhelmed with happiness to hear him say that, to have him back, their baby is wriggling in her arms, and all of a sudden, her despondency is replaced by exquisite felicity – so much of it that she's trembling, nay, _shaking_ with it.

"Darling!"

"Together," she murmurs happily.

"Dora? Dora, wake up! What is it, pumpkin?"

She opens her eyes again and is startled. Remus is gone – instead her father looks down on her with a concerned expression – and the bundle in her arms isn't her little baby, but a simple cushion. "Dad…?"

"What's wrong, sweetheart? You've been sobbing, so I – I thought I better…"

"I… I guess I was dreaming…" The disappointment with that realisation hits her with full force, and the tears return instantly. Her dad settles next to her on the edge of the couch and hugs her.

"Oh, darling, I'm so sorry," he says. "Shhh… It'll be all right, I'm sure…"

"No, it won't! I'm all alone, and the baby, and the war, and Remus is out there somewhere, and what if he encounters one of the others, and –"

"Shhh, Dora. Stop that. You're not _alone_. Your Mum and I –"

"Mum! _Mum!_ She drove him away in the first place!"

"Now, sweetheart, that's not fair –"

"No, it bloody wasn't! _She_ put it to his head that he wasn't god enough for me! She –"

"She only had your best at heart, Nymphadora, you _know_ that. And perhaps it's even for the better, now –"

She struggles with him and breaks away, getting to her feet. "Not you, too, Dad! For the better, for the better! D'oh! He made me _happy_! And I know he used to be happy with _me_ as well, before – before… He's a good man!"

"Good enough to dump you after he's knocked you up?"

She hurls the cushion to which she's still clinging, at him, storms out and locks herself in her old room. 'Where is he?' she wonders, trying hard to be optimistic, but not very successfully so. She knows that she ought to be more angry, less frightened – after all _he_ abandoned _her_, and their child, in the most shameful way. But she knows him too well to think ill of him. She knows he hasn't meant half the things he said… And the others don't originate in malice, or indifference, but his concern for her, and the baby. Where may he be now? What's he doing?

Yes, where _is_ Remus? What _is_ he doing, after all? Right now, he couldn't say so much himself, at least not very concisely so. For two entire days and nights, he's allowed himself to get plastered in a rather dubious Muggle pub – one that's open twenty-four-seven. There's a certain irony about this, even – the pub is only some hundred yards away from the house of Andromeda and Ted Tonks. Or maybe that's no irony, but just plainly pathetic. Remus has really lost track of how to assess these things, and it's not just the constant replenishment of alcohol that makes him so confused and disorientated.

At first, he was overwhelmed by fury – that was his schnapps phase. It lasted for roughly eight hours. Harry's words – how dare he – outrageous – only meant to be of use – Harry's got no business to meddle with Remus' marital problems! In each and every statement, he is supported by the friendly fat barman, who doesn't seem to listen very attentively, but all the more sympathetically. Then there's a shift changeover, a cheerful middle-aged woman behind the counter nurses him with plenty of coffee – the phase of reason. He explains to her that he's full of the best intentions, that he's only meant to help, that it is for the best – Dora's and the little tyke's best –

"You've got a kid?"

"Not yet. My wife – she's pregnant."

"And you – you left her?"

"She's much better off without me!"

"Is she? Why?"

"Once a month, I'm turning into a monster!"

She laughs. "So am I, buddy, ask my husband."

"You don't understand! Why does _no one_ understand?"

The woman scrutinises him, her head tilted. "You beat her?"

"No!"

"You do drugs?"

"_No!_"

"So you've cheated on her?"

"I never!"

"You got to explain that to me, buddy – _why_ did you leave your _knocked-up_ wife after twenty-four days of marriage? That's not exactly a commitment record!"

"Because I'm _bad_ for her! Didn't you listen? I'll ruin her whole life! And the kid's! I might just as well have ruined it already!"

She pours him more coffee and another Scotch. "No offence, buddy – but you're a poor, deluded, pretty pathetic, silly bastard, _that's_ what you are!"

"_Exactly!_" And he downs the Scotch.

He needs a break after this, forget about the coffee. There are a few rooms to rent upstairs, and with the support of the bar lady and another customer, he struggles up there and falls into a death-like sleep. He wakes up a few hours later, takes a shower and goes down again, to continue what he's started so charmingly last night. By now, a skinny guy with a dozen earrings and a decidedly eccentric hairdo is behind the counter, and listens patiently to phase three – determination, followed by phase four – nostalgia.

"She's a picture of loveliness," Remus blabs and clings to his seventh glass of beer since getting up. "And so kind. And sweet. And generous. Never met a girl like her in my entire life."

"Hmm," the barman hums and smiles.

"I never thought I could feel this way for anyone."

"Sure."

"She's made me complete. And I didn't even know I wasn't, before meeting her."

"Course." The barman grins and whips out a wallet, presenting Remus a photo of an equally skinny girl with even more earrings, some of them in her nose and eyebrows – and bright bubblegum pink hair, styled like a Cherokee. "That's my girl, mate, and I feel _just _thesame about _her_!"

The colour of that girl's hair reminds him so much of Nymphadora, it feels as if the barman had rammed a knife into his chest. He orders a double whiskey to counteract the pain, but instead of alleviating it, it makes it only worse – and heralds round five. Self-pity. This phase lasts quite long, and is interrupted by another short rest in the room upstairs. When he descends to the barroom again, his old friend, the middle-aged lady is back, and gives him a commiserating look.

"Still here, then?"

"A scotch, please –"

"No way, buddy. I'll tell you what you'll do now. You take a shower, get some decent outfit, and instead of squandering your money on booze, you go to town and buy the girl a nice ring. A _really_ nice ring. And then, you sodding crawl back to her on your knees, man! Jesus!"

"But –"

"No _but_, buddy. I've seen long rows of heartbroken blokes in my time here, mark my words. But none was so bloody stupid like you – _you_ left _her_, and now you sit here and mope. Go home, damn it! Beg her forgiveness – if she's only half as kind as you claim, she'll take you back when she sees how utterly miserable you're without her. And then you look after her and the lil'one like you're supposed to, ruddy hell. Got me?"

"Yes, Ma'am," he mutters insecurely.

"Good! And now get out of here!"

He doesn't know why he listens to that woman – a total stranger, a stranger who hasn't got the foggiest clue what's going on in the wizarding world, or that the customer she's so amiably cared for, can in fact turn into a murderous monster. Still, he obeys her and does exactly as she's said. He takes a shower, he brushes his teeth, then he pays the bill, goes out and buys himself a clean jacket, new trousers and a shirt and puts them on straight away, and then he spends the next three hours on the hunt, to find a 'nice ring' for Nymphadora. _He_ should have been the one to buy _her_ a ring – he's conservative in these things – and that's what he will do. But all the specimen he looks at are either trite, or tasteless, or so expensive that he mustn't even contemplate them. Not that Nymphadora wasn't worth the most wonderful, precious ring of all – but they have to think of the little fellow, and keep the little money they have together.

Curiously, in a shop where he least expected it – the sort of shop that equips people like the earring-obsessed barman – he spots a wonderful ring in the window. For fifty pounds – he converts the price into galleons and thinks it's reasonable. He takes a closer look and knows – this is _The_ ring. Just like he knew that Nymphadora was _The_ most wonderful girl when he met her, then. It's silver, and there's a kind of eight on it, one of these that's lying on the side. The mathematical sign for infinity, he remembers it from his Arithmancy classes. In the two loops, there are two gems – a black, and an iridescent white one. He needn't think twice, and purchases it at once, with his last Muggle money.

Now all this was the easy part. Now comes the impossible one. He marches past her street two times before mustering the courage to turn into the little alley, and feels like fainting, the closer he comes to the house. But Harry's reproach – _coward_ – has hit too close to home to ignore it. He'll do this. If she hates him now… Well, he deserves it – abandoning his pregnant wife, no matter how honourable his intentions – but at least he'll know that he's tried. Nobody can call him a coward in that case – and perhaps he can look into a mirror again at some point in his life…

When he hears the voice, he suddenly knows which crucial titbit he's forgotten in all his fluffy anticipation to make up with his wife again. "Boy," Greyback's raspy baritone growls behind him, and he can feel the man's hot breath in his neck. "I hadn't figured just _how_ bloody stupid you filthy traitor'd be!"

He's got no chance to get his wand. He hasn't even got a chance to turn around. The strike of a mighty paw against his ear swipes him off his feet in the next second, and then a spell blackens out everything around him.


	106. The Gift

In the werewolf den

* * *

**- 3.56. -**

The Gift

* * *

_Here is a song from the wrong side of town where I'm bound to the ground by the loneliest sound that pounds from within and is pinning me down. And I thank you for bringing me here, for showing me home, for singing these tears. Finally I've found that I belong here. Feels like home – I should have known from my first breath._

_DEPECHE MODE_

_

* * *

_

When he wakes up again, his head feels fit to burst. He tries to open his eyes, but can't, and it takes him a few seconds to get his bearings – or rather: to recall what's happened. Well, the raucous laughter around him surely helps. Goodness, Greyback has a mighty swinging blow, he's got to hand that to him. He tastes blood in his mouth, his eyes are puffy, and when he wants to stir and touch his face, he realises that they've tied him up, too.

"He's waking up, Ratchett!"

That's Scabior's voice, Remus recognises it without difficulties. And Ratchett's there, too, apparently. Well, in that case, Greyback, Shuck and Dhoo can't be far either. Damn it.

"Well, then move yeh lazy bottom and get the boss!"

"Why don't _you_ move your ugly arse?"

"Who's got the _ugly arse_ here?"

The two continue squabbling, while Remus' mind is racing. No doubt, Greyback will kill him for betraying them. He struggles with the rope, but it's too tightly wound around his wrists. And right now, even if he could get to his feet – his eyes are so swollen, he couldn't even _see_ where he'd flee to. And the guys have surely taken his wand away, too. There doesn't seem to be anything he could do… But he's _got_ to! He mustn't die like this! Not before he hasn't told Nymphadora that he loves her! That he cares deeply for their kid! That he never meant to let her down – that, ill-judged as his behaviour surely was, he merely did it because he's always wanted the best for her! If he dies now – here – like this – she'll never know. His son will grow up thinking his father had never loved him! He –

He stops dead, suddenly gripped by the most sickening notion. His son… He's practically screamed at his sweet girl that she must get rid of the child. Would she… She wouldn't listen to him in that respect, would she? Oh God! Oh _no_! He's got to – what – tell her, _somehow_, that she mustn't do _that_. What if she – or maybe she did already – her parents would probably give her the same piece of advice –

He groans in utter pain, attracting the attention of his two gaolers again. "Hey there, Lupin. Long time not seen, eh?" Scabior jeers. "Who would have thought you'd be _so_ easily lured into a trap. Seriously, man. Where are your canine senses?"

"He got himself domesticated, pal. We ought to get hem a leash 'n' collar, don't yeh think?"

Despite himself, he cannot help it but moan, "Don't kill me! Don't –"

"_We_ won't, _buddy_. That honour goes to –"

"Greyback," Remus sighs hopelessly.

"Ah, but no. You have been dignified, mate. Madam Lestrange has claimed you for herself."

"Don't think ol' Grey wouldn't _love_ to do you in himself. Hell, we all would! Rotten traitor!" Scabior giggles and kicks Remus' stomach, hard. He gasps with the pain, but it's nothing compared to the frenzy filling him up right there. The boy! His little boy! Nymphadora mustn't – but if she does – he'll be to blame, too!

At last, Greyback himself appears, and gives Remus a lengthy, hateful speech. He hardly listens, the only thing sticking out is the fact that the old werewolf confirms that Bellatrix Lestrange has decreed that she wants to murder him personally – and until they've found _her_, he's got a reprieve. Well, that's something, isn't it? As long as he's not dead – _yet_ – there's still hope. He'll get out here somehow – and get to his beloved – and beg her forgiveness – and –

"Just out of interest, maggot – that's been a pretty ring you've had in your pocket there. Was that your little wife's wedding ring?"

Remus gives no reply; he can only whimper with the mention.

"You really thought such a little trinket would make her tolerate you on the long run?"

Scabior sniggers maliciously. "I heard she's given you the boot – or ain't that right, then?"

Careful, he tells himself, and says in his most whiny voice, "I thought I ought to try, at least –"

"You'll _never_ get it, do you! The wizards – and witches, too, stupid! – will _never_ accept any of us. Jeepers!"

"They're not all like that –"

"They aren't? Well, _your_ hussy sure came to her senses before you were four weeks married, didn't she?"

_Careful!_ – "Yeah, but – but…"

The other werewolves erupt with savage laughter, and Greyback rasps, "And for that faithless little witch-bitch, you let yourself be caught and murdered, boy! You're just pathetic!"

"Can I… I mean… If Bellatrix Lestrange murders me anyway… Can't I get the ring back, at least? If that's what I'm killed for, I – I –"

There is a little argument about that point – apparently, Greyback let Dhoo have it, and the man's more than just slightly reluctant to give it up again – but then the old doyen's cruel sense of 'humour' prevails, much to Remus' clandestine contentment. They make him swallow the ring, and then Ratchett returns and reports that 'Madam Lestrange is unavailable at the moment' and 'Madam Malfoy strictly refused to let them bring a werewolf to the Manor and imprison him there' – and that, after assaulting one of their servants, the Malfoys kicked them out lock, stock and barrel, and – _erm_ –

"Shuck fell back –"

"_What?_"

"Yeah, well, I couldn't help 'im, could I, I was running for meh life mehself, and Lucius Malfoy was after us, and –"

"Lucius Malfoy? He's not even got a _wand_ anymore!"

"He sure had one, boss! Look at meh shoulder if yeh don't believe it!"

"And – what – what about Shuck –"

It would seem that Shuck is dead, and good riddance, as far as Remus is concerned. Shuck was almost as bad as Greyback himself, thirsty for blood beyond the 'normal' level of a werewolf. Remus isn't surprised to hear that he tried to kill, and probably eat, a house-elf; that's just like him. Greyback throws a tantrum nonetheless, Dhoo bemoans the loss of his oldest buddy, and in high dudgeons they call it a day to take care of Ratchett's injuries, leaving Remus behind. At least, the turgor hindering his sight is getting slightly better, so he can, with some effort, survey his surroundings. He's inside a small cave, or rather burrow. His ties are fastened to some thick root, though with the fading daylight pouring in through the small entrance hole, he can't figure out much more. It doesn't matter anyway, does it… Greyback keeps on changing locations, though he might have abandoned the habit since Voldemort came back to power. In any case, Remus has never been in this particular venue before.

He's got to get out of here. _That_ is the only thing that matters, for now. He's got to get out, and back to Nymphadora, and prevent her from doing something desperate. Yes, he knows that she _always_ wanted the kid and didn't waver for a second. Still, being left by her husband in the midst of war _might_ have given her some ideas she'd never have got otherwise, and Remus' own 'advice'… He feels sick with the mere memory of all the terrible things he's said.

Patiently and systematically, he begins to work on the ties. Up and down, back and forth, wriggling with his hands in his back. When it's getting dark outside, he's managed to loosen them far enough to move his wrists, which advances his attempts to jerk on the tree root. 'For – Nymph – a – do – ra' he mutters under his breath with each judder. 'For – our – son,' he adds in time, and as the hours pass, he comes up with the name 'Theodore'. That's how they'll call him, if he's got a say in the matter. Theodore – gift of God. Oh yes. 'For – The – o – dore!'

It's midnight, he'd estimate, when he finally manages to free his left hand, and from there on it's only a matter of twenty minutes, give or take, until he's undone the knot disabling his right hand. His wrists are bleeding, he can feel the sticky liquid, and somewhere in the outskirts of his mind, there's also pain, but he hardly feels it. This pain is nothing compared to the anguish he feels on account of his wife and their unborn son.

As soon as he can use his hands again, he sticks a finger into his throat and makes himself vomit, until he's spit out the ring – _her_ ring! – again. He wipes it clean with his sleeve and puts it on his little finger, then he gets to his feet, realising that he's still a bit shaky. Blimey, Greyback _does_ have a sound punch! He's worked out a plan – he had lots of time for that. He knows a thing or two about his 'mates'. He's been hanging out with them long enough. He knows, for example, that being them, they're all bound to be plastered by now. As if to prove how wild and dissolute they are, they booze like – like – well, they drink _a lot_, anyway. Which means that by now – some minutes to one in the morning – they're close to comatose, with the exception of Greyback, probably. Which means in turn that Remus needs to be careful – but that he's got a chance to get his wand back nonetheless, and a _wand_ is necessary for his flight as well. God knows where he is here. And he must get to Nymphadora before they notice he's gone.

Gradually, his heart has started to feel lighter and lighter while he was manipulating his ties. He can do this. Of course he can. For his wife, for his child, he can. When the knot seemed insurmountable still, despondency ruled him – the idea that Nymphadora might have given in to his tirades about getting rid of the baby – the idea of James, failing to protect _his_ wife and son, then… But with every tiny step forwards, he's plucked up courage and confidence. He will get out of here, he will find his wife and then they can escape, away from all this, and go somewhere where they can raise their boy in peace. They will make it, he _knows_ it!

He peers out of the hole that serves as an entrance to the burrow, and spots a merry little camp fire some fifty yards away on a little clearing between the conifers. There are two figures sitting close to the fire, and though he can't make out their faces, he recognises their voices all right. It's Greyback and Scabior. Meaning that Dhoo and Ratchett must have found a hole in the ground for themselves. And if he's just the tiniest bit lucky, Remus' wand is with _them_, and not in Greyback's pocket, or already destroyed. But they wouldn't do that, would they? Wands are valuable, _especially_ in times like these, and with old Ollivander vanished. Some goblins, even trolls, are willing to pay a lot to get their hand on a wand. Seeing the turn-around in Ministry policy and their attitude about Muggle-borns, there's a whole population robbed of their own wands in this very minute; _they'll_ want replacements, too, and will pay quite a price to get one. So the gang wouldn't break it. More likely, Greyback has distributed the 'loot' among his minions, like he gave the ring to Dhoo. Remus has already checked – his watch and his wallet are gone, too. He can only pray that it wasn't Shuck who was rewarded with the wand. But this isn't the time for pessimism, strangely enough. The notion of Nymphadora and Theodore leaves no room for such unsavoury thoughts.

He tiptoes out of the hole and crouches over the ground, trying hard to get a better view. Lucky that his sense of hearing is quite unimpeded. He can hear the snores, and following the noises, he cautiously sneaks into another burrow nearby. There they are – a little jar with a magic fire casts a flickering light on the scene – snoring in deepest slumber. Holding his breath, Remus begins to go through their stuff, and when his hands actually touch a slender wooden rod in the inside pocket of Ratchett's coat, he has to refrain from rejoicing aloud! Even in the feeble light, he recognises his own wand at once, and suffused by happiness, he casts a non-verbal Full Body Bind on these two. Less cautious, he returns to the entrance and aims two spells at Greyback and Dhoo – a _Confundus_ at the latter, and a sleep-inducing one at Greyback. Neither of them seems to notice that they've just been hit. As soon as the old doyen keels over and starts snoring, too, Remus steps out of his cover and quickly, but nonetheless cautious, avoiding all traps and secret alerts, he strides off from the campsite, until he has left the boundaries that prevent him from Disapparating.

A little breathless and his heart beating like madly, but not for fear, he re-emerges in the middle of Sumner Street, directly before Ted Tonks' house. No need – and no time – for further caution. They think they've caught him, they'll have abandoned their posts. Without a watch, it's hard to guess how late it is, but Remus cannot wait until dawn before ringing on the Tonks' door. By dawn, they might have noticed his escape… So he hurries through the little garden, takes a deep breath before the white-painted front door and then rings. He hears voices inside – Nymphadora's among them, and his heart takes another leap, violently trying to get out of his chest and hide in his throat instead. And then the door is opened by Mrs Tonks in her morning gown, who glares at him in perfect confusion, and he can hardly get a single word out, and eventually simply walks past her.

"Hey! You can't just walk in here like that –"

Yes, he can. That's the bright side of your in-laws hating you anyway – you no longer need to worry about making a good impression. He doesn't wait, or answer when Andromeda Tonks asks about his visible injuries, but heads for Nymphadora's old room straightaway and knocks.

He opens the door, seeing his wife propped up on her bed in the light of a small lamp, wide-eyed, and suddenly, Remus has lost all capacity of speech. She gapes at him in silence, too, and the sheer sight of his girl stings like a blade in his chest. She's pale, her eyes look like she's been crying. His self-reproaches climb to another peak. _Of course_ her parents hate him – he needn't even be a werewolf for that – after all he's put that woman through, he hates himself at least as much as they do. But he'll make up. He'll make up for _everything_!

"R- Remus…?" she whispers, waking him up from his state of petrifaction.

"My love," he sighs in deepest movement. "Nymphadora – I – I –"

"Are you all right? Your _face_ – what –"

Oh – right. His _face_. He's forgotten all about that. Well, _if_ she'll have him back, it won't be for his looks. He chuckles and lifts his hand. "It's all right, I'm all right, my love. I – I'll tell you later. You see, I don't have much time, and I want to seize it for more important… Anyway. I've come here to tell you that I love you, and that I'm all-too-well-aware that I am the world's biggest arse. But I love you with all my heart, I always have, and I always will, and – and – _if_ you can find it in yourself to forgive me –"

"_Forgive you?_" Andromeda Tonks shrieks behind him. He hasn't even noticed she followed him, and he doesn't turn around either. He cannot take his eyes off his wife.

"Go away, Mum!" Nymphadora thunders, suddenly vigorous.

"But –"

"No _but_! Trust me, I can handle this myself, and I will! Haven't you done enough!" Grudgingly, her mother obeys, and judging the sounds, so does her father; they scurry back to their bedroom, and Remus is alone with his wife. Her eyebrows raised, Nymphadora addresses him again, "You were saying…?"

"I said that I love you more than anything or anyone else in the world, despite all the heinous things I said. I – I only said them because… _Because_ I love you so much, because I wanted you to be safe, because… Because I'm an idiot, basically, I guess, but – but – I swear I'll make it up to you if you'll just have me back. I'm an idiot, and an arse, but I guess you know that already, and if you can live with that – if you'd be willing to put up with _that_, additional to all my other – hm – bad qualities – please, in that case you'd make me the happiest man on earth if you have me back, and I promise – no, I _swear_, I'll never, _never_ let you down again!"

He gazes at her and tries to put it all into this look – his regret, his remorse, his love, his tenderness, his plea for forgiveness. She glances back at him, her eyes wide and her mouth half open. "Remus," she whispers, but so inaudibly, he can only read it from her lips. He notices that she's still wearing the plain golden ring on her left hand, and it makes him pluck up a bit of courage. It's a good sign that she hasn't yet flushed the symbol of their marriage down the toilet, right? Slowly, he approaches his wife, his gaze still glued to her, but unable to read her expression.

That incapability is due to his state of nervous anxiety though, not for a lack of clearly visible emotion on the young woman's face. Tonks is still wondering if she's dreaming. She's dreamt of him coming back to her every night since their break-up, and somehow, she can't process his entrance now. Utterly prepossessed, she got up, too, hardly noticing the fact, and stretches out her hand in slow-motion – like she did in these dreams, that made her so happy when having them, and so smashed with grief when waking up again.

"Remus?" she repeats, a little louder, gently touching his swollen face. "What –"

"I didn't mean it, precious – nothing of all the horrible things I said. I merely – I thought the more rude and obnoxious I was, the easier it would be for you to – to…"

"To…?"

"To say 'good riddance' and start anew…"

"And – and now you don't want that anymore?"

"I guess I never really wanted it. I was just a bloody coward."

"You – you're serious? You – you're not going to walk out of here again and tell me it were all for the better?"

"I'm serious! I am!" He rummages through the pockets of his new jacket until remembering where he's got the ring. But he cannot give it to her like this, can he, so he doesn't show it to her, but just continues to splutter, "I even got you the ring, finally!"

She sniggers. "But I got a ring already!"

"But you never got one from me!"

"And – and… I will have the baby, Remus, you needn't even try debating that with me –"

"I want him, too," he murmurs and can feel how he's blushing. Oh, the relief! "Please, forget all the nefarious things I said! Please! _Of course_ I want him! How could I not want him, the child of our love? I was scared out of my wits for his sake, I –"

"Him?" Now she laughs for real. She's standing only two feet away – he could reach out for her and pull her close, and he longs so badly to do exactly that, but for some reason, he can't. Instead, _she_ takes another step forward. "Why are you so sure it's a _him_?"

"I just _know_ it," he returns with an arch smile. "And his name will be Theodore, as far as I'm concerned."

"_Theodore?_" She laughs even louder. "Oh, but that's just cruel!"

"Gift of God, 'cause that's what he is," he murmurs, mesmerised by her eyes, enchanted by the tinkling sound of her laughter.

"You mean that? You won't change your mind tomorrow morning?"

"I was never more miserable in my whole life than I was in the last days –"

"Yes, I can see that," she replies, glancing at his bloody arms.

"No! No, not because of _that_ – but thinking of it – we need to get out of here, and instantly. They – they'll surely come here looking for me once they notice."

He gives her a swift account of his temporary capture, and she reacts immediately, all her trained Auror instincts kicking back to life. "I never thought I'd say this, but – bless Aunt Bellatrix for insisting to take on her family herself," she mutters, swishing her wand to get things done. "And bless Aunt Cissy for being such a bigoted cow, too!"

"Pardon?"

"You would be dead by now otherwise, wouldn't you? And you'd never have managed to escape out of Malfoy Manor either. The dungeons… The entire house is a bit like a fortress, so well it's protected!"

Not losing time, she summons the few things she's got here and stuffs them into a bag, then, dragging him along, she bursts into her parents' bedroom and informs them that he and she will be leaving. Her mother's opposition is silenced, surprisingly, by her husband, who jumps out of his bed, hugs his daughter and brushes a kiss on her forehead.

"Hurry up, my girl. And let's stay in touch. Good luck!" He gazes at Remus and his tender expression turns serious. "It's good you've come back, son. Heck – what am I talking there – but… Age aside, you _are_ my son aren't you, in-law anyway… You'll take good care of my child, will you?"

"With my life, Sir," Remus replies gravely.

"Good. Excellent, in fact. Now – now get out of here, before…"

They're halfway out of the house, when Mrs Tonks catches up with them, flushed. She, too, presses her daughter close and utters all kind of advice about healthy food for the baby, enough rest, pickled gherkins and heavy feet, before swivelling around and throwing her arms around her thoroughly surprised son-in-law.

"If you don't make my precious happy, you'll have to answer to _me_, young man," she gnarls with a tinge of humour in her voice. "If you _ever_ do something like this to her again –"

"_Mum!_"

"Just saying, Dora, just saying. He knows what I mean, I'm sure!"

"I do, Ma'am –"

"I'm _Dromeda_, dear. We're family now, don't you forget that."

He'd wonder what _this_ is all about – _quite_ out of the blue, isn't it – but Nymphadora pulls on his arm, down the stairs, out of the back door, across the lawn and into a neighbouring garden. Only then, she slows down, gives him a radiant smile and grabs his arms to Disapparate. He's got no clue where they end up; the flat seems unfamiliar, but he's got no time to dwell on this, because his wife, still clinging to his arms, looks straight into his face with a bright smile.

"Now… I want to see that ring!"

"Oh! _Oh!_ Erm – give me a minute –"

"What? No, no. _No_ – you said you had a ring for me, and I want to see it with my own two eyes!"

"And you shall. And I will put it on your finger. But for _that_, I need a minute of preparation." He winks at her, then turns around, takes out his wand and performs a few cleaning spells on the much too small ring on his little finger. He takes it off and turns back to her, probably looking like a demented house-elf, so sheepishly he's grinning, but what the hell. Boring into her eyes, he says quietly, "My love – _my_ very gift of God – my wife… Take this ring as a sign of my infinite love for you. I may have faltered to show you just how much I care, and since I'm far from perfect, I'll surely continue to disappoint you now and then, but – but – give me the chance to make you happy, as happy as you've always made me –"

He stretches out his hand to put on the ring, but she stops him, and fumbles with her cardigan, producing a chain around her neck on which his own wedding ring is hanging. She strips it off, pulls him closer and they exchange the two rings, more tenderly than they did in the Ministry office four weeks ago, and much more solemnly.

"Will you have me, and stick with me, for better and worse?" she whispers.

"I will stick with you no matter what comes!" he cries with emphasis. "And – and you… Will you have me, in sickness and health…?"

"I want you just the way you are, Remus. I always did, and I always will. When will you finally get that into your head?"

"I'll never doubt it again, I swear! I'm an idiot –"

She seizes the opportunity, snatches his wrist, pulls him towards her and entwines their free hands. She gazes alternately at him and her new ring, tells him how beautiful she finds it, and closes in some more still. "I don't care. As long as you're _my_ idiot."

With unexpected strength and vigour, she pulls him close into an embrace, and it's not only the fierce grip of her arms around his ribcage that make him breathless. She'll have him back! After all this! After all the awful things he said – after leaving her alone in that hotel room – and that's only the things he's done to her in the last four days. He's been so cold to her – he's heaped reproach upon reproach on her because of the pregnancy – he left her alone to her misery for the entire last year, he…

"How can you forgive me?"

"How can I not?" she murmurs against the side of his neck. "I love you!"

And then he finally gets his five senses together – not counting the extra-senses he's got when being transformed – and realises the one thing that's been missing still. He hasn't kissed her yet. He, reluctantly but still, loosens the embrace a little and chucks her under the chin. Seeing that her nose has changed into a lovely little button nose, he can't help it but give a little chuckle and kiss the tip for a start. "I love you, too!"

"Then prove it, for good gracious' sake!"

Oh, he does. In the history of mankind, no man has ever kissed his wife with such loving passion and commitment – at least that's what Dora claims afterwards. Dora – _that's_ how he's going to call her from now on, because that's what she is. She's a gift. His gift. He hasn't got a clue what he's done to deserve that gift, but from this moment on, he'll treasure it and never falter again, because that's what _she_ deserves –

"Stop prattling, honey, and kiss me again!" She ruffles his hair with a loving smile. "Oh – and before I forget – if you _ever_ do something like this to me again, I'll kill you myself."

"It kills me to be without you, my love, you need not worry."

"I don't. You're here. With me. You've come back for us. That's all I need to know."


	107. Face It!

Both Draco and Severus are apprehensive going back to Hogwarts

* * *

**- 3.57. -**

Face It!

* * *

_An enemy at the gates is less formidable, for he is known and carries his banner openly. But the traitor moves amongst those within the gate freely, his sly whispers rustling through all the alleys, heard in the very halls of government itself. For the traitor appears not a traitor; he speaks in accents familiar to his victims, and he wears their face and their arguments, he appeals to the baseness that lies deep in the hearts of all men. _

_CICERO_

_

* * *

_

"Hogwarts won't be what it used to be," Severus said far from smug. In fact, there was a soft warning in his tone.

"It'll do. What do I care for the Carrows! Draco won't have much to do with Alecto anyhow," she said, more to encourage herself. "He'll hardly see her."

Distraught as usually these days, Lucius smiled and nodded, but Severus shook his head. "No, Cissa. I'm afraid not."

"But he hasn't got Muggle Studies. You know that!"

"Muggle Studies will be compulsory for every student."

Lucius still smiled, his eyes fixed on his wife, and only when he saw her expression change, he muttered, "Hm?"

"What do you mean by _that_? I'm astonished they'll even _keep_ it, and –"

"Well, obviously, the curriculum will change drastically," Severus said quietly and shot his friends a poignant glance.

"Oh, I _see_," Narcissa replied with a derisive smirk. "I presume the new _curriculum_ will accommodate the new order?"

"Of course."

His face was mock serious, and when he arched a brow, Narcissa's countenance cracked. She was cringing with raucous laughter, clawing her nails into Lucius' hands. She couldn't calm herself for some minutes, all the while Lucius and Severus exchanged perplexed glances.

"Cissa…?"

"Goodness," she gasped. "Seriously, boys – how could you ever – _ever_ – buy into this bullshit?"

Her use of _that_ word made them giggle, too, even Lucius, who was too absent-minded these days to notice anything much happening around him. They were interrupted by a knock on the door, Narcissa – still chuckling – undid the security spells, and the very witch that arrogated to be Draco's new teacher in Muggle Studies, entered the room.

"Severus –" She stopped dead. "What's so funny?"

"Severus just told us about his meeting with the rest of the staff," Narcissa said silkily.

That reply satisfied Alecto, who grinned maliciously now. "I'm sorry that I wasn't there, indeed. – Severus, Amycus needs your help. He's in the dungeons. Could you come, please?"

"Ah, yes, naturally." He got up and left. Narcissa watched after him with a pensive expression. For the first time since Draco had turned eleven, she was actually looking forward to September 1st. As a matter of fact, she could hardly wait for her darling finally leaving for school. Out of this house, away from these nefarious people, most of all away from _him_. At least Draco would be safe, under Severus' guard, hundreds of miles away from all the atrocities happening in this house these days. Everything was better than this.

Severus on the other hand, in his more private moments, didn't seem nearly as content with the prospect of going back. She couldn't blame him. He'd be the new Headmaster. And he'd have to face a whole lot of people that were just too well aware that he had got this position because he had killed his predecessor. _Not_ a nice perspective, even for the Dark Lord's most trusted advisor and right hand. Personally, Narcissa wouldn't have wanted to face old Minerva McGonagall for the world after such a thing, and Narcissa hardly was the kind of person to flinch away in self-consciousness.

"You're worried?" she asked tentatively one afternoon when the paramount of Death Eaters were out to do god-knows-what ghastly business, and the Dark Lord himself had been gone for days. Only that pathetic little man Pettigrew was left, and she knew that he had got himself stuck in the library earlier this day. She had ordered Iggy to clandestinely keep an eye on him and hinder him from getting out before the night, minimum, by keeping on changing books and other recognisable marks to make it more difficult yet.

He shot her a feigned smile. "Why should I be?"

"I wouldn't want to be in your place."

"You know what's funny? Neither would I," he replied gravely and forced his face into a sarcastic smile. "But it'll be fine. I'm the new Headmaster, and there are still Amycus and Alecto. At least two people on the staff who only hate me for being the master's right hand now."

Some days ago, he had held a meeting with the other old teachers, 'convincing' them to come back and continue in their old jobs. It had given him a foretaste of what it was going to be. Hagrid had looked so murderous as if only Minerva's influence over him had held him back from beating Severus to pulp. The woman herself had glowered at him in furious contempt. Filius had at least had the grace to look incredulous, Pomona had looked frightened, like most of the other teachers, with the exception of old Slughorn and Sibyll Trelawney. The latter had been plainly confused, while his old Head of House had greeted him in a blend of apprehension and cautious courtesy. He had also been the only one to say the words 'good day'.

Clearly, the others had voted for Minerva as their spokesperson. Before she had finished her well-rehearsed speech about the utter unacceptability of resuming work 'under circumstances like _these_', he had cut her short with his best smirk – the kind of smirk he had always reserved for people like Black – and explained to her how well he could understand her reluctance, and that Antonin Dolohov, Bellatrix Lestrange and her husband, Thorfinn Rowle and a few other well-known Death Eaters, were just waiting for their up-coming appointment.

"I had believed it a question of courtesy to at least offer you all a chance," he finished coolly. "But naturally, you are all free to do as you please."

Minerva's jaw had dropped. Slughorn had shaken his head almost frantically. Filius had clasped his mouth, Pomona had whimpered, and Sibyll had asked in an astonished tone, "I – you're saying I _can_ stay, then?"

She had received a number of scandalised glances for the question, and he had nodded. "Of course. There'll be so many changes, I think it helps the students to accustom to the new situation if they can continue their studies with teachers they've been used to for so long."

"What about me?" Firenze, the centaur, had inquired with a suspicious expression.

"The authorities know full well how excellent the centaurs' approach on Divination is, and wish the students to be as comprehensively taught as they can possibly be. I intended to keep both you and Madam Trelawney as staff, if you should both agree."

Minerva McGonagall had given several disapproving gasps, and still scowling at him, she had gnarled, "So who'd replace me, then?"

"In your function as a Transfiguration teacher? Augustus Rookwood volunteered for the position." He had literally _seen_ the battle raging inside her, but her face had become stony when he had gone on, "In your position as the Head of Gryffindor House, I think you'll be replaced by the new Charms teacher – assuming that Filius won't be returning likewise – Madam Lestrange."

"Bellatrix Lestrange?" she had screeched, and the last remnants of colour had dripped off Filius' features.

"No, no! _I_ would like to come back, Seve – erm – _Headmaster_," he had cried eagerly. "Really, I wouldn't want – erm – to quit – my students – job, I mean – uh…"

Minerva had hurried to agree, "Indeed, so should I! I have no intention to retire just yet…"

So, basically his plan had worked out. _All_ the teachers had given in after Minerva had crumbled. They were aghast enough with the addition of the Carrow siblings – to think that _Bellatrix Lestrange_ would join the staff – well, that she was unleashed, right? – was more than any of them could bear. He had counted on their feeling of responsibility for the students' well-fare, and he hadn't been let down. No one right in their minds wanted to see Bellatrix of all persons in the mere _vicinity_ of a child, _any_ child. Or adult, come to that. He had never thought how useful her insane reputation could be one day.

"Curiously, I've got your sister to thank for the return of the other teachers," he told Narcissa now with a wry grin. "Can you imagine how quick they were to assure me of their coming-back when I dropped her name?"

"I actually can," Narcissa retorted glumly.

Severus shot the door a mistrusting look. "Where's Draco?"

"He's looking after his father."

"That's very good of him."

Narcissa's dark blue eyes glittered dangerously for a second, but then she had regained her self-control and spat bitterly, "I think he's resigned to the idea that he might not see him again when he comes here for Christmas!"

He reached out for her hand and squeezed it briefly, but in great animation. "You are talking to the Dark Lord's _most trusted advisor_, dear," he murmured. "And I _advised_ him how valuable Lucius is for our cause. The movement needs a face, and people are so used to look up to and admire him – he's irreplaceable, really, don't you think?"

She gave a laugh that sounded more than desperate, pressing his hand in turn. "Thank you," she mouthed mutely, a single tear quelling from the corner of her eye now. He quickly looked away.

"You're welcome. You know, I had actually hoped that at least Vector wouldn't agree to come back. I'd be much more at ease if _you_ took his position."

"I won't leave Lucius behind, no matter what, Savvy!"

"I think Lucius might actually be safer _without_ you, Cissa. With you around, the Dark Lord can – and let's face it, _will_ – force him to mistreat you, and one of these days, Cissa, he'll just crack. You know that as well as I do. Just _look_ at him, now. How much more, you think, can he take? He's a mere shadow of himself already."

"I will allow _nothing_ to part Lucius and me," she insisted stubbornly, and another tear fell.

"You could be with Draco."

"Draco doesn't need me with you to guard over him."

"The point is moot anyhow – the position isn't vacant, this way or that. But Cissa… If – well, it's possible that something happens – that I'll be the Headmaster no more –"

"Don't say that!"

"And that somebody else will have to take on the job then," he continued, regardless. "I want you to know that I recommended the Dark Lord that he'd appoint _you_ in that case. Your scholarliness is legendary, you're cut out to be the perfect Headmistress –"

She interrupted him forcefully, "Didn't you listen? I will _not_ –"

"Hear me out, Cissa. If that should happen, you would simply see after another vacant position, preferably the Dark Arts job – it's easy, just give Amycus or one of the other teachers the Morose Measles, that got me the Arithmancy position back then – and take Lucius along. The Dark Lord has quite a high opinion of you."

"Has he?" she cried scornfully.

"He has indeed. And you want to be grateful for that. He thinks you're extraordinarily gifted and clever – he values that – and also, you're Bella's sister, just sane. _If_ I'm no longer around to keep an eye on you, Draco and Lucius, you've got to take matters into your own hands, Cissa. Exploit your advantages."

"Why are you so certain that you're – that you'll be unable to – to…" She couldn't bring herself to say it and mimicked at him. "I'm absolutely positive that none of the other teachers would _dare_ –"

He laughed out loud. "Goodness! No. No, I think you're quite right in that respect. They're all much too upright creatures to commit murder. Even if they meant to avenge Dumbledore with it. Good gracious, no!"

"So what… Why…"

"You've seen what it's like, Cissa… The master doesn't put up with failure."

"And why do you think you'd fail him?" She looked straight into his eyes, willing him to speak it out, but he merely chuckled.

"Ah, my lucky streak's bound to come to an end, sooner or later. Really, I've been _far_ too lucky for likeliness, don't you think?" His expression was fathomless, and seeing her quizzical look, he went on, "And being the Dark Lord's right hand man is a particularly dangerous position. Back-stabbing is an occupational hazard there. Unlike Lucius, I have no further value."

"Nonsense! You're one of the most superior wizards I've ever –"

"But _my_ name doesn't infuse awe on anyone hearing it. _My_ ancestry doesn't go back to the old Romans. _My_ face isn't the landmark of pureblood supremacy." He grinned cunningly. "Your husband, on the other hand, embodies everything that the Dark Lord values. It needs an occasional reminder – and it'll be up to you to do the reminding, if I can't. That's all."

"You scare me, Savvy," she whispered with an imploring look.

"Ah, no. I had intended the exact opposite. I meant to cheer you up, dear."

They all needed some cheering-up, and direly so, but there simply happened nothing that encouraged cheerfulness, except for Draco's approaching departure, and the boy himself didn't feel nearly as happy as his parents about this. His apprehensions were of a similar nature as his guardian's – he, too, had been involved in the former Headmaster's demise, hadn't he, he had endangered his friends, not to speak of everybody else in the school, and three quarters of the student body had been overwhelmingly fond of old Dumbledore, and were bound to despise the Dark Lord, may he now be in reign or not. Frankly – he was scared shitless. Not as much as he was because of the Dark Lord, but it ran a solid second place. He'd rather spend an afternoon with the hungry Nagini in a broom closet – to give a rough measure of his growing horror.

Packing his trunk on the evening of the 31st, he came across all the items still in there. He hadn't opened the trunk a single time since its arrival. It had been sent after the downfall of the Ministry a month before; prior to that, its contents had been confiscated as property of a potential criminal on the run. His mother had taught him to be reverent about books, but that didn't keep him from hurling a dozen fat tomes into the fireplace now, all the manuals about how to repair things, which he had purchased to help him with the fateful cabinet then… Some diligent Ministry official had bothered to collect every piece of paper Pansy had ever sent or given to him in the past year, and filed them in a folder – in chronological order. He leafed through the parchments, smirking guiltily with her professions of unwavering love, before throwing them into the fire, too. The next to go was the art magazine with the article that had freaked him out so badly then.

Without noticing it, he chuckled under his breath, and very mirthlessly so. Exactly one year ago, he had done the same, hadn't he? Had gone through the contents of his trunk and sorted out the useful from the waste, had replaced the robes he had grown out of by new ones, had replaced books, and Potions ingredients… But he had done more than that, hadn't he? He had been plotting and scheming, he had been _glowing_ with confidence, with pride. Oh, the swagger! He had pictured himself as the next right hand of the Dark Lord, stupid, _stupid_ little boy that he had been! Murder in his heart, he had gloried in all the marvellous prospects – restoring his father's name, proving to his mother how mature he was, paying back to Potter every tinsy little offence.

And now? Theo Nott used to call this sort of thing 'reality check' – and as weird as he had ever found Theo, he could no longer deny that the other Slytherin had _always_ been exceedingly more mature than Draco was. Theo's dad was a Death Eater, too. Theo's dad had been imprisoned, too. But had Theo run wild because of that? Had he drooled over becoming a Death Eater like his old man? Had he set heaven and hell in motion for _revenge_? No, Theo had done no such thing. After beginning term with such grand delusions, _he_, Draco, had eventually led _Fenrir Greyback_ into the very school that all of his friends attended before the term had ended! How was he supposed to look into Pansy's eyes again? Or Millicent's?

With utmost care, he folded his robes himself and sent the elves who meant to help him away. He needed something to distract himself. To keep himself from thinking. The robes, shirts, trousers, his boxers and socks. The books he'd need, and the books he liked. All other things he'd need. When he had finished, he realised that the heavy books creased the fine fabric of his clothes, so he took it all out again and started afresh, grateful to have something to do.

There was one thing that scared him even more than the idea of facing the other students and teachers – in fact, this notion disturbed him so profoundly, he didn't dare pondering on it. Because he had been reminded of something else… Last year, his father had been in Azkaban, and he had hoped to be able of freeing him, of getting him back. _This_ year, he couldn't dispel the dreadful fear that he'd leave to never see his dad again. And if something happened to him, his wife would run mad, and then? What if Lucius died before his son could talk to him once more, really, properly _talk_?

He didn't say anything during dinner – it wouldn't have been safe to speak, even though the Malfoys took their meals separately from the other Death Eaters. They had resorted to the breakfast parlour, whereas the others used the grand dining parlour. But by now, Draco knew enough of these people to suspect that they weren't beyond sneaking around and eavesdropping. His parents carefully avoided _any_ mention of _any_ topic that might be deemed remotely inappropriate, and Draco had adopted the habit likewise. Only the bedrooms and his mother's Music Chamber had special charms put on them that made them safe to talk more openly, and even there, house-elves were discreetly stationed outside to watch out for any intruders on their privacy – in the hallway, the adjoining rooms, and outside to check on the windows even.

"I expect you to be a very diligent student this year," Lucius said lightly over the dessert. "You are extraordinarily gifted and your NEWT results should reflect that."

Draco could see how much effort his father had to put into this simple statement, into the lightness of delivery, the casual expression. It hurt his son deeply to see him like this. That man wasn't _Lucius Malfoy_. For all his life, Draco had venerated his father, his great, powerful, impressive father who would intimidate the hell out of anyone with a mere gesture, a little curl of his lips… And then, he had come to doubt that same man, and everything he stood for; before Azkaban had been freed once more, Draco had thought that he'd have to have a _very _long conversation about certain things with his old man. The man sitting at the head of the table now, however, resembled that old, familiar picture just faintly. The hair, the robes, but other than that… Lucius had lost forty pounds in Azkaban, making him almost frail, his face haggard, and the grey eyes all the more notable yet. But the dangerous sparkle had gone out of his gaze, and was replaced by a sad, introverted expression that bordered on fearful more often than not. It was there now, too, and Lucius averted his face to avoid his son's glances. Draco _couldn't_ bring himself to reproach his father in such a pitiful state.

"Of course, Dad," he murmured. "I'll be a very good student."

Narcissa smiled warmly. "Of course you'll be, mon trésor. Just – just listen to Professor Snape, and everything will be excellent. – And while you're at it, you can think about what you'd like to do after your graduation. You needn't read the Law only because your father and grandfather did, you know? You can study whatever you like!"

Draco shot her a bewildered glance, thinking that they both knew that this was utter nonsense. College? The Dark Lord wouldn't allow him to fritter away his time in _college_, when there was murder, torture and general destruction to do! He considered himself blessed to be allowed to return to Hogwarts this year, and nurtured no doubt that it was Professor Snape's doing that had gotten him this reprieve.

"The Law is fine for me, Mum," he said quietly and attempted a smile, too.

"It'll bore you to sobs, son," Lucius said, and this time, his expression was genuinely amused.

Aware that somebody might be listening in secret, Draco answered defiantly, "I will do as you did."

"Which might not be such a good idea after all."

Draco understood his father's true meaning and couldn't keep a note of scorn out of his reply, "Yes, I know, Father."

Narcissa looked up from her plate with the use of that formal address and crinkled her brows lightly. Draco caught that glance and felt ashamed. Straining to let his voice sound normal, and recomposing his features to a softer smile, he said, "I will do as you and Mum say, Dad."

Lucius resumed the deadpan look and muttered vaguely, "We'll see."

They talked no more of this – of any topic connected to anything like 'future' – and finished dinner. Draco retreated early to his room, but set his alarm clock on two o'clock in the morning, and waking up at that ungodly hour, he sneaked out and over to his parents' bedroom. He knocked tentatively until he finally heard his mother's sleepy voice – "Darling, is that you?"

She undid the spells on the door and let him in, igniting the lamp on the bedside table beside her. The sight of her and his father, curled up in her arms, was heart-wrenching, and like always, Draco asked if he was disturbing them, which she declined, like always, too. He fidgeted with his hands, suddenly insecure, and gingerly settled on the edge of their bed.

"I… Mum, Dad, I've been thinking… Perhaps… I thought it might be better… Shouldn't I stay? With you, I mean? I needn't –"

His father raised his head, and his mum said sharply, "You'll go back to school, Draco! Honestly, I've been counting the days to safely get you out of this house again!"

"I – I don't want to leave you alone though…"

His parents both sat up and leant back against the headrest, fully awake by now. "Darling, we'll be fine. You really need not worry about _us_. I, on the other hand, would be very much unsettled if you stayed here, with… Well, under these circumstances."

"Doesn't really matter though, does it? Now, or next year –"

"It _does_ matter, and _next_ year, you'll start college, mark my words!"

"But –"

"That's another five years, at least, Draco! Who can tell what'll happen in _five years_!" she cried, adding more calmly, "If nothing else, the new order will be established by then. No more combat. No more – no more torture, or anything else like that…"

"You really believe that?"

She gave him her best smile, all grace and radiance, and affirmed vigorously – and Draco suddenly knew she was lying, and that she was lying for his sake as much as his father's, whose face showed a blend of humility and hopelessness just now. Draco felt torn; on the one hand he had, among other reasons, come here in the dead of night to _see his father_, in the most literal sense of the term. To commit his dad's face to memory – it might be his last chance to do so. On the other hand, he _couldn't_ look at him, it was just too painful.


	108. Back To Hogwarts

Draco wishes himself miles away – if only the Dark Lord wasn't residing in his home these days!

* * *

**- 3.58. -**

Back To Hogwarts

* * *

_Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend._

_AGATHA CHRISTIE_

_

* * *

_

Severus had locked himself up in the Headmaster's office after dinner, and finally allowed himself to tremble. Tonight, for the first time in sixteen years, curious enough, he had realised what Hogwarts had come to mean for him – and that this safety, the feeling of homeliness, were irrevocably gone. 'You only know what you've got once you've lost it,' Draco had said glumly, in an odd precocious mood, and meant his own state of privilege and insouciance. Severus had nodded in that moment, and thought of Lily, but the same trite fortune cookie phrase returned to him now. Some of these commonplaces were too true to endure.

Hogwarts had become his home in a way that he had never known before. He had made himself truly comfortable in his old vault in the dungeons – and even though his new premises, the spacious, almost luxurious Headmaster quarters underneath the Headmaster office, were certainly more inviting than his vault had initially been, he had seen at once that he didn't like it. It was _Dumbledore's_ room, and in Severus' head, it'd always remain exactly that. But if it had been merely a question of the right space, he might have accustomed to the situation still. Unfortunately, it wasn't only that.

Half of the staff teaching at Hogwarts had already been employed here during his own school time, just like some others like Argus Filch, Madam Pomfrey and Madam Pince. Minerva had been teaching here for forty-one years now, Filius for thirty-seven, old Slughorn, his fourteen years of retirement notwithstanding, had spend three quarters of his life in this school, just like Hagrid. Even Pomona, although only appointed in 1975, had still taught him in Herbology in the remainder of his school time, then. Consequently, he wouldn't immediately have thought of any of them as 'friends', had somebody asked him. Only tonight, during dinner, he had understood that they _had_ been his friends, regardless if he had called them that, for many years, and were no more.

Tonight, he had settled on the Headmaster's chair for the first time, for the start of term dinner, after fifteen years on Minerva's other side. She had sat next to him now, too – but how different had the situation been else! He had nearly forgotten that a speech was expected of him, and with Amycus and Alecto sitting on his other side, it was even more important that he'd keep his pose. That speech had cost him a few sleepless nights – not that they had been of much use. What was he supposed to say, after all! So his speech had addressed the few necessary points – he had introduced the two new teachers, omitted to mention why these additions were necessary, assured the students that only few changes would be made, and that they'd learn about these in the next days – and then he had ordered the Sorting ceremony to begin. If nothing else, he had been short, and spared himself to endure the unabated belligerent looks of some five hundred students. The hostile looks of his former _friends_ had been enough to make him pray that the dinner would end soon.

"How was your first day as Headmaster, Severus?" Dumbledore's portrait asked with a sympathetic smile – the first sign of genuine sympathy he had received today.

"Ten times worse than my first day as a teacher was, then, and that's saying something."

"It'll become easier, I'm sure," Dumbledore offered, but not even he looked as if he believed this.

"Not _this_ time, Headmaster."

"I'm Headmaster no more, Severus. That's you, now." Severus scoffed with that statement, and Dumbledore went on, "How many students did return?"

"All who weren't Muggle-born. It's not as if they had a choice. You won't be surprised to hear that the number of students sorted to Slytherin has doubled."

"Horace will take good care of them, certainly."

Severus gave a dry laugh. "As good care as he took of us, back then? Why, then the next Death Eater generation will grow quite unimpeded!"

"Slytherin isn't the only place where future Death Eaters grow."

"_I_ know that," Severus growled. "I thought it was _your_ opinion that Slytherin was the hotbed for high treason."

"It's been the House hatching my most loyal supporter, too."

Severus gave no answer, but scowled at him in resentful silence for a while. "What… What happened to the others? I heard that only half as many First Years as expected – Muggle-borns, I mean – reported to the Ministry this summer," he muttered at last.

"Minerva and Filius intercepted them."

He smirked. "I imagine they had a busy time."

"How are they holding themselves?"

"Oh, good! Proud. Quite unbroken. At least Minerva appears quite unchanged."

"Dear Minerva, yes… That's what I'd have thought of her. She's resilient…"

Severus' smirk got even more twisted. _Resilient_, indeed. Probably, she was more resilient than he was, and that wouldn't do. He was fighting at too many fronts; wars couldn't be won like this. He had to please the Dark Lord, he had to keep Amycus and Alecto at bay, just like their suspiciousness, he had a dozen staff members hating his guts – and had to manipulate them into acting their part without raising suspects. Outside of the school, the hunting season had begun; god knew where Potter might be, and he was in dire need of help… Any of these tasks alone would have taken up any man's time and smartness. Severus didn't see how on earth he was supposed to juggle them all simultaneously. It had been a game of Russian Roulette already when it had been two of them, still, with Dumbledore shouldering the paramount of responsibility.

At the same time, Draco Malfoy was sitting on his bed, playing chess with his dorm mate Goyle. Greg had suggested to take the board over to the Common Room, but Draco _really_ had no nerve for that. The train ride and subsequent dinner had been enough to wear him out.

"You're the goddamned Head Boy, Malf," Greg had muttered so quietly that no one else but Draco had heard him. "You _got_ to face them sooner or later."

Draco had retorted just as quietly, "Later, then."

Greg had merely nodded, and even looked as if he'd understood. Draco couldn't say what had been worst. The smaller children, who had squinted at him as if he was You Know Who himself – the knowing glances of his fellow students – or the unveiled contempt of some of the people he had considered to be his friends, before all this. Well, _contempt_ might be a little strong. Theo had been only slightly more reserved than anyway. Pansy had goggled rather sheepishly, and withstood her normal urge to pester him. But Millicent… God, Millicent had given him _The Look_. Daggers were nothing, compared to her open disgust. Mind you, she hadn't _said_ anything. She hadn't needed to. That kind of look spoke louder than thousand words.

"What are they saying, anyway?" he asked with ostentatious casualty, and when his friend looked puzzled, he added, "The others. What do they think what happened?"

"Eh?" But then, realisation dawned on Greg's face. "Oh! That… Well, no one really believes that Potter had finished Dumbledore, that's for sure…"

"And what _do_ they believe?"

"You think they'd tell _me_ of all people? Why don't you ask Parkinson? _She's_ the big gossip monger."

Draco hesitated. "Can't bring myself to talk to her," he muttered at last and moved his bishop.

"How long do you want to continue with that? You cannot _not_ talk to her forever. And Mil said –"

"What did she say?" Draco asked sharply.

Greg looked amazed. "Merely that Parkinson's still worshipping the ground you tread upon, despite everything."

"And what did she mean by 'everything'…?"

"After dumping her and all that. You know how she sobbed her eyes out for a whole _week_."

Draco smirked wryly, all the more when seeing Goyle's next move. Two more moves and the game would be over and Draco would have won, but he wanted to go on some longer, and made a deliberately stupid move instead with his rook.

"Did Millicent say something about Dumbledore…?"

Greg actually blushed and looked the other way. "Not much…" he replied evasively.

They were silent for a while and continued to play, until Draco could think of no further move to procrastinate. Still, he did nothing and blankly stared at the chessboard. He could sense how Greg observed him.

"I didn't do it," he whispered when he could no longer endure it.

"Yeah. I know. Dad told me."

"I _couldn't_ do it."

"Yes, that's what he said, too."

Draco stared hard at his queen, which he would have to sacrifice if he tried to give Goyle another chance. "I'm… I'm not a murderer, Greg."

"_I_ know. But you better let no one else notice, right?"

"Yeah…"

"I'm just saying – because if you play up to the Dark Lord like you play chess, mate, you'll be in _bad_ trouble."

Greg had spoken calmly, sympathetically, but with a quiet humour, and Draco couldn't help it but snort out laughing now. His friend joined him, fumbling with his trunk and producing a huge box of candies.

"Chocolate, mate," he said and pushed the box into Draco's hands. "Mil says there's no better remedy for any kind of trouble!"


	109. La Résistance

They won't surrender

* * *

**- 3.59. -**

La Résistance

* * *

_The history of liberty is a history of resistance._

_WOODROW T. WILSON_

_

* * *

_

Elsy has been serving the Noble House of Black since she was ten, which was a young age to join active service, even for a house-elf, but she practically begged her parents and the masters to allow her. Miss Cissy had just been born and needed someone to attend to her, day and night, and Elsy simply pleaded so long, so urgently, that she got her will at last. She's served Milady ever since, sitting with her through childhood maladies, healed jinxes that Miss Cissy's older sisters inflicted on her, and has always, always doted on her mistress. Such a quiet, patient child she was – unlike Miss Bella. Such a perfectly behaved young lady she became – unlike Miss Andy. And when Miss Cissy got married and became the Patroness of Malfoy Manor, Elsy naturally accompanied her as well, and has served that family just as proudly and faithfully from then on.

Being the loyal creature that she is, by nature as much as by personal inclination, she shares her mistress' grudge with Miss Andy and Miss Bella, even though My Lady always says 'Do as I say, think as you will'. Elsy is convinced that there cannot possibly be a wiser person than Miss Cissy, just that sometimes, she strikes her servant as being too mild. Milady was shocked – mortified – when learning what Miss Bella had done before she was sent to Azkaban. Master Cygnus was _so_ aghast with Miss Bella's conduct, he _died_ with shame! Nevertheless the Mistress allowed her in the house again, and treats her much friendlier than that woman deserves. The rift with Miss Andy is of a different kind. Miss Andy behaved _very_ badly to her parents and Master Lucius. She didn't like him, and voiced that sentiment whenever she got the opportunity, in _very naughty_ terms, Elsy finds. But Milady bore it with forbearance indeed, until even her patience was worn out. Miss Andy and her family never came back to Malfoy Manor, good riddance, and occasional mentions aside, were not talked about by the Masters either. Elsy understood just too well – and all the more she's bewildered now, though it isn't her place to question Milady.

She'd execute _every_ of Milady's wishes, even if they puzzle her, like this one. The Mistress summoned her to her and the Master's bedroom in the dead of night, and looking even more worried than anyway these days, talks in a low, insistent manner. "Make sure they _understand_, Elsy. And then you return here straightaway and go back to bed. In case _anyone_ should ask you – you were _in your bed_ all night through, and this conversation between you and me here, never took place. – Did you comprehend everything?"

"Yes, My Lady."

"Good. I'm glad. Now go, and return safely."

So Elsy does as she's told – she Apparates straight into Miss Andy's kitchen – it's the room she knows best in that house, and sneaks upstairs, and into the bedroom. Clapping her hands, she ignites the lamp on the bedside table – and with a second clap, she mutes Miss Andy's startled yelp.

"It's me, Elsy, Mistress Narcissa's elf-in-waiting, Miss Andy," she says coldly. "My Mistress bade me to deliver an urgent message. The message is: Before dawn, Miss Bella, her husband and a few others will come here. They'll come for Mr Ted, and perhaps Miss Dora. The protective enchantments will not hold. Mr Ted, Miss Dora and her husband must flee at once, but make it look as if they had gone away some days ago."

The two people in the bed gape at her in silence for a minute, before Mr Ted gasps, "_What?_"

Friendlier, Elsy repeats the message, and adds, "Please, Mr Ted. My Mistress made a particular point of this – you must not delay. I am ordered to help you pack."

The couple exchanges a quick glance, before Mr Ted jumps out of his bed. "Okay then. Dromeda?"

"Ready, love!"

"Your mistress is an angel," he groans, half-way out of the door.

"She is." Elsy beams at him and indicates at the wardrobe. "Can I help you?"

"Yes – yes… Dromeda, show her. I'll get my stuff from the bathroom…"

He jogs out, and Miss Andy summons a trunk with her wand and jerks open the wardrobe doors. In silence, they start packing – Elsy folds sweaters, trousers, shirts, while Miss Andy waves her wand and directs the folded clothes into the trunk. After a couple of minutes, she clears her throat.

"Can I ask you something?"

"I don't know. Can you?" Elsy retorts with an icy look.

Miss Andy ignores it and goes on, "You appear to like my husband."

"I do. He is a very nice gentleman. My Mistress thinks highly of him."

"Yet neither you nor she will excuse me for marrying him."

Elsy has waited for this question, oh, she has – for ages, in fact, and she'll answer it! "My Mistress can speak for herself, I believe. As for _me_…" She casts her her most disdainful look. "_I_ think you have behaved appallingly! That night when our good Mistress Amandine almost died, _you_ left her behind, you didn't even wait to hear if she'd recovered or not! Master Cygnus never forgave you, and you broke Mistress Amandine's heart!"

Miss Andy's jaw drops, but Elsy hasn't finished yet. "And still, my Mistress would stick up for you, my dear Mistress made all the excuses in the world, and tried to convince her father to forgive you for your indifference for your dear mother! And you? What did _you_ do? You kept on picking on Milady's husband, my Master Lucius, after all he's done!"

"I pick on him _because_ of what he's done," Miss Andy snaps in vexation. She's so indignant, she even forgets to keep on waving her wand to pack the trunk. "Your _master_ –"

"Without my Master's help, where would you be! Where would your family be! He protected you all these years then; Milady's husband used all his influence to keep _your_ husband safe! _He_ took care that Mr Ted would get a scholarship, _he_ saw to it that Miss Dora could pursue her career! And now my dear Mistress puts herself into great peril to help you again, and _again_, you're not going to thank her for it! _You_ just pretend that everyone was offending you, instead of wondering whom _you_ have offended!"

The elf feels elated to have got _that_ bit off her chest, and with a self-righteous sneer, she takes over Miss Andy's job of packing the trunk – which she seems to have forgotten all about. Miss Andy's mouth is open and she looks very sheepish until she finds her voice again eventually.

"Lucius – _Lucius_ – what… Why –"

"Because he wants to see my Mistress happy," Elsy hisses, anticipating the question. "And Milady _cares_ for her family, no matter how ungrateful or rude they are!"

"But –"

In this moment, Mr Ted returns, fully dressed in his travelling cloak, carrying his sponge bag and some other items and throwing them into the trunk as well. He notices his wife's dumbfounded expression and asks uneasily, "Anything wrong, love?"

She instantly wakes up from her speechless reverie. "Wrong? Apart from a bunch of assassins coming after you? No, honey, apart from _that_, everything's splendid!"

"I sent Dora a message," he murmurs and shuts the trunk. "Be a love, Dromeda, and please try saving the paintings – they can steal them for all I care, but they mustn't destroy them only because I'm not a pureblood."

"Is that your sole worry?" his wife screeches and he reaches out for her and presses her close.

"No, my greatest worry is the uncertainty what's going to become of you and the kids, honey."

The house-elf makes a bow. "Is there anything else I can be of help with, Mr Ted?"

He falters for a second and shakes his head then. "No – no, I don't think so. Thank you for helping as much as you did. And forward our thankfulness to your mistress, please. Tell her – tell her we're deeply indebted to her."

The elf smiles, makes another bow and disappears with a very quiet sound. Ted stares at the spot where she's been standing a second ago, then rallies himself and swiftly kisses his wife. She clings to him, doesn't want to let him go just yet, and he can't bring himself to pull away. Both of them know what neither dares speaking out – this might be the last time they see each other in a very long time. _If_ they have a chance to meet again, ever.

Much too soon, Dromeda pulls out of the embrace with tears in her eyes and ushers him to go, and bring as many miles between himself and this house as he can. She promises to cover his traces, hide his paintings if she can, then she practically pushes him out of the back door. He procrastinates some longer, hugging and kissing and telling her all sorts of comforting nonsense, but then in the distance, the church bells chime four times and he knows he's got no more time to lose. He Disapparates and re-emerges as close to Dora's new apartment as he can, crosses the little park – and stops dead in his tracks.

Not sixty feet away, he sees six cloaked figures heading towards his daughter's house. He trims his wand at their backs, shoots a Confundus Charm, and a second spell causing a noise like a gigantic gong hoping Dory can hear it and understand the warning, then he instantly turns around to run back to the spot from where he can Disapparate again. Red jets of light shoot past him, missing him by inches, he casts a Shield Charm, from which at least two curses ricochet and cleave some trees.

Never sporty, and in recent years a little fat around the waist, he reaches the safe spot with his last breath and Disapparates. The first destination coming to his mind is the house of his gallery owner, Cecil, but he changes his mind again almost at once. Cecil's wife is Muggle-born, too, he must not increase their risk, and he settles for Trafalgar Square instead. The wide place, teeming with Muggles at daytime, is not nearly as busy as he'd wish for right now, but it has to suffice for the time being. Allowing himself to slow down in order to regain his breath, he crosses the street and glides into the first doorway he sees. His daughter has shown him how to send a Patronus message, and he uses his cover to send half a dozen of these now. To Cecil, another one to Dora, to some other Muggle-born friends. God, Dora! He hopes she's got his first message – that she's heard the warning gong – that she and her husband got away before…

He's got half a mind to return and make sure she's got away safely, but refrains. It might do more harm than good. Dora, he reminds himself sternly, is an _Auror_. She's far more capable to fight for herself than he'd be capable to defend her. Lenny is probably safe in Spain – but he ought to make sure, so he sends another message. And Dromeda? She's a pureblood. Hell, she's from one of the oldest families in the entire country! They can't have anything on _her_, can they? But after everything he knows, and has heard, about her older sister… _Reason_ got nothing to do with it. On the other hand – Narcissa's warning addressed only Dora and himself, didn't it? And she must know. Her husband is in You Know Who's inner circle, and knowing old Lucius, he ought to be a real poobah.

Now he regrets that he lingered at home for so long. If only he had left ten minutes earlier, he might have arrived at Dora's apartment in time still. He'd surely have! The poor girl – in _her_ state – where might she have gone to? He knows that the Phoenix guys abandoned their Headquarters because it's no longer safe… Following a sudden notion, he walks to the hotel from which he and Dromeda once fetched their child, and marches straight into the dimly lit lobby. A bored-looking receptionist stops him with a throaty '_Oi!_' and demands to know where he thinks he's going.

"I'm… I'm searching for my daughter," Ted murmurs, suddenly self-conscious. "She – I don't know – she would have checked in in the last hour, I reckon. The name's Lupin."

"I only started my shift ten minutes ago, pal. And I don't think anyone checked in here since midnight."

"Oh… Well – could you check nevertheless? Perhaps…"

"I am not allowed to forward information concerning our guests." The receptionist winks at him. "Though I might be persuaded – depends on the urgency, right?"

Ted exhales. "Right! Please, sir, it's _really_ urgent! A matter of life and death, as it were…"

"Life and death? I see." Apparently he doesn't, because he makes no effort to check the book before him. Instead, he stretches out his hand, and when Ted merely goggles back at him, he specifies, "What d'you think how dear this information is to you?"

"Pardon?"

"Dough, pal."

"Excuse me?"

"Lolly. Loot. _Money!_ – Jesus, you're slow!"

"Oh! Oh, yes…" He instinctively touches his pocket, only to remember that he's got only galleons, no Muggle money. Damn it! He tries to convince the porter to accept a galleons, but the ruddy man won't believe it's real gold, even though Ted claims it was a Krugerrand – he's heard somewhere once that these are made of real gold. The receptionist, however, hasn't, but at least, he is eventually so exasperated that he deigns to take a look into his book for free. No 'Lupin'. No 'Tonks' either. Feeling utterly downcast that his only idea is clearly mistaken, Ted trots out of the hotel again, wondering how on earth he can get himself Muggle money for a start.

If only he had tried some other names! Because Ted Tonks _was_ right. His daughter and her husband _do_ live in the shabby little hotel for the time being. They did receive his first message, they left Tonks' flat at once and came here, checking in under the name 'Black' – the maiden name of her mum. Both their own names, they decided, are far too unusual and distinct, whereas 'Black' isn't uncommon among wizards and Muggles alike. They've taken a room in the third floor, close to the fire exit, and cast numerous additional security spells. They think they're fairly safe here for now; _their_ most pressing problem isn't the Death Eaters at present, but the fact that it'll be full moon in three more days. Remus got a stock of Wolfsbane Potion – enough to come through another three, four months. But that doesn't prevent the transformation; it makes it merely less violent and hurtful. All the same, Remus needs a safe room for himself – safe for him and safe for others. Even if he stayed here, and Tonks would sleep some nights elsewhere – what if a chamber maid comes in? What if –

Well, there's only one thing, Remus points out with a warm smile. They need to find themselves a new flat among the Muggles. Tonks' own bachelorette flat was inappropriate for a married couple with child anyhow. And they couldn't really stay in the tiny flat of one of her dead colleagues either.

She beams at him. "You mean that?"

"I do indeed. We'll go looking for a place straight after full moon. Something nice… With a pretty room for the little tyke, and a decent box room for me."

She snuggles up to him. "That sounds fantastic! – But what about this time? Where can you go?"

"Don't worry, my love. I'll find myself an abandoned cellar somewhere and jinx it shut so Muggles can't enter. And _you_ seize the time and try contacting Kingsley."

They've had some heated argument about _that_. Remus wanted to flee, and insisted how unsafe it'd be for a pregnant woman, and before long, a family consisting of two Phoenix Order members, one of them a renegade _werewolf_, and their child which might just as well be a werewolf, too. But Dora wouldn't hear of it. She wants to make a stand and fight, and he is in no position these days to demand anything from his wife. Well, he's gotten used to the idea, too. Actually, he's convinced by now that it's the only right thing. James and Lily, back then, stayed here too. They, too, knew that there are some things worth fighting for. Worth dying for, even. And they had a baby as well.

She grins self-confidently now. "Easy. The Muggle Prime Minister is going to hold a speech in the – the – you know, the one with the tower next to the Thames, on Wednesday. On Thursday, he's visiting a school in Buckinghamshire. I think Thursday is the preferable opportunity. I can get closer there, the Muggles are so fussy about their Parliament, it's hard to get in there."

"You'll manage."

"Course I will." She grins even broader and winks at him. "I'm _still_ an Auror. Spearhead in the fight against the Dark forces and all… You think some Muggles can stop me?"

"And after that, I'll find myself some Muggle job and earn us some money."

She bites her lip. "Look… I understand – and appreciate, I do! But don't you think it'd be better if we'll just ask my parents for –"

"Nymphadora!"

"No, seriously. If you get a Muggle job, that'll be forty, fifty hours per week that you're unavailable for the Order. And while I sympathise with your wish to support our family on your own, I think this isn't the time for being obstinate. My parents got enough money. Gosh, my dad can sell one damn painting and you and I can live for a year from the money."

"Dora, _no_."

"Or…" Her lips twist to a broad grin. "Okay – what about this. _I_ will sell the painting that's in my bedroom. That's legally ours anyway."

"No way! He gave you that for your seventeenth birthday!"

"Oh, come on, it's bloody ugly! He gave me that one because I went through some modern art phase. I put it to the bedroom so that strangers coming to my flat for the first time wouldn't see it!"

She suddenly feels good. Gosh, she can't believe how good she feels despite everything. Remus goes into hiding for a few days; she contacts her parents for a start, finding that her dad had to flee, and managed just in time before half a dozen Death Eaters ransacked the house. She's anxious, but then she thinks that her dad is Muggle-born – he'll manage to live among the Muggles and keep a low profile. Next she manages to get to Kingsley, and is relieved to see that she hasn't been the only one. Three of the Weasley brothers had the same idea, and even some of the surviving Aurors that haven't yet been Imperiused got there. That night, they all meet up in the staff room of the school that Kingsley's charge visited this morning – Eugenia Hobday, Ryan Oakby, still badly scarred but otherwise quirky, Len Grimes and Williamson's widow Ruby, Fred, George and Bill Weasley plus Bill's wife.

"For a start, we should built up a network," Kingsley says. "As things are now, we're all dispersed all over England, not knowing whom we can trust, not knowing where possible allies might be."

"I doubt you'll find many people willing to sign up, Kingsley," Bill says. "My mum refused to hear a single word about our meeting tonight because she's scared out of her wits that the Death Eaters might torture information out of her."

"That's not what I meant. I don't want people to _sign up_. I want to establish a possibility for those who are on the run to gather information. What's going on, where could they turn to, whom can they trust and who's untrustworthy."

"Like a – a newspaper…?"

"Not quite. I thought of You Know Who's own old strategy. Cells. People who know and trust each other, but keep to themselves so that they're harder to infiltrate, and can't be forced to give away the entire resistance. And some means of communication that's anonymous, accessible for everyone on our side, but hard to get for the Death Eaters."

"It'd be good to have a counter force to the Prophet, anyway," Oakby gnarls. "I'd never have thought that Barnabas Cuffe would crumble so easily."

"Well, in fairness – they've got his son, haven't they? The kid's in Hogwarts – one wrong word from his old man, and Snape will take it out on the boy."

"Doesn't keep old Xeno Lovegood from printing the truth!"

There are a few sniggers and jeers; for decades, nobody would have thought of mentioning 'truth' and 'Xeno Lovegood' in the same sentence. But Oakby and Ruby Williamson produce a couple of Quibbler issues and pass them around.

Eugenia Hobday goggles at the magazine in her hand. "I'd say he's been Imperiused," she snorts. "He hasn't been that sane in years!"

"Brave man. His daughter is in Hogwarts, too."

"But Snape obviously doesn't read the Quibbler," Fred chimes in. "Our sister's a friend of Luna, and though they're bullied for not playing along the new regime, I didn't hear of any extra chicanery for her father's doing."

"Perhaps your sister isn't free to write home as she pleases."

All three Weasleys grin. "You underrate our Ginny, Ryan," Bill says smugly. "She writes home all right. Lovely letters that not even Snape could find fault with. Talks a lot about her classes. Mentions ample of books she's reading."

"Only that she writes her letters on old scrap sheets from her Arithmancy class. Everybody knows our family has no money to squander. The poor girl can't even afford proper stationery."

They all start laughing. "Excellent, man," Len Grimes cries. "So we got insider information from Hogwarts!"

"Maybe we could do the same, somehow?"

"And how do we spread the word?"

"Adverts in the Prophet?"

"Cuffe might be a jerk, but he's no idiot. He – and not only he – will become suspicious if they're supposed to print long columns of numbers."

"And once the Death Eaters got wind of the scheme, they might use it against us. Publish stuff of their own and lure our people into a trap."

"Well, let's keep the idea in mind and toy with it," Kingsley says. "I'm open for every suggestion, however absurd it might appear. Now let's get on. Any news of Harry Potter?"

Tonks replies, "He must have left the former Headquarters, and hopefully on his own account. In any case, the Death Eaters monitoring the house are gone now – after tearing down half of the inside. Looks like Snape finally figured out that he could bring his buddies along."

"What makes you think they haven't caught and abducted Harry?" Bill asks, looking dismayed.

"If they had him, it'd be all over the Prophet. UNWANTED NUMBER ONE TACKLED AND SHACKLED – don't you think? Especially after the ruckus he caused in the Ministry!"

She sees the others exhale. Yes, they think she's right. Harry Potter is still out there, somewhere. And as long as he is, there's still hope.


	110. Who's The Donkey Now?

Hogwarts won't give in without putting up a fight either

* * *

**- 3.60. -**

Who's The Donkey Now?

* * *

_I assess the power of a will by how much resistance, pain, torture it endures and knows how to turn to its advantage._

_FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE_

_

* * *

_

The Headmaster dismissed them. Once they were outside of his office, all appearance of polite behaviour dripped off Millicent at once. She took up pace, and when Draco kept up with her, she stopped abruptly and pretended to tie up her shoelace. Draco stopped as well to wait for her.

She sighed in exasperation. "What do I need to do to get rid of you, Malfoy?"

"Look, Mil, we're Head Girl and Head Boy – we need to get along somehow –"

"We do get along as far as the job is concerned, don't we? I didn't hear the _Headmaster_ complaining."

"But… Listen, I –"

"Leave me alone and bugger off, Malfoy. I don't _want_ to listen to you. And I think you know pretty well why."

Of course he knew. And albeit his thorough efforts, he couldn't come up with any proper explanation, let alone an excuse. Millicent surely wasn't the only person in school utterly disgusted by his deeds in the last year, but she was the only one in his vicinity that dared expressing her disapproval. Pansy had decided to suspend belief, and had happily bought into the cock-and-bull story of _Potter _being responsible for Dumbledore's death. How she explained the presence of half a dozen Death Eaters in school that night, Draco didn't know. Greg, Vince, Linny and Theo had all been filled in by their Death Eater fathers about what had _really_ happened – and since these fathers only knew the 'official' version as stated by Professor Snape, they were rather sympathetic. Even Theo. Which was really the most astonishing thing, if one thought about it… Zabini was his usual underhanded, hypocritical self and didn't comment upon _anything_ that had happened, so did most of their classmates. Only Millicent made no secret of her opinion, when no teachers were around, and she voiced all the awful things that Draco's conscience would tell him, too. Somehow he thought that if he could make Millicent forgive him, he might be capable to forgive himself, but since she showed no inclination to do any such thing – she showed no inclination to do as much as _talk_ to him if she could avoid it – he was a far cry away from making his peace with himself.

At least during daytime, he was spared of dwelling too much on his self-flagellation though. The atmosphere within the school was so surreal; it felt like in one of those dreams were nothing made real sense. Draco had always believed that the only thing Hogwarts would want was a proper Headmaster – that replacing Dumbledore with Professor Snape would be the answer to _everything_. He liked his former Head of House – in the last months, he had come to like him even more than anyway – and he knew that Snape was both a good teacher, and an excellent guide for his students. As Head of House, he had been strict, but fair, unwaveringly respectable, competent and admirable. As the new Headmaster, however, things seemed to be slipping out of his grasp, and Hogwarts was far from 'comfortable'. Draco wasn't sure though that this was the Professor's fault. More than a hundred students hadn't been permitted to return to school, and their friends did _not_ simply put up with it. With the downfall of the old order, _everything_ had changed, _was_ changing still and hadn't settled yet, and the addition of the new teachers didn't make things the _tiniest_ bit better. Quite the contrary.

He couldn't decide whom he found more unsympathetic – Alecto or Amycus Carrow. Amycus Carrow was a moody, gruff, humourless creature void of any teaching capabilities, though, in Draco's opinion, he lost out _slightly_ to his older sister all the same. Alecto Carrow had all the ill qualities that her brother boasted, but was certainly more annoying, when one thought about it.

He had never attended Muggle Studies; he hadn't found it necessary and neither had his parents. What could wizards say about Muggles, that some proper books couldn't teach in a tenth of time? Exactly. Draco had read these books – Penrose, Wigworthy, Stalk, Egg and Windermere – and got himself an 'Outstanding' in his OWL exams. So one could reasonably assume that he knew everything about Muggles that was worth knowing, right? Well, Alecto Carrow clearly didn't think so. At first, Draco had still believed she was pulling their leg. When he had realised that she was serious – thank goodness she had mistaken his laughing fit for scorn about the Muggles – it had dawned on him that he could flush his OWL mark down Myrtle's drain. Nothing of this would get him anywhere in Alecto's class.

During the first two weeks, he had still been insecure – perhaps his new teacher was right, and all the books he had read had simply reflected on the poor mindset of their authors…? He had no first-hand experience with Muggles to truly be capable of having an opinion of his own, had he? But as Alecto went on, he saw that she was the one with the poor mindset. The woman should be writing for the Quibbler, for good Merlin's sake!

According to _her_, Muggles were, indeed, close relatives of apes. So far so good, Draco would have agreed. If her next step of explanation hadn't staunchly claimed that wizards were a creation of their own, completely unconnected to any other species. Wizards, Alecto Carrow would lecture with bright eyes, had been created by ancient spirits, in order to rule supremely over everyone and everything else. And while Draco's own father surely held the same belief, as far as the subjugate clause was concerned, '_ancient spirits from the dawn of creation_' didn't come into it anywhere. Draco had never heard such nonsense, and he clearly wasn't alone in thinking so.

Already, two dozen students from his own class alone, had earned themselves detentions for openly disagreeing with the new doctrines. And, oh, how mature and inspired Alecto was in her initial choice of punishment! Longbottom, Finnegan, Goldstein, Boot, the Patil sisters and numerous others, had been sentenced to write lines. '_Muggles are filthy_', or '_Muggles are subhuman_'. But since the students showed no inclination to surrender, Alecto had soon recognised that writing lines didn't suffice, and demanded that from now on, all students were to do their homework in the Great Hall, where she and the other teachers could supervise them – and root out opposition when they saw it. Well, why she assumed that the other teachers would help her was beyond Draco's grasp, and since not even Professor Snape corrected her, Draco saw no reason to tip her off either.

He stared at the blank parchment before him, unable to come up with anything to write. If the rubbish that Alecto kept on preaching had made only the tiniest bit of sense! Draco, his mother's son and taught by excellent teachers since his infancy, wasn't accustomed to reason outside of the realms of logic. Experimentally, he started with '_As thorough research has proven with overwhelming evidence_' – and for five solid minutes now, he wondered how to continue that promising beginning. His mind trailed away and so did his gaze, settling on the group of students sitting on the next table opposite of him.

Longbottom, Gingerhead, Finnegan and the Lovegood girl clearly weren't in the mood for their homework either, and sat huddled closely together, discussing something. Less curious than bored, Draco cast a quiet spell to be able of overhearing them better.

"Dumbledore handed the sword down to him, so it rightfully belongs to him. We're merely getting it for him," Little Red Riding Hood said firmly.

"But was Dumbledore allowed to give it to anyone?" Lovegood objected cheerfully, receiving an angry glance for the question from Weasley.

She hissed, "You needn't come along if you don't want to!"

"Shhh," Longbottom made, shooting the two girls a poignant glance and inclining his head. Draco could easily see why – Alecto was coming closer, prying over the shoulders of the students at the parchments before them. She stopped behind Finnegan and clucked her tongue.

"Mr…"

Finnegan gave a start and turned around. "What?"

"_Excuse me,_ _Ma'am_!"

"I'm a guy, Professor, so if you feel like giving me honorary titles, make it _Sir_," he retorted with a grin, making everyone who had heard him giggle, including Draco.

She narrowed her eyes and sneered. "That's detention for cheek, Mr Whatsyourname. And bring your neighbours around – if they find you so funny, they surely don't want to do without your company!"

He rolled his eyes. "'kay."

"_Yes,_ _Ma'am_!"

Finnegan opened his mouth, but seemed to have second thoughts, and merely muttered, "Yes, Ma'am."

"Exactly." She jeered, then pointed at his homework. "That whole paragraph is rubbish. Throw the sheet away and start anew!"

He goggled sheepishly at the few lines he'd written. "I only just got started! – _Ma'am_."

She snatched the paper and read it out aloud, "'Wizards and Muggles are genetically similar' – bah!"

"Well, you got to read on," he said, "'genetically similar with the sole exception of the gene carrying the magic capacity'."

"But they _aren't_ genetically similar, stupid! That's another night of detentions for not paying attention in my class!"

"But –"

"It's like it is with horses and donkeys," Alecto ranted on, stabbing her finger in the air for emphasis. "Horses are noble creatures, and while donkeys bear a certain visual semblance to them – they have four legs and a tail, but so have elephants, and certainly, you wouldn't say that a horse is _similar_ to an elephant."

Finnegan simply stared at her in mild incredulity, but Redhead got up and confronted the teacher with a mocking smile. "But – _Ma'am_ – horses and donkeys cannot produce offspring that are, in turn, capable of reproduction, because they belong to the same family and genus, but not the same species. Wizards and Muggles, on the other hand, _can_, ergo they are members of the same species, ergo their genetic code _is_ overwhelmingly _similar_."

She had spoken with a clear, carrying voice so that there was hardly anyone in the Great Hall who hadn't heard her. Draco swiftly squinted over to Professor McGonagall, whose face showed an almost comical mixture of uneasiness and satisfaction.

"Dangerous nonsense," Alecto snapped. "That's another week of detentions for you, Miss! Now _sit_ _down_, or –"

Weasley obeyed and grinned venomously. "So to carry on that comparison – if wizards and witches are the horses, right, and Muggles are donkeys, which means half-bloods would be mules –"

"Now you got it!"

"That would explain why the Headmaster is childless."

Draco bit his lip. Longbottom looked like fainting. Lovegood inclined her head as if she was contemplating that possibility in earnest. Alecto, however, was all-too-obviously torn between laughing, and strangling Redhead. In the end, the need for discipline prevailed over mocking Professor Snape's half-blood status, and she gave Weasley another detention before striding on to control a group of Third Years. And Draco hurriedly returned to his own homework, scribbling indifferently – '_wizards and Muggles cannot sire fertile offspring_.'

Next to him, Vince, who was still sniggering, asked, "What's that sentence mean, Malf?"

"Mules, Crabbe," Draco retorted dryly. "Just write something about _mules_."

"But that's not true, is it?" Linny asked, looking diffident. "I thought Mr Travers' grandmother had been Muggle-born, too, and –"

"Shut up," her brother barked.

"But –"

"Be quiet, Linny," Draco said, but far more gently, and gave her a little smile. She blushed and made goo-goo eyes at him like usually. Good heavens. "You mustn't say such a thing, you understand?"

She nodded, but didn't appear as if she had understood anything at all. "What was the thing she said about Professor Snape?"

"She was being forward, Linny, that's all."

"Because Euan Abercrombie said that Professor Snape was being a half-blood, too…"

"Abercrombie, you say?" her brother asked eagerly.

"Yes, Euan Abercrombie from my year," Linny replied good-naturedly, keen to reconcile him. "He's in the Drama Club with me –"

Vince wrote down everything he heard with a satisfied smirk, and Draco could easily imagine what his friend was going to do with that bit of information. Every night in their dorm, Vince professed with glowing eyes how much he was looking forward to become a 'proper Death Eater' – a paradox expression, Draco thought but didn't say – and gushed about everything he had learnt about the Dark Arts so far. Because that was one of the other novelties this year. No more 'Defence Against the Dark Arts' – the new curriculum made studying the Dark Arts themselves compulsive.

Draco didn't suffer from amnesia – he was well aware how much he had mocked the Defence classes when he had still had them. Seeing how the class was to be taught by old Amycus now, gave him second thoughts though. For a start – the class was both boring, and ineffective. The Dark Arts were interesting in themselves, fascinating really, but someone had forgotten to tell that Amycus Carrow. Their teacher had no sense for the subtleties of his subject; the intricate theory completely evaded him, just like the inherent beauty of well-conceived spellwork. _His_ approach was far more like Crabbe's. It hurt? Fine. Go ahead. It killed, or maimed, or otherwise incapacitated somebody? _Excellent!_ Draco had thought he had been introduced to the subject by the queen bee of enthusiastic torturers – but in comparison, Aunt Bella suddenly looked like a true intellectual to him.

Speaking of Vince – he had forgotten his black list. It was already half past eleven that night, Draco had just put on his pyjamas and was about to go to bed, when his friend jumped out of his, as if a scorpion had stung him.

"Blast!"

"What?"

"I meant to talk to Professor Snape, damn it!"

"What?"

Greg yawned, "He won't thank you for waking him up, Vince."

"Rubbish! He'll be _delighted_! And surely, he'll have something to say to the Dark Lord about my contribution!" He rummaged through his bag and found the crumpled piece of paper. "Longbottom, Abercrombie, Weasley – ha!"

"Go to bed, Vince," Draco groaned and slipped under the covers. "Tomorrow's another day."

But Vince wasn't to be persuaded, donned his school uniform robes over his pyjamas and left. Draco felt no curiosity about his friend's success or failure, and opened the book that his mother had sent him – '_The Crucible_'. In her letter, she stated that this book, dealing with Muggles and witch hunting, would surely make a nice contribution for his Muggle Studies class, and Draco had wondered if his mum could possibly imagine just how nonsensical that class went about, and that an actual historic book would be completely wasted. Thirty pages into the book, and tongue-in-cheek, he changed his mind. His mum clearly had a pretty precise notion of what was going on here.

He gave a start when Crabbe returned, throwing open the door with a wild expression of almost demented joy. "Guess what!" he cried and raised his fist in a victorious gesture. "_Guess what!_"

"Blimey," Greg, who had already been asleep, sighed and squinted over.

"Professor Snape was even more pleased than you thought, and from now on you'll be allowed to use the Prefect's Bathroom for reporting to him so diligently," Draco drawled indifferently and turned over the page.

"Pah! Better! Much better!" He expected his dorm mates to react more curious, but since they showed no reaction, apart from Zabini snapping at him to keep his voice down, he had to explain things himself. "Scared you don't get your beauty sleep, Zabini? – Anyway! I caught those rotten Gryffindors! They'll give me an award for this!"

Draco didn't feel exactly enlightened. "An award – for reporting some Third Years…? Keep your hat on, pal."

"You don't understand! I caught the Weasley chick, Longbottom and that funny Ravenclaw! They'd just broken into Snape's office!"

"_What?_"

Pleased to have raised even Zabini's attention now, Vince recounted his feat in detail. On the stairs to the Headmaster office, he had practically bumped into Little Red Riding Hood, followed by her two chums, and had, razor-sharp, concluded – possibly tipped-off by their shocked expression – that these three had had no business there at this time of night. He had shouted for the Headmaster – who, indeed, hadn't been in his office – and instead, the caretaker had shown up. As it had turned out, Weasley, Longbottom and their Ravenclaw friend had broken into Professor Snape's office and – coronation of insolence! – broken open a glass case that had held the sword of Godric Gryffindor.

Draco was rather impressed, but Zabini merely sneered. "Big deal, fatso. You've rescued an artefact from _Gryffindor_. Well done."

"Whom are you calling 'fatso', pretty boy? You don't get it!"

"No, I don't." Zabini yawned ostentatiously.

"They were stealing it for _Potter_," Vince cried triumphantly and pulled a very important face. Draco propped himself up on his elbows, an echo of this afternoon's conversation that he had overheard in his mind. So _that_ had been the sword that Ginger had talked of? The one Dumbledore had bequeathed to him? Did Potter think he could win against the Dark Lord by using a _sword_? What an eccentric idea! Though… The Dark Lord was said to be the last descendant of Salazar Slytherin – so maybe Potter thought he'd need the support of another founder to… No, he decided. The idea was just odd.

"So they know where Potter is, then?"

"They must, don't they?"

In fact, Vince had no clue, because he had been sent back to his dorm by the Headmaster, as soon as this one had shown up on the crime scene. Presently, he was interrogating the perpetrators, and surely condemning them to maximum punishment. Judging his face, Vince was thinking of them doing time as galley-slaves. He flutteringly implored Draco to see Snape first thing tomorrow morning, in his capacity as Head Boy, and his friend agreed, starting to be rather curious himself. What had these three been up to? What did they mean to do with that sword? He had heard of the fact that Potter and the Dark Lord couldn't duel each other using their own wands – this had cost Draco's father his, because the Dark Lord thought it'd work better – but why would Dumbledore have thought that sword-fighting was an eligible alternative?


	111. Detentions

For the first time ever, Draco and Neville Longbottom have something in common

* * *

**- 3.61. -**

Detentions

* * *

_All in all, punishment hardens and renders people more insensible; it concentrates; it increases the feeling of estrangement; it strengthens the power of resistance._

_FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE_

_

* * *

_

"No. I don't have to practise this, anyway!"

"You'll do as you're told, Malfoy!"

"You think so?" Draco gave him a challenging look.

Carrow returned that look likewise. "Yeah. Or…"

Draco knew what his teacher implied, but he couldn't give a damn. He already knew how the blistering Cruciatus Curse worked. He truly didn't have to practise. He'd had more than enough _practise_ on _that_ with a harsher teacher than old Amycus! And most certainly, he wouldn't use it on _Greg_, no damn way!

"Or what," he gnarled, staring right into the shorter man's eyes. "Put me in detentions, will you? Well, go ahead."

So, _yes_, he did end up in detentions, but not the way he had assumed when hearing that he'd have those with Filch. No scrubbing floors, or night pots, or the Owlery. He landed himself in a remote part of the dungeons, alongside Longbottom who had a couple of hurtful looking bruises and a blackened eye, and Filch sniggered more happily than Draco had ever heard or seen him before.

"My, my, laddies! Professor Carrow the younger says I can do with you as I please!"

Longbottom looked as if he was going to be sick, and in that second, Draco still believed that the Gryffindor really was a complete wimp. How bad could it become, and if they'd stay up all night polishing door handles without magic! Filch put up a ladder and beckoned at Longbottom to climb up. Only then, Draco saw them, too. The infamous thumbscrews, that every student had heard Filch rhapsodise about for years, but which Draco hadn't believed to actually _exist_. So here they were, affixed to the dungeon wall, just high enough for Longbottom's feet not to touch the ground. As soon as feeling the boy's touch, they snapped close magically, and Filch tore away the ladder. Longbottom whimpered.

Filch shoved the ladder on, to a pair of screws some inches higher and told Draco to follow his fellow detentionee's example. Draco goggled back stupidly. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Up, laddie," Filch growled with a malevolent glint in his watery eyes. "Or Professor Carrow the younger will come and fasten them personally, and he's not as gentle as I am."

He fluttered his hand at Longbottom, who gave a miserable sound and something like a nod. Draco couldn't _believe _it, but mounted the ladder all the same, turned around, and felt the cold iron enclose both of his thumbs with a ill-foreboding _click_. Before he could think further, Filch had already torn away the ladder, and a sharp pain shot through Draco's hands before he could have properly reacted.

Filch left without much further ado, disregarding only half a dozen gleeful remarks, and blocked the heavy door from the outside. Longbottom was still giving pained noises, and one look sufficed to tell in how much pain he actually was. "Close your fists, Longbottom," Draco groaned.

"What?"

"You've got to – the way you're hanging, your joints will soon be dislocated. And then it's going to hurt _a lot_!"

"I know! I've been here before!"

"Oh, bummer… Anyway – close your fists. Tense your muscles, you see? Try not to hang, but to hold your own weight. Crank your thumb – I guess it's easiest if you clench your fists, it's the same move. And very slowly, imitate the movement as if you were chinning yourself. Have you never chinned yourself?"

"_What?_"

Draco sighed. Of course he hadn't. Longbottom was certainly no athlete, was he… "You better learn it tonight." He witnessed the other boy's desperate attempts, how he tried to reach the floor with his toes at least, but Filch had chosen the right height. Just low enough to incite hope, but too high to succeed. "For once in your life, Longbottom – _trust_ _me_. You don't _want_ your feet to touch the ground like this. For if they do, with your thumbs still up there –"

"I've been here before, Malfoy," Longbottom panted through clenched teeth. "I _know_ it's going to take a day before my joints are back where they belong! I know the pain!"

"Then try to prevent it! _Clench your fists, man!_ There you go! Excellent. And – is it getting better already?"

"Yeah…" Longbottom coughed, turning rather purple. "But I'm not going to manage holding out for long!"

"Course not! That's why you got to do it as if you were chinning the bar. Don't let yourself hang again – lower yourself very slowly and carefully, and pull yourself up again. It's easier like that!"

"How would you know!"

"Quidditch practise."

"What?"

"Flint had some extravagant ideas about strengthening our arms and fingers. Anyway – look how I'm doing it. Okay? Lowering – stop here, before losing _all_ tension – slowly up again – and hold it as long as possible, but not too long, or you won't have the strength to conduct a slow descent again, and thus dislocate your own thumbs."

Longbottom tried, he really did, and if his movements were neither elegant, nor smooth, and he still looked like he was in ample of pain, he at least stopped whimpering, and the red on his cheek was due to exertion, not pain.

"How – come – _you_ – got – yourself – here?" Longbottom asked breathlessly.

"I had a bit of a brawl with old Amycus. N' you?"

"Didn't – attend – class – altogether… What'd – you – fight – about?"

"Oh, forget it. – Slower, Longbottom, _slower_. So this is how you spend your evenings, then?"

"Only – once – per – week…" Longbottom slowly got the gist, but his breathing was still much more laboured than Draco's. It was true. Flint _had_ left his team hanging twenty feet above the ground, chinning up, hanging on every single finger once at a time. Draco was aware that he had never tried this for more than five or ten minutes though, and surely, Filch wouldn't return so soon. But one could delay the final moment of real pain as long as possible, right? "'Cause I – don't go – to his class…"

"Bugger…"

In spite of all his exhaustion, Longbottom adopted a fierce scowl. "You know – what they – say... One's got to – do what's right – not what's easy!"

"Oh, I see!" Draco snorted. "Well, _this_ surely isn't _easy_!"

"Why're you – helping me?"

"Don't want to listen to your whining all the time, do I… Listen, Longbottom, this isn't going to work out for long. I suggest when we realise we can't go on, we ought to try relaxing only one hand at a time, and try to cling on with the other. Got me?"

"I don't think – I can – do that."

Draco looked over and decided that Longbottom had a healthy self-concept of his physical fitness, wondering what else they could try. Pensively, he murmured, "I don't understand this. You have this _once per week_? Why don't you just –"

"_Never!_" Longbottom spat with unsuspected vigour. "I'll _never_ – learn the – Dark Arts!"

"Gryffindor is about _valour_, mate! Not about masochism!"

"Never!" Longbottom repeated, looking strangely dignified despite the humble state they were both subjected to.

Draco arched his brows, thinking how idiotically stubborn that boy was. Admittedly, _tonight_ Draco shouldn't be talking either; he was here for his own stubbornness, too. But if there was one thing for certain – he wouldn't come back if there was a way to prevent it! And the Dark Arts weren't all about the Cruciatus, or the other Unforgivables even. Some of this stuff was really interesting. He'd just focus on _that_. He'd grovel for forgiveness with old Amycus, he'd excel in the other stuff, and distract from the fact that there were a handful of spells that he didn't want to cast, least on his friends.

The minutes ticked away in literally agonising slowness; he felt that he wouldn't be capable to continue much longer, starting to listen to his own piece of advice by trying to hang on one thumb at a time to give the other a chance to recover as good as possible. Longbottom had already lost that fight; with a nauseating little noise, his left thumb had dislocated and he was clinging on with the other, threatening to break down any second now. Draco braced himself for the inevitable screech, hoping it'd drown out the little snap, and hoping against hope even more that it wasn't going to come so bad for himself, when he heard someone manipulating the door.

"Posture, Longbottom," he hissed. "Don't let Filch see he's won!"

But it wasn't Filch; to Draco's sheer astonishment – and elation – he spotted the lean, dark figure of Professor Snape in the door frame, waving his wand and in the next second, Longbottom had slouched down to the ground, groaning lowly. Professor Snape freed Draco next, his expression inscrutable, and pocketed his wand again.

"I've summoned your parents, Mr Malfoy, and your grandmother, Mr Longbottom. Follow me, I want you present during that talk."

He marched away without another word and hastily, Draco followed, pulling Longbottom along. He took out his wand and performed a remedy charm on his thumbs, and on a second thought, he roughly groped for the other boy's left hand, too, and whispered the charm under his breath. If Snape had heard him, he at least made no remark, but Longbottom mouthed a silent 'thanks', making Draco feel very strange indeed. They reached the Headmaster's office; Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy were waiting outside, just like an elderly witch in bilious green robes and a hat adorned with a vulture.

Snape smiled at the Malfoys. "Narcissa – Lucius. So glad you could come! Please, be so good and wait here for another moment while I'm talking to Madam Longbottom. It won't take long, and we can have a drink together without hurry."

He ushered Longbottom and his grandmother into his office and sealed the door. Draco shot his parents a wry smirk and muttered, "I'm so sorry, Mum – Dad…"

"It's all right, honey. What happened, anyway?"

"Had a bit of trouble with Amycus Carrow…"

It was almost dark in the little vestibule, but he saw his mother blanch. Still, she reached out for his hands, pressing them in great animation, and causing him to shrink away and groan with the still lingering pain. "Darl- What is it, Draco?"

He explained in some short words; his mum listened with a stony expression, his dad looked half furious, half grief-stricken. Before Draco had finished, the door was pushed open again, and out stalked Madam Longbottom with a proud face and her even more defiant grandson. She curtly nodded at Narcissa, glared at Lucius and off they went. The Malfoys entered the office, and Draco couldn't help it but search for the portrait of Albus Dumbledore, but it was empty as usually.

He repeated the story how he had landed himself in detention, and added his remedy concept, too. "Mr Carrow won't find a reason to complain about me again, sir, I assure you."

Snape nodded. "I'll talk to Amycus and forward your apologies, Draco. You won't be able to partake in the next lesson anyway; you and Miss Bulstrode are going to accompany me to report to the Ministry of Magic next Friday, in your function as Head Boy and Girl. Now – can I offer you all a drink? A glass of Ogden's, Lucius? Wine, Narcissa? And what would you like, Draco?"

Draco chose wine like his mother and noticed how the Headmaster tipped a greyish substance into his glass. For a startled second, he was worried, wondering if Snape actually tried to poison him in front of his parents, but realised how nonsensical this notion was, and drinking the first sip, he realised that it had been a pain killer.

"The Dark Lord," they all muttered, and if Draco wasn't mistaken, none of them, not even the Professor, sounded overly enthusiastic.

"I am very glad to hear that you have made up your mind already, Draco, or it would have been my duty to remind you of your obligation to act with proper conduct. You are, after all, Head Boy."

"Yes, sir."

"I failed to make the least bit of impression on Mr Longbottom, I'm afraid, or his grandmother, come to that."

"Augusta was never to be impressed by anything, was she?" Lucius muttered with a lopsided smile. "Perhaps Augustus ought to talk to her – or the boy."

"I don't think that'll do. He spends more time in detentions than in his classes. Head-strong child… Funny. I had never suspected Longbottom of all persons to have such a nerve."

"He finally takes after his parents then?"

"What about his parents?" Draco asked guilelessly.

All three adults seemed slightly astonished. "You – you don't know?" his mother asked with a frown.

"Know what?"

Professor Snape exchanged a few glances with Draco's parents, and Narcissa replied, "Oh, well… Where to start, really… Your aunt… She was very dismayed, back then, after the Dark Lord's disappearance. She tried to find him, she, Rodolphus and Rabastan, and – they took it to their head that the Aurors might have an inkling about the Dark Lord's whereabouts. Frank Longbottom had been consigned to investigate the matter, and one night, they broke into his house, and… They tried to force the truth out of him – and his wife – you know your Aunt Bella, Draco… They even tried to extort Longbottom by tormenting their baby son, too, but it was too late already. Both Frank and Alice Longbottom's minds had snapped already, and they… Well, they could no longer have testified, even if they had wanted…"

"I didn't know Longbottom was an orphan."

"Technically, he isn't, darling. They're both alive, just… Demented, you see?"

A cold shiver ran down Draco's spine. He had never stopped for one second to wonder what it was about Longbottom's parents, why he'd never mention them, why it was always his gran fetching him from Platform Nine And Three Quarters… Oh yes, he knew his aunt… He had also seen what the Cruciatus Curse was like, what it'd do to people… He had had a good reason after all to refuse casting that of all spells on his best friend…

He didn't know what was driving him when he asked next, "Why did you never tell me?"

"There never seemed to be the right moment, Draco," his father answered, his eyes glued to his wife's hands. "You don't tell a child about torture, do you? Later, it seemed odd to mention it out of the blue – you had stopped asking about your aunt, and we – I think we just forgot – or thought you had heard in school, anyhow."

Narcissa smiled woefully. "And then Bella was back – you and I didn't have much of a chance to talk then." Draco blushed and averted his eyes. "And frankly, I didn't think of it, either. I didn't think of the Longbottoms in _ages_."

Draco couldn't have said himself why he thought that it mattered. Perhaps because he had just spent half an hour in Longbottom's company, had seen the other boy's pain, just like his willpower, his determination to rather let himself be mistreated in the most brutal way than learn that brand of magic that had cost his parents everything. Longbottom had never struck him to be anything but pathetic and ridiculous. A complete dunderhead in Potions, beyond inapt in Transfiguration, clumsy in Charms, incapable to hold himself on a broomstick. His round, harmless face, the chubby figure, the diffidence of voice and manners – he had been a ready-made joke.

Draco had never thought beyond that appearance, and he didn't get why he would now. He had more pressing problems. Still, he was strangely touched by that story, and undeniably impressed by Longbottom's attitude tonight. 'One's got to do what's right,' he had panted, and suddenly Draco understood what he'd meant, what that trite, too-often-heard phrase really meant. '_Never!_' How he had used the bit of breath he'd had, to swear that he'd never learn the Dark Arts. Perhaps he was a fool, yes, but an admirable fool, at least.


	112. Between A Rock And A Hard Place

Severus _hates_ his new job

* * *

**- 3.62. -**

Between A Rock And A Hard Place

* * *

_Malis displicere laudari est._

_SENECA THE YOUNGER – De Remediis Fortuitorum_

_

* * *

_

"Where's Nagini?" Severus had been wondering about that for quite some time now, and the unexplained absence of the Dark Lord's favourite companion foreboded quite ill, as far as his opinion was concerned. Lucius and Narcissa seemed to regard it the other way round, though.

"Maybe she's suffocated on a really fat rat," Lucius gnarled with all the spite he could muster these days.

"Let's not hang our hopes too high," Narcissa said. "A small rat would suffice."

All of them, even Severus, laughed out loud. It felt good to laugh – he couldn't remember to have laughed about anything in the last weeks – or months. Hell, he couldn't remember _at all_ when he'd been laughing the last time. His time in Hogwarts was _hell_. That was his foremost reason to have come here tonight – he claimed to have wanted reporting to the Dark Lord, but since there wasn't anything of significance to report in the first place… It was just good to for once be among people who didn't hate him with a passion.

He had always had the highest opinion of Minerva McGonagall. As a matter of fact, his opinion of that witch had increased still since meeting again after Dumbledore's death. Maintaining strength and keeping a stiff upper lip within the most dire conditions – he'd salute to her attitude, oh yes, even if he was at the receiving end of that attitude. Even Narcissa – who shared that particular brand of strength – had expressed her admiration for the old teacher. She didn't approve of the other teachers' behaviour towards her friend, no – but she admired countenance when she saw it, and so did Severus himself.

In all candour – the school was in deepest chaos. Any serious _study_ was virtually impossible these days. Half of the students were plainly apathetic. An appallingly sound percentage didn't bother for schoolwork because they thought that under the new regime, scholarly achievements wouldn't matter anyway, and that they'd join the Dark Lord's cause this way or that. A smaller, yet distinct number of students made no bones about their defiant disdain – for the Dark Lord, everyone connected to him, and the new Headmaster in particular. And then, there was still the usual amount of dunderheads, to which all teaching effort was wasted anyhow. And those were only the students.

As for the _staff_… Severus had realised, with some disgusted astonishment, that he did have one unexpected – and unwanted, 'ally' – Argus Filch. Unfortunately, the old caretaker had found himself the best supporters he could have, namely the Carrow siblings. Three of a kind, really. _They_ gave detentions for the smallest offences – Filch was tickled pink to oblige them as diligently as he could be. Severus had _sworn_ he'd protect the students to the best of his abilities, but he hadn't reckoned with the force that he'd have to go against inside the school. He abhorred physical punishments of any kind, and had never thought it possible that he could once spend the chief of his days preventing the worst in this respect, without raising too much suspicion. And the stubbornness of the children involved didn't make his life easier. One would think they'd try to keep out of trouble, right? Wrong! Even the more sly ones, like Lucius' and Narcissa's son, took some perverse delight in annoying the hell out of their new teachers. Well, Draco was of the less problematic type still. At least, he wasn't masochistic. His job as Head Boy offered ample of opportunity to keep him out of the thick of things as well. But there were also the hopeless cases like Longbottom, or the Weasley girl. No matter how harsh the punishment – they simply seized their time in the torture chambers to come up with new ways for mischief and mayhem.

At least in this respect, Minerva and her lot didn't sabotage him. Which was another impediment to academic achievement – not that it mattered any more – but since none of the old teachers would give detentions for _anything_ nowadays, a good deal of students did hardly bother to show up, or prepare themselves. Their behaviour in Amycus and Alecto's classes was hardly more sensible, though in this respect, Severus was strangely endeared to their unruliness despite its utter foolishness. Having a backbone – he hadn't thought most of the little scallywags capable of so much.

Still, their defiance wouldn't do. He had given Dumbledore his word, after all. And he had ample of people to look after this way or that, and only little support. The former Headmaster Phineas Nigellus – Narcissa's great-grandfather, incidentally – kept an eye on Potter. Or tried to, more like, because the smart Miss Granger had not only taken his portrait along after their eviction of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place (Severus was deeply grateful that Potter had such a shrewd friend to accompany him, indeed. He'd take back every quip he had ever made on her account!) – she had blindfolded the portrait. Well, at least Nigellus _heard_ them and kept on reporting – indignant, but still.

The bottom line was that Potter was comparably safe for the time being, and Severus had a little space to worry for other people, like some members of his staff, for example the two Divination teachers. Towards the Dark Lord, he claimed that Firenze might come in handy, regarding the other centaurs. Lucky that the Dark Lord hadn't got a clue that his herd would kill the poor creature at sight. And then, there was also Madam Trelawney and her famous prediction, of which almost everybody knew by now, with the exception of the woman herself. Now here was a life that he had protected rather successfully, for once. He had offered the Dark Lord to 'interview' the Divination teacher personally – and due to his newly-gained glory, got appointed for the job at once. At least he no longer had to overcome doubts concerning his loyalty, even if he couldn't bring himself to rejoice about that. It didn't take much fantasy to imagine what she'd have been put through if the Dark Lord had questioned her himself. She was mad enough without someone tempering with her brains and subjecting her to torture.

He had invited her to his new office on the previous afternoon, and made her drink Veritaserum before Amycus Carrow's close scrutiny. What Amycus had _not_ known was that he had spiked the potion with a strong painkiller beforehand. Of course, the nonsensical woman hadn't remembered a thing about the prophecy she had made that night eighteen years ago, and next, Amycus had checked whether Dumbledore had subjected the seer to a Memory Charm – hence the necessity for a painkiller – again, without success. Sibyll had been quite indignant about such treatment, but at least she hadn't complained too loudly, and got dismissed before long. For once, he had his good luck to thank for that it had been up to Amycus to report to the Dark Lord about the failure of their assignment – his reception hadn't been exactly grateful.

"I am deeply disappointed, Se- _Headmaster_," Sibyll Trelawney said when he met her the next time. "I demand an apology from Professor Carrow the younger!" Seeing him rolling his eyes, she added, "For the interrogation he put me through! And I intend to write to the Ministry of Magic and make an official complaint, just so you know, about the both of you!"

Oh god, the foolishness of this women knew no end. He gave her a shark-like smile. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, Professor."

She looked confused, while he produced his wand. "You wouldn't?"

He confunded her non-verbally and smiled broadly. "My dear, you already _did_ write that letter. You received the answer, too. The Minister of Magic is excessively sorry, but bids your patience and forbearance, until things in Hogwarts have settled a little."

"Oh?"

"Indeed, dearest. If you have any further questions, I suggest you confide to the Deputy Headmistress. She'll sort it all out for you, I'm certain."

Minerva, though she must be aware of the fact that he had done Sibyll a favour, didn't thank him for it. Instead, she decided to send Filch after Severus, with no matter what insignificant business. The complete disappearance of all cleaning supplies – Peeves – the flooding of all ground floor bathrooms – all door locks in the main building being glued – Peeves – the undeniable problem that all the school owls had been fed laxatives, making the delivery of the post next morning more than messy – _Peeves_ –

Filch found no end to his litany. "And some students broke into the dungeons – _my_ _special_ _dungeon_, Headmaster, you know! And transformed all metal objects into rubber ducks!"

The caretaker snorted indignantly, and Severus jeered. "Well, just re-transform them, Mr Filch. That's none of _my_ business, I believe."

Ugly red blots appeared on Filch's cheeks – unwilling to admit his status as a Squib, he stammered, "Surely – matter of school discipline – thought you oughta know!"

"Yes, and now I do know. Thank you, Mr Filch."

Severus would _not _help him getting his torture instruments back, as futile as that effort was. Alecto had done the old man this favour before the next morning, and also lined up a number of suspects for Severus to inspect. Five resentful pairs of eyes scowled back at him, belying the innocent expression they had plastered onto their faces. There were Seamus Finnegan, Pavarti Patil, Longbottom, the McDonald girl and the youngest Weasley, and Severus needn't even think about it to guess that none of them had done it – but that all of them would just _love_ to take on the responsibility. Filch had shown him the corpus delicti – well, one of them – and the little yellow rubber duck, eccentrically adorned with pink sunglasses and a pirate hat, had practically screamed its originator's name at him. This, no doubt, had been Miss Lovegood's doing – but Alecto hadn't brought her here simply because she was no Gryffindor. Severus had no intentions to correct that mistake.

He grinned. "So? Gryffindor's supposed to be about valour – now who of you's brave enough to own up?"

They were smart enough not to fall for that bait and kept on staring back at him in silence. Alecto took out her wand. "Let _me_ give it a try, Severus!"

"Oh, but now you brought them here already, Alecto. I have a better idea. Let's just punish them all." She beamed at him, though a little forced when he continued, "All of you will write eight foot of parchment on the subject of punishment. The concept – the aim – the necessity. To be handed in to me until tomorrow evening."

He expected some good laughs coming from these papers – he'd just have to see to it that neither Alecto nor her brother got their hands on them. He could read them out to Dumbledore – which would surely make a nicer lecture for the evenings than Rita Stinker's botch. The ludicrous woman had published what she'd call a 'biography', and following one of Alecto's ever-so-clever brain waves, the school had been donated some eight hundred copies of that filth, by courtesy of the purest of all purebloods, Mr Malfoy himself. Now every student – and staff member – was demanded to read it; the students were actually tested in History of Magic on the contents.

Severus saw himself compelled to read it, too, and had amused himself and the old Headmaster by reading it out aloud to him in the evenings. Some of these things, however, did unsettle him exceedingly, and even though he kept on telling himself that Skeeter was an appalling journalist and that she must have made up most of this anyhow, he felt uneasy, even doubtful at times.

"'Astonished and appalled though his many admirers will be, this letter constitutes that Albus Dumbledore once dreamed of overthrowing the Statute of Secrecy, and establishing wizard rule over muggles. What a blow, for those who have always portrayed Dumbledore as the muggleborns' greatest champion! How hollow those speeches promoting muggle rights seem, in the light of this damning new evidence –' erm…" He smirked and shut the book. "Is that… Mmmh…"

Dumbledore shrugged. "It's true. A very contorted version of truth, yes, but there was a time when I was just as fascinated by these things as you were yourself at the same age, Severus."

"That isn't… I didn't…"

"I can see you're troubled, Severus. Out with it."

He bit his lip, sorting out his own thoughts. "I was thinking, you know… I – I always wondered why – why Lily did not insist to make _you_ their Secret Keeper. I always told myself that it must have been Potter's doing, that _he_ persuaded her to reject your offer, but…"

"But…?"

"The Potters were neighbours with Bathilda Bagshot, right? And if Lily had heard from Madam Bagshot that you – that you… She… She used to be very firm in that respect, don't you think? In her opinion about people meddling with the Dark Arts… About – about –"

Dumbledore didn't speak; perhaps he was waiting for Severus to continue, perhaps he didn't know what to say. Pensively, Severus muttered, "I was just wondering if she… If she would have guessed your ideas about – now how did you call it – about _The Greater Good_ – that you – that you're ready to sacrifice the boy in order to undo the Dark Lord –"

Dumbledore looked astonished, dismayed even. "I must say, I never thought about it from this angle…"

"So you didn't – hint that…"

"No, I didn't. I don't think I did, no. Though…" He tilted his head thoughtfully. "You see, back then, Harry didn't have a piece of Lord Voldemort's soul encapsulated in his forehead, so… Perhaps – I might have mentioned something like – well, that we'd have to see how Harry could eventually destroy Voldemort – something like that… I really don't recall what I actually said or not –"

"Why did you never tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"That you – well, that you made the same mistakes like me, once."

"Because I'm not proud of it."

"That's not the point though, is it?"

"I… Look, Severus, I – my entanglement with – with the Dark Arts – it led to the worst mistake of my whole life, and I… I could never forgive myself. There was a time when I thought that forgiving you would mean that I'd be forgiving myself, indirectly, and… I wasn't ready to address this point in any small way."

The implication hurt more than Severus would have believed. "So you never forgave me, then?" he asked, unable to keep a disappointed note out of his voice.

"That's the irony, isn't it? I _did_ forgive _you_ – how could I not, seeing the depth of your remorse, your unwavering determination to make up. I just never – never really came to terms what that would mean for myself… Otherwise I'd never have put on – but that's a story for another day. I guess the _point_, as you call it, is that it's much harder to forgive oneself, than others. Or did you yourself ever find your peace?"

"And I shan't! I _mustn't_ –"

"Then you might understand the same notion in me, don't you, Severus? The reticence to ever have it mentioned? The hurt to hear others unwittingly stir on the topic? Or am I mistaken in my belief that you never even mentioned _your_ feelings to your closest friends even?"

Severus felt his cheeks redden and looked away. "I am sorry, Headmaster, I didn't mean to pain you!"

"You aren't. I am dead, after all, and I have you to thank for ending my pains, so I think I owe you some candour at last. _My_ involvement with the Dark Arts resulted in the premature – and violent! – death of my beloved sister, more directly in fact than your part in the death of Lily Evans was. I didn't even understand how much I cared for her, before I saw her body lying on the ground – I never had the chance to tell her – I never had a chance of making up… And – like you, I daresay, I resolved to dedicate my further life to fight the temptation. Whatever question you have – please, go ahead and ask me. I will tell you whatever you care to hear."

Dumbledore's expression was sincere and Severus contemplated the offer for some minutes. "What is it about the darned sword?"

"Gryffindor's sword? Well, as you know, Harry used it for stabbing that basilisk then. And in consequence, it imbibed the basilisk's poison."

"So much I gathered myself. I also understand why the Dark Lord mustn't be given additional weapons. What I fail to see though is why Potter is in need of the silly thing. Even young Draco asked me if Potter was supposed to meet the Dark Lord in a sword fight."

"Out of curiosity – what was your answer?"

"I told him that the Lord's ways are mysterious."

Severus grinned and Dumbledore laughed out loud. "Excellent! – But to answer _your_ question as I said I would – Harry needs this sword for the same reasons why it is imperative that he is killed by Lord Voldemort. The fragment of his soul in Harry's head can only be undone by Dark magic."

It took him a minute to grasp what Dumbledore had just said. He paled. "Are you – are you suggesting that –"

"Didn't you tell me yourself just _how_ insane your old master appears nowadays? That it's got worse than it used to be? I believe the reason for his increasing unstableness is rooted in exactly that, yes. But Severus, I implore you – Lord Voldemort must never learn that I found out his secret. I always dreaded that he might figure it out, and would hide the objects in question elsewhere – in places that no one but he could guess!"

"So that is what the boy is doing, right now? He – what – he searches these objects?"

"I believe so, yes."

Severus got a sudden idea. "That night when… When I found you here – with that cursed ring – and the sword next to you… _That_ was a piece of his soul as well…?"

Dumbledore confirmed this notion, too, and Severus, groaning, thanked him for finally putting his trust in himself. But the old man shook his head. "Don't think I hadn't trusted you, Severus. But there was always the danger that Lord Voldemort might scrutinise you too closely – that not even _your_ defences would hold. Now that your loyalties are no longer questioned, I think there's nothing left for me to fear."

Well, perhaps Dumbledore saw no reason to fret – but Severus thought quite the opposite. His heart didn't feel lighter the _slightest _bit! To alleviate his shock, he got up and marched over to the cabinet in which he kept the beverages, and poured himself a large whiskey to digest this dreadful piece of news. How should Potter manage all this? How _on earth_! If not even Dumbledore had survived the hunt! Darn it!

* * *

_Malis…_ It's laudable to displease the bad.


	113. Unexpected

She'd nearly have knocked him out cold!

* * *

**- 3.63. -**

Unexpected

* * *

_If you're wondering why all the love that you long for eludes you, and people are rude and cruel to you – I'll tell you why! You just haven't earned it yet, baby!_

_THE SMITHS_

_

* * *

_

"How could you do that?" she asked, exasperated.

He lifted his hands in a vague gesture. "Well, it's not that hard, actually. If you had been there, I'm sure you'd have learnt it much quicker than –"

For a second, she wondered if he was just acting the dimwit, or if he could possibly be that thick for real, but then she decided it hardly mattered and rushed off. Greg called after her, but she didn't turn around once more, trying to dispel the unpleasant thoughts connected to the idea that a boy whom she had considered to be one of her best friends, had actually 'practised' the Cruciatus Curse on a bunch of 'delinquents' – students who had in some way misbehaved, according to the Carrows' logic.

She suspected by now that it was no coincidence on the Headmaster's part to take her and Malfoy to London on Fridays so frequently, though she couldn't say what he meant by it. Or maybe she did – because the gatherings in the Ministry that the three of them attended always took place on days when the rest of her year practised particular curses in their Dark Arts class, and Malfoy had once spent an evening in detentions for staunchly refusing doing that. Everybody could know how close Snape and Malfoy's parents were, and Millicent suspected that Snape kept his favourite Malfoy out of trouble to oblige them.

And if even _Malfoy_ defied doing these things, with his dad being who he was, and Malfoy being himself – how could Greg even _ask_ where the problem was? She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself, but didn't. That _idiot_! That big oaf of a stupid moron! He really was every bit as silly as everyone always said, and _she_ was an even greater idiot for ever doubting it!

Only to do something, she walked up to the Infirmary and paid Theo a visit. He looked pretty quirky for someone who had broken both his arms, and when she asked him about it, he winked at her and glanced around surreptitiously. "Such minor impediments shan't keep me from pursuing a bit of early morning exercise. Perhaps they temper with my wand-waving capacity, but otherwise…"

She laughed. So Theo had his personal Defence Against the Dark Arts thing going, too, eh? "Need anything?"

"If you want to do me a real favour, please scratch my nose. I can hardly call for Madam Pomfrey each time my nose itches." She sniggered and obliged him. Looking around once more, he muttered, "How many turned up, anyway?"

"I wasn't there myself, but from what I heard, Gryffindor skived completely. Some Hufflepuffs came but refused doing it. Ravenclaw and our lot turned up quite complete with few exceptions, but only few actually managed the curse. Can't tell how many seriously tried, though."

"Enough, I dare say. What happens to those who didn't come without an excuse? And those who refused to do it?"

"I don't know. Snape said something about wanting to take on the punishment himself this time."

"Doesn't sound too bad. He's got a hundred times more style than the Carrows."

"Well… On the one hand, I'd agree – but on the other… Why do we even have to endure them? We've got Snape to thank that they're here."

"It's not as if he had had much of a choice, though, is it?" Theo said quietly. "He's got to please the Dark Lord like anyone else –"

"But –"

"_He_ saw to it that the other teachers even came back, Mil. Bellatrix Lestrange was waiting in line to replace McGonagall." Her jaw dropped, and he went on, "You gotta credit him for trying. It could be so much worse, if it weren't for him."

She goggled at him, trying to process his words. Regardless of their respective opinion on the Dark Lord – there was not _one_ person who wouldn't shudder with the mere _name_ 'Bellatrix Lestrange'. Millicent was no exception from that rule. Defending herself against her overbearing older brothers over the years, she had developed some deeply ingrained beliefs on the subject of witches being _every_ bit as capable, fierce and worthy as wizards, but _Bellatrix Lestrange_ was taking the subject of female equality too far, even for someone like Millicent. People feared her even more than the Dark Lord himself – _he_ didn't care for trifles, apparently. He only killed on the big scale. But Madam Lestrange had a reputation for enjoying cruelty too much to miss on an opportunity, no matter how small the offence.

The way it seemed, even Malfoy – the mad woman's own nephew – was slightly scared of her. In any case, he turned greenish when her name was dropped. Millicent had spent much of the past months since the night of Dumbledore's death cursing every hair on Malfoy's skull. Until then, she had thought he was more or less all right. Full of himself, yes, but so were most boys in her humble experience, and he looked like a modest person next to someone like Warrington, or god's own creation Zabini. She had also taken his behaviour towards Pansy very much amiss – but she had known that for a good part of the whole drama, Pansy had only herself to blame. She had pushed too hard, wanted too much too soon. In short – in Millicent's eyes, Malfoy's annoying traits had always seemed in balance with his good qualities. He had been funny, generous – if it weren't for his support, Greg and Vince would have been kicked out of the school years ago, probably – and rather clever, which always was a good thing in Millicent's books. She was surrounded by too many dimwits not to acknowledge intelligence when she saw it.

But that he had really gone that far – that he had brought werewolves into the school and had killed Dumbledore – or tried to kill Dumbledore – well, the rumours had been going high. Be that as it might; Millicent had stopped making excuses for his sake. Enough was enough. Only when witnessing how he had defied their Dark Arts teacher because he wouldn't cruciate his best friend – only then, Millicent had got second thoughts. Vince – who was dumber than allowed, but had always struck her as basically harmless – _Vince_ had done it without asking twice, and so had Greg, who wasn't the brightest star in the evening sky either, but whom she had always… –

Well, she had a rather credible source sitting right there before her now, right? Theo was pretty clever, too, his dad was a Death Eater as well, but that didn't make _him_ lose his head over this whole shit. Why not ask Theo?

"Is it true? What the others are saying? That Snape – that it wasn't Malfoy who – well…"

"Malfoy didn't kill Dumbledore, if that's what you mean. Neither did Potter, obviously," he replied quietly and gave her a poignant glance.

"So – so Snape _did_ do it? He really –"

"He did indeed. And saved Malfoy's neck in passing. Look, Mil, I know what you're thinking, and I can't say you were wrong, but… I think you're too harsh on him. The Dark Lord meant to punish old Lucius when ordering Malfoy to kill Dumbledore. And when it looked like he couldn't do it, he let him know that he'd kill his parents – and _still_, Malfoy couldn't – and didn't – do it."

"And – why are you telling me all this?"

Theo blushed and looked a little awkward. "Because… Well – I hoped that you – that you understand that only because our fathers… Hm…"

"Yes?"

"I don't want you to think ill of – of any of us."

"I don't think ill of _you_," she said, astonished, and her astonishment increased still with every bit of red glowing on her fellow student's cheeks.

"That's – that's good…" he muttered at last and gave her a warm smile. She felt suddenly uneasy – self-aware in a way that was quite new. The kind of smile… But she must be mistaken. Of course she was. Nonsense! But he kept on smiling at her; she didn't know what to say, and when he asked her if she could fluff his pillow, she did him the favour instantly only to do something. She helped him to sit up, and before she could figure out what was happening, he had brushed a kiss on her cheek.

She froze, speechless, and apparently, that sufficed as an answer for him. He clumsily embraced her – the casts around his arms were a bit of a hindrance – and kissed her for real. She let it happen; she was too confused, torn between different impulses, for any other thing. She couldn't _believe_ this. Seriously – her sense of reality was challenged. Theo! _Theo!_ Who'd have figured? Certainly not _she_!

Theo was one of 'cool' boys, to say it like Pansy would. He was quite good-looking – tall, slender, with wavy chestnut-brown hair and intensely blue eyes with long lashes; his face was well-cut, with a strong, determined chin and a hooked nose with a prominent bridge. He was looking _really_ good, and he was not unpopular, and also he was pretty smart, and _mature_, much more than any of the other guys… A boy like Theo wasn't the sort of guy who'd pick a girl like Millicent, she thought. What _the hell_ had got into him to – to –

She had been on the verge of slapping him, so indignant – nay, _outraged_ – she had initially felt, but his embrace was quite pleasant, despite the casts. He tasted like peppermint tea, his lips were soft, his kiss tender… In short – this felt too good to reciprocate by lashing out at him. And also, he was an invalid, with his broken wrists, right, she couldn't _possibly_ hit him…

"What are you _doing_ there?" she murmured, her eyes still closed, when he stopped at last. He chuckled softly.

"What d'you think, then?"

"I think you just – you just – erm – you must have lost your mind!"

"_That_ is an interesting way of putting it," he whispered and she felt him kiss her again.

Pansy reacted similarly incredulous, that night in their dorm, after her friend had told her what had happened in the Infirmary. "_Theo?_" she cried with wide eyes. "You're taller than him!"

"Yeah, well, in that position, it hardly mattered," Millicent replied with a shrug.

"You've also got twenty poungs more! If that's enough!"

Millicent just shrugged. It wasn't as if she didn't think the same.

"What – _how_ –"

"I haven't got the foggiest."

Pansy narrowed her eyes and scrutinised her roommate closely. "Did you slip him a love potion?"

"What? _No!_" Millicent returned, utterly offended. A love potion! _That_ was Pansy's domain, after all! She had once foisted some potion called 'Unfaltering Devotion' on her everlasting crush Malfoy – it had cost a fortune, and Pansy had been outraged that the company didn't even reimburse the money. Because it hadn't worked out, obviously, though that had hardly been the maker's fault. The catch about that stuff had been that the drinker would fall for the very first object he'd see after swallowing it. In this case, Malfoy had unwittingly drunk it and the first thing he had seen then, had been the bottle of Ogden's into which Panse had filled the potion. Instead of swearing undying devotion to _her_, he had clutched the bottle, hadn't let go of it again and drunken the _entire bottle_. Even after he had been sick all over the place and collapsed on the floor, he had still been holding onto the bottle until Snape had given him an antidote. Malfoy hadn't talked to Pansy for a whole week, threatening her to curse her to pieces if she _ever_ tried something like this again, and Snape had banned love potions from the Slytherin dungeons under the penalty of three weeks worth of detentions.

"Don't look at me like that," Pansy said now. "I was just wondering. Since when does Theo fancy _you_?"

There was something in the way she put stress on the '_you_' that riled Millicent. This was, after all, her bloody best friend! It was one thing if Millicent felt self-conscious and not good, not pretty enough for the guy. But her _best friend_ was morally _obliged_ to say it weren't so! "I have no idea, Panse," she snarled. "After all, why shouldn't he?"

Pansy opened her mouth for a reply, but shut it again and let her eyes glide up and down her roommate's bulky figure instead. Millicent returned that glance challengingly. Yeah – so she wasn't all thin and pretty, like Pansy. So what? _She_ had never minded, apparently _Theo_ didn't mind either – so why would her sodding _best friend_ mind all of a sudden? Because _she_ had someone to make out with, and Pansy hadn't?

Pansy reacted affronted when Millicent said this to her face; they had a heated argument, and didn't talk to each other for the next two days. Millicent hardly noticed; Theo was allowed to leave the Infirmary, his wrists had healed, and she was the beneficiary of his regained dexterity. Not that she wasn't still stumped out with the mere _idea_ – but she was also far from complaining. He was sweet and quite charming, and did amazing things with his hands and lips. She saw absolutely no reason to stop him.

In fairness – Pansy wasn't the only one who was visibly stunned when realising that Theodore Nott and Millicent Bulstrode were dating nowadays. They really were an odd couple. Although Theo was no dwarf, he was still an inch shorter than his new girlfriend, and thirty pounds lighter. And even if Pansy hadn't been very nice, or subtle, in putting it – the _chemistry_ between these two was just – just – well, _weird_. Theo didn't exhibit the usual signs of a seventeen-year-old boy in love – he was actually very gentle and attentive around her. And Millicent appeared less amorous than simply baffled. Some people gleefully attributed this to the idea that 'someone like _her_' could never have hoped to make 'such a lucky catch'. More benevolent observers, like Millicent's best friend Pansy, merely muttered, 'She never appeared to _like_ him that much…'

However, these whispers kept neither of them from shyly holding hands and the like in the Common Room – the only real sign that they were a couple now, because otherwise, they both acted like they always had. Some hardly noticed they were together. Draco, for example, hadn't paid attention before his roommate Greg pointed it out with a lopsided, bemused grimace one afternoon. At first, he didn't get what Greg was even talking about until his friend expressively indicated at Theo holding Millicent's hand.

Draco cocked a brow. "What the –"

"_Exactly_, man!" Greg grunted quietly.

They were interrupted by Pansy, who had been reading some tabloid magazine. "I don't get it. How can your mother marry a _Muggle_?" She lowered the newspaper and goggled at Zabini. "_Again?_ I mean – _honestly_!"

Before the boy had a chance to answer, Draco snarled, "Let me guess – he's a rich, old Muggle. Troubled by frail health, perhaps? Nobody would be amazed to see him drop dead?"

Zabini grinned condescendingly. "I haven't met him yet. I don't think I will, either."

"Good golly, even _your_ mum must get enough of that sooner or later. The howmaniest is it? Number eight, or nine already? I must have lost track somewhere."

"What business is it of yours, Malfoy? You think _your_ mother had married your old man if he wasn't loaded like old Midas?"

Draco couldn't help it; he laughed out loud. "If that was the case, why do you think she never tried to kill him, eh?"

"Perhaps she did, and didn't succeed?"

"Ah, I see. Because _your_ mother is the only witch alive that can knock some poison up and drip it into her spouse's night cap, right? – Must be tough to think one's mum had murdered one's own father."

"My mother did _not_ kill my father," Zabini hissed, sounding deadly.

"Well, how would you know – she killed all the others," Draco drawled complacently. He greatly enjoyed Zabini's clearly visible vexation.

"There's no proof of that!"

"Exactly what I'm saying, isn't it."

"Oh, get off it, guys," Millicent cut Zabini short, who had just opened his mouth for another snide retort. Like everyone else, she liked cracking jokes on Zabini's cost – he was just such a self-absorbed little idiot – and privately, she had made countless jibes on Venus Yaxley's – or whatever her current name was, she had had too many to keep counting – multitudinous husbands. But she drew a line at Zabini's father; whether his mum had murdered him or not would never be found out beyond doubt, but it was his _father_. No jokes about dead parents!

Theo pressed her hand now, and looking over with a little smile, she saw him move his lips, forming something that looked disquietingly like 'I love you'. She might have been mistaken though, because in the next second, she sustained a coughing fit, cringing so hard that her eyes began to water.


	114. Going Home For Christmas

The Hogwarts Express is stopped

* * *

**- 3.64. - **

Going Home For Christmas

* * *

_Stood on a great plain in the falling snow;_

_Ten thousand soldiers marching to and fro:_

_Looking for you and me, my dear, looking for you and me._

_W.H. Auden_

_

* * *

_

Suddenly, the train stopped, and Draco was hit by a swift, but unpleasant recollection of the last time when the Hogwarts Express had been stopped in the middle of nowhere – years ago – by a bunch of Dementors. To dispel his uneasiness, he glanced outside, and froze. There were Dementors indeed! Blast it!

"Shit," Greg groaned, who had spotted them, too.

The others gathered around the window, only Draco glided sideways on the seats, to bring as much distance between him and the window as possible. Dementors made one think of the worst things that had happened in one's life, and he had too many of such memories to even attempt appearing brave. He'd trade that kind of recollection for his mates' scorn anytime!

"What do _they_ want?" Theo asked with a frown.

"Hey… I think that's – hey, that's my dad!" Vince exclaimed cheerfully and opened the window, to Draco's utter dismay. "Dad! _Dad!_ Here! Over here!"

Mr Crabbe seemed to have more important matters to do, though, still Vince kept on waving frantically. Theo sat back down, opposite of Draco and asked under his breath, "Dementors _and_ Death Eaters?"

Draco rolled his eyes, nodded and shuddered. They were coming closer; the temperature in the compartment hadn't dropped because of the open window alone. Millicent slumped back into the seat next to him, and asked in the same quiet fashion like Theo before her, "You're all right?"

He could merely shrug, desperately trying to fight back the images that started seeping into his mind. Greyback baring his blood-smeared fangs – his mum writhing on the ground, screaming in agony – Dumbledore falling off the Astronomy Tower – his dad crying – Dolohov begging for mercy – Emma torn to pieces by the ferocious snake – a pool of sticky blood on the floor of the Crystal Parlour – that Muggle Studies teacher begging for her life – Longbottom gasping, almost suffocating with a spell aimed at him –

"Hey! _Hey!_" He faintly noticed that someone was shaking him and forced his eyes open. He saw Millicent crouching over him, slapping his cheeks with a very concerned expression. "Malfoy? Can you hear me?"

"Yeah –"

She pushed something into his hand and ordered him to eat it, and obeying without even asking, he realised he was munching on a chocolate bar next. Instantly, the images became slightly blurry, and the icy panic that had gripped him lessened somewhat. He noticed Vince sniggering, but the three others looked genuinely worried, and with a swift flick of his wand, Theo silenced Vince by sending him down on the floor with a Stunner.

"We'll just tell him he had passed out," he said calmly, shrugged and put his wand back.

"Thanks…"

Greg had shut the window again, and Draco thought he saw a faint white glow behind the pane. The dreadful thoughts ebbed away with astonishing quickness; only when the white mist diminished, they threatened to return with a vengeance, but Millicent brandished her wand, muttered something and the mist glowed even brighter than before.

"Don't worry, Malf," Greg murmured. "We're not telling anyone."

He felt awkward and only to say something, asked, "Don't they – don't they affect you guys at all?"

"Neither of us lives in the Headquarters of Doom, do we," Millicent said sarcastically, and receiving a shocked glance from Greg, she added, "Why, I'm just saying like it is!"

"But you mustn't –"

"Just don't repeat it, then, Greg!"

Draco felt a sudden rush of gratitude – and admiration. Millicent sat here with the sons of four Death Eaters, even if Theo'd taken down one of them, and still she dared to say it 'like it is'. _Headquarters of Doom_ – well, that truly nailed it, didn't it? He got to tell that to his mum, she'd find it hilarious.

Suddenly, there was the sound of curses shooting alongside the corridor, and they exchanged some startled looks. "What the –" Theo uttered, but was interrupted when someone jerked open the compartment door. Draco's jaw dropped with surprise – the faces of his friends showed even more aghast astonishment, and he couldn't blame them. Before them stood his aunt, grinning – which made her look really eerie, enhancing the similarity to a skull.

"There you are, boy," she said brightly. "I thought I might just as well take you home myself, and spare your mother a trip. She doesn't like London anyway."

Draco gave a confused hum, seeing Greg salute, and Theo make a little bow. "Ma'am."

She glanced at them and nodded absentmindedly. "Yes, yes." Then her look fell upon Crabbe in the corner, unconscious. "What's wrong with him?"

"He – passed out. The Dementors," Millicent lied with bold smoothness.

Aunt Bella nodded and beckoned at the window next. "And what's that?"

"A Patronus Charm, Ma'am," Millicent replied quickly. "I thought Vincent would get better when the Dementors couldn't affect him so much."

"A Patronus! You can cast one, then?"

Millicent smiled her nicest smile. "Indeed, Ma'am. When one of our Abraxans goes wild, a Patronus usually helps to rope them in again."

"But can you do a fully-fledged one, too?"

"No, Ma'am." She made an indifferent gesture. "Not worth bothering, is it?"

Draco privately exhaled, seeing his aunt's suspiciousness turning into approval, but then she grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him up. "Come on, Draco. I haven't got all day. – Want to come along, Nott? Goyle?"

Theo snatched his girlfriend's hand and declined with fake dismay, but Goyle, never quick-witted to begin with, couldn't come up with an excuse, and shooting a weird look at the other two, submitted with a little nod. "Thanks, Madam Lestrange –"

"Hurry up, then."

They grabbed their stuff and followed her along, noticing a rather rampaged compartment nearby and exchanging a swift, furtive look with Greg, Draco cleared his throat and asked, "Glad as I am that you spare me the remainder of the ride, Aunt Bella – what made you come here?"

She waved with her hand, but didn't turn around. "Oh, business, of course. You'll see at Headquarters. At home, I mean."

"How are my parents?"

"Fine, fine. You know your mum. She's bristling at the best of times."

"And my father?"

She cast a look over her shoulder but didn't slow down. "Quite all right, I dare say." She gave him a piercing glance. "It'd better stay this way."

They dismounted the train, and Draco was grabbed by the Dementors' influence again, while still puzzling over her meaning. Greg next to him was shuddering, too. Luckily, the Dementors kept their distance to the bunch of Death Eaters gathering under a large spruce, offering them shelter from the masses of snow. Draco noticed subconsciously that they no longer bothered for masks, though all of them had pulled up their hoods, which was probably due to the cold weather. He saw his uncle, Dolohov, Rigby and some others that he knew much better than he liked. Greg was greeted by his father; Mr Crabbe was sneeringly informed what a soft little loser his son was – which made Draco rather uncomfortable, since it was really _he_ who had passed out, and due to his aunt's not very subtle warning concerning his dad…

He was distracted in this train of thought when spotting _the_ most unlikely addition to this little party, while behind them, the train set in motion again, and the Dementors eagerly followed it along. There stood Augustus Rookwood. And beside him… "_Longbottom?_"

Longbottom got dressed down, by the look of it, and Draco faintly remembered that old Augustus was the twin brother of Longbottom's gran. The boy didn't even seem to listen. His gaze alternated between his uncle, Bellatrix, and, curiously, Mortlake who had a hand on the shoulder of the Lovegood girl, and pressed his wand against her throat. The reason why the train had been stopped dawned on Draco, and a cold shudder ran down his spine. Greg on the other hand seemed plainly baffled.

"What are _they_ doing here?"

Draco replied under his breath, "Lovegood's father publishes the Quibbler, mate."

"Yeah, I know."

"There you go, then! They'll want to make an impression on him."

"And Longbottom?"

"The same, I wager…"

Judging by Longbottom's looks, they were half-way there. He looked frightened whenever gazing at the Lovegood girl – but seemed to pluck up courage when his look fell on Bellatrix and his own uncle. He glared at them, positively defiant, which in turn impressed Draco quite a bit. He had yet to meet someone not intimidated by his aunt. By the look of it, he had found that someone, in the most unlikely shape of little, diffident Neville Longbottom. And given Aunt Bella's track records, her assault on the boy's parents in particular… Amazing. Suicidal, yes, obviously. But all the same impressive!

The Lovegood girl herself was neither here nor there. There was mainly confusion in her face, and she occasionally shook herself and exclaimed, "That tickles! Can't you point your wand somewhere else, please?"

"Why did you stop the train for this?" Greg asked guilelessly, and even though Draco thought he had a hunch about the answer to that question, he listened to Mr Goyle with interest.

"We didn't want to make a fuss in King's Cross," he told his son. "Image campaign, you see –"

No, Greg surely didn't. "Why didn't you just take them out of Hogwarts?"

Draco was squirming inwardly, but tried to look impassive, all the more when hearing the answer, "Your Headmaster won't have it. Speaking of image campaign – I guess the whole thing was his idea in the first place. Snape thinks that – uhm – well, certain _actions_ – aren't prone to increase the Dark Order's popularity. He demanded that no one enters or leaves the school, because there was enough trouble as it is now. So we had to think of another way, that's all."

"Draco, come over here," Aunt Bella barked. She jinxed Lovegood's hands tied behind her back, then roughly snatched her arm and indicated Draco to take the other one. "To the Manor, boy!"

"Yes, Ma'am," he replied automatically. He couldn't bring himself to look at the student next to him. To the Manor! They were taking her to the Manor! Oh, good heavens! Having dozens of strangers imprisoned in the cellar was one thing – and not a very delightful one, come to that! – but dragging a fellow student there, even if he didn't like her in the first place, was a whole new level of perversity!

They Disapparated on the spot and found themselves in front of the main gate-house in the next second. "That's pretty," the girl said in an unconcerned tone, making Draco wonder if she was really so reckless, or simply a bit daft. Admiring the architecture when there was torture ahead! Aunt Bella cackled, touching the wrought-iron gates with her left wrist and pulling them all along.

"You like the gate-house?" she jeered. "Wait until you've seen the dungeons!"

"Is that really necessary, Aunt Bella?" Draco asked despite himself, still looking anywhere but at the girl. "I mean – it's just the bloody Quibbler, after all!"

"Hey!" Lovegood moaned, sounding vaguely offended.

"Have you, by any chance, taken a look at the latest issues of that rag, nephew?"

Draco had indeed, but thought it was unwise to admit this. "No…"

"Then keep your mouth shut on topics you have no clue of! We can impossibly tolerate some crazy weirdo maligning the Dark Lord and our cause. It's no good for the public morale!"

"But it's only the Quibbler – no one believes anything in _there_, anyway!"

"That's because the truth is inconvenient," the Lovegood girl said almost merrily, and Draco wondered what on earth it'd take to shut her up.

"And anyway, what's _she_ got to do with this?"

"Oh, _shut up_, Draco, and stop playing the dimwit. _Blimey!_ – I should have left you on the train, would have suited you well enough!"

"I am sorry, Aunt. I was merely wondering. Forgive me."

He was so accustomed to these empty phrases of submission; he hardly noticed anymore. Which, unfortunately, led to uttering them rather uncommittingly, and even his aunt, on her own customised plane of insanity, couldn't but notice. She stopped in her tracks and flourished her wand to emphasise her words –

"You want to pull yourself together, nephew! Your _attitude_ leaves a lot to be desired!"

"I am sorry, Aunt Bella," he repeated, straining to sound sincere.

"That's better. And take care it stays this way. Your father cannot afford his son behaving like some slacker!"

_That_ remark did the job, oh boy. Draco instantly straightened up, tightened his grip on Lovegood's arm, and with the exception of his continuing incapability to look at her, he arrived at the Manor as the very epitome of a young, aspiring Death Eater. That was – until meeting his parents again in the entrance hall. When he loosened his grip on the girl and hurled his arms around his father's neck instead, he was very much his mum's boy again.


	115. Soulpiercing

Severus makes a delivery

* * *

**- 3.65. -**

Soul-piercing

* * *

_Wenn sie vorbeigeht  
Dann scheint es wie ein Feuerwerk  
Vor einem Himmel ist es sie die ich bemerk'  
Ihrer Königlichkeit ist nur ein König wert'  
Und ich bin wenig königlich  
Sie sieht mich einfach nicht  
Wenn sie tanzt dann tanzt alles  
Ihre Hüften und Arme  
Alles erhellt sich im Licht dieser Dame  
Sie hat die Anmut und die Reinheit  
Die die anderen nicht haben  
Sie hat all das was ich  
Nicht hab' – sie sieht mich einfach nicht.  
Je mehr ich mich ihr näher' desto  
Ungeschickter bin ich  
Mein Körper, meine Stimme, mein Gesicht  
Es gibt Grenzen die man trotz Millionen von Soldaten wegwischt  
Aber unsere überwindet man nicht_

_Sie sieht mich einfach nicht_

_XAVIER NAIDOO_

_

* * *

_

The Forest of Dean – Severus wondered what on earth the kids where doing _here_ of all places, at this time of year. Potter had no connection to the forest, as far as Severus knew; he had spent plenty of time in the boy's head, more than enough to know pretty much all places that Potter had ever been to. Gee, Severus had spent many a night roaming all those on the look-out for the children, without success. Little wonder. The _Forest of Dean_ – who'd think of _that_, honestly! Ever heard of _hotels_, kids?

It took him the better part of an hour to locate the camp, and another to find a suitable spot to hide Godric Gryffindor's sword. 'Need' wasn't the problem here – _of course _the boy was in _need _of all the help he could get. But '_valour'_? Goodness! He hoped the frozen pond that he had chosen would strike Potter enough of a challenge to account for _valour_. It was a faint reminiscence of the old 'sword in the lake' myth – but did Potter have enough classical education to even know this? Why were these Gryffindors always so foolish? Why wouldn't they accept the bloody sword simply because it was _there_? No, a _Gryffindor_ needed more than necessity, or it wouldn't sit well with their self-image! And what if Potter didn't find it? Or couldn't think of a way to get it?

'Oh, come on,' he told himself, 'you can give Lily's son some more credit!' In fairness – James Potter's son was just as likely to come up with something. Potter had been nothing if not mischievous in life. Well, 'mischievous' clearly was a blatant understatement here… He checked twice that the sword was duly hard to reach, without being out of the boy's grasp completely. _Valour_, duh!

Hopefully, the plan would work out. Dumbledore was a bit of a comedian! 'Tell Harry Potter what he needs to know, Severus! – Bring Harry Potter that sword, Severus! – Look after Harry Potter, Severus!' There was, in all probability, no person alive on this planet (except the Dark Lord, maybe) that _Harry Potter_ hated more than his old Potions Master, none that he'd mistrust more. A fact of which Dumbledore was perfectly well aware. Honoured as Severus felt by the old man's faith in him, he still found that this whole concept was utmost foolish. Why should Potter do what Severus told him? He was bound to do the exact opposite of whatever it was that Severus proposed. If he knew who his benefactor was tonight, he'd throw that sword back to the bottom of that lake! Still, the plan wasn't bad, was it? Potter would buy into it. Wouldn't he…?

He sneaked back to the campsite, hiding behind a tree, concentrated on his happiest memory and whispered almost reverently, "_Expecto Patronum!_"

A white mist emerged from the tip of his wand and formed a lithe, graceful doe. The sheer sight would take the heart out of Severus, so strong this sight was connected in his mind to the woman that the doe, and the happy thought necessary to conjure it, stood for. She lingered for a minute, turning to him, rubbing her head trustingly to his outstretched hand. Her gleaming eyes seemed to say 'Don't worry, I'll take care of this for you', and then she slowly retreated and moved towards the tent, but keeping a safe distance.

Severus carefully followed and watched her; saw her and the boy exchange some long glances, saw the shine on the child's face that almost looked like recognition. He felt immense relief. The boy would trust the Patronus, he would, he would sense what she meant, that she was a guardian spirit to help and guide him. He would somehow understand that this doe was all that his mother stood for, benignity, loyalty, faith, hope and love. She had always meant all this to Severus, even in the times when he had done everything in his power to vanquish all these from his life.

He remembered how they had learnt about Patronuses in school, then. It had been in their sixth year, _after_ the schism. Professor Quirrell, their Defence teacher at the time, Quirinus Quirrell's uncle, had explained what a Patronus was good for, and how to produce one. Lily had been one of the first students capable to get the gist and have some shapeless vapour rise from her wand, and the very first to make it to a fully-fledged form. Asked by their teacher how she had done it, she had smiled melancholically.

"I thought of the last Christmas I spent with… Before my father died…"

That statement had pierced Severus' soul. He remembered that Christmas, too. He had spent pretty much the entire holidays with the Evans family, unwitting then, naturally, that half a year later, Harry Evans would be dead, killed in an accident that had happened while he had demonstrated some experiment to his students. An Erlenmeyer flask had burst, and one of the splinters had slashed the man's carotid. He had bled to death within minutes. But of course, none of them could have foreseen that this Christmas was the last time they'd sit together like that, all four Evans' and their unofficial foster child Severus. If Severus had sensed the doom ahead, he wouldn't have gone home in the evenings only so he could drink in a bit more of the blithe serenity.

He himself had, initially, been perfectly incapable to conjure a Patronus, not even a formless one. Happy thoughts, ph! He hadn't had many, if any, _happy_ thoughts in these times. To think of some happy moment had invariably led him to think of _her_, and to think of _her_ had crashed him with sadness and fury and disappointment. He had sneaked into an empty vault in the Slytherin dungeons – incidentally the same vault that, eight years later, he had chosen as his new chambers when becoming Head of Slytherin House – and practised the spell for hours, until, at last, he had succeeded. To his utmost terror, he had faced a silvery doe, looking like an exact replica of Lily's, gazing at him, and he had thrown quite a tantrum of shame and deadly unhappiness. Not once had he ventured to repeat the spell in class – he wouldn't have borne with the humiliation and glee. If Potter and Black, or Mulciber, or _anyone_ had seen how weak he was… Instead, he had scoffed about the spell itself, had loudly claimed that it was for losers who couldn't help themselves and therefore relied on the support of some silly pet – 'like a toddler clinging to his teddy bear because he's scared of the icky monsters under his bed!' – and had gladly accepted the bad mark and detentions he had received for his complete refusal to even _try_ practising the spell.

When, some years ago, he had heard Lupin mention in the staff room that little Third Year Harry Potter had learnt to master the Patronus Charm, Severus had simply got to his feet and marched out, a grimace of disdain plastered onto his face, scared witless that Lupin – _Lupin_, Potter's friend, _Lily's_ friend – would be able to read what had shot through Severus' head in that moment. He had thought of Lily, of _her_ Patronus, of his own, he had thought of the kind of memory he would use when conjuring it… And he had thought that little Harry Potter must be thinking of the same, _exactly_ the same – of his courageous, incomparably glorious mother – when casting _his_ Patronus. And then, one stormy Saturday, he had _seen_ the kid's Patronus – a white-gleaming stag, of all possible forms it could have taken – and he had known with aghast, aching certainty that Harry Potter truly was his parents' son.

The boy was still tracing the doe now, and Severus followed them both, in some kind of trance, almost. He was glad when they finally reached the little pond; if he had been forced to observe Lily's symbolical reincarnation some longer, he might have started to cry, and would have let down his guard. And by no means, Potter must see him, or it would all have been in vain.

Harry Potter ignited his wand in this moment and glanced around, but Severus' Disillusionment Charm prevented him being discovered. He let the doe fade away so Potter wouldn't try following her, but take a look at the surface of the little lake instead. And that's what the boy did. He fell to his knees, staring at the ice, and in the light of his wand, his features looked almost enraptured. He understood. He knew what this was. He lifted his wand and surveyed his surroundings once more, only to brandish it in the next moment and try summoning the sword. Of course, this wouldn't do – _chivalry_, Dumbledore had emphasised this point – how chivalrous was it to simply _summon_ the darned thing? Severus smirked to himself, his eyes glued to the boy who just now scrambled around the edges of the pond and began taking off his clothes.

The child had always been skinny, and since their Occlumency lessons, Severus also knew why. He had gained some weight in his school time and through Quidditch practise, but the months on the run had dissolved those few pounds, and by now, his rips stuck out jaggedly, the bony chest was heaving – adorned with a swanky, clunky pendant. Severus arched a brow, faintly wondering if Potter emulated those strange Muggle habits of chicken-breasted adolescent boys wearing embarrassing jewellery to look 'cool' – but talking of _cool_, the boy was freezing to death over there, apparently. Perhaps this hadn't been such a smart idea after all –

He had broken the ice and jumped into the icy water, and for a second, his clandestine observer got the impression that the child would sustain a cold shock. But in the same moment when Severus contemplated what kind of secret spell he could conjure to keep Potter from freezing, he already dived, and Severus exhaled. Fine. In a few seconds –

He was mistaken though. The boy didn't return to the surface as he ought to, instead, the water churned up more and more – had Potter got entangled with some algae, or had he got a cramp, from the awful cold perhaps – why didn't he come back, what –

Oh, _damn it_! No longer thinking about what he was doing, he abandoned his cover behind a group of barren oak trees, unbuttoning his cloak while he was running. Suddenly, he stopped dead. Out of nowhere, it would seem, a second figure emerged, and for a few startled seconds, Severus thought that another Death Eater had tracked Potter down at last. He lashed out and was on the verge of casting a Stunner when he spotted the intruder's hair and halted his moves. Weasley! It was the Weasley boy! Oh, thank goodness! Severus hadn't thought it possible that there would come a day when he was positively _delighted_ to see the easily most gormless child of the entire Weasley lot. As dauntless as he was unintelligent, Weasley didn't falter; he dived after his friend, fully-dressed, and struggling fiercely, he finally pulled himself and Potter back out of the water.

Severus felt almost light-headed with that sight. Potter was breathing – panting, more like – the boy lived. He _lived_. Oh Jesus Mary and all Saints, praise the Lord, and bless the darned Weasley boy! He regained his countenance and hid himself behind the next best tree, his curiosity growing by the minute when he realised that Weasley was holding that ugly medallion in his hand there, the one that Potter had worn around his neck when jumping into the pond. The boys were talking; Severus cast a spell to hear them better, and another one straight to cover his traces in the snow because Potter began inspecting the surroundings and got perilously close to Severus' hideaway.

"Anything there?"

"No."

"So how did the sword get in that pool?"

"Whoever cast the Patronus must have put it there."

Weasley squinted at the sword in his hands. "You reckon this is the real one?"

How the _hell_ – no one must know there were two swords! Why would _Weasley_ of all people –

"One way to find out, isn't there?" Potter replied and cut Severus' thoughts on the matter short. He indicated at a rock nearby. "Come here."

Weasley followed him and meant to pass him the sword but Potter declined and told him he should do 'it' instead. Weasley was as puzzled as Severus, and cried, "Me? Why?"

"Because _you_ got the sword out of the pool –" Severus stifled a loud groan. _Gryffindors!_ Duh! How should he have foreseen _that_ bit, Dumbledore? Honestly!

Potter went on, "I think it's supposed to be you. – I'm going to open it, and you stab it. Straight away. Okay? Because whatever's in there will put up a fight. The bit of Riddle in the diary tried to kill me."

The boy's meaning dawned on Severus and he caught his breath with curiosity. So this thing was one of those that Dumbledore had told him of… This plain ugly piece of junk contained a part of the Dark Lord' soul! And he, Severus, would be privy to see it destroyed! There were no words to match the rush of satisfaction engulfing him in this moment.

Being him, Weasley hesitated, and Severus had to battle with the sudden urge to march over there and grab the stubborn child by the scruff of his neck and make him do it. _Do it!_ Luckily, Potter managed to convince his mate before long. The medallion wriggled furiously; Severus hardly trusted his eyes. The notion that _this_ was a piece of a soul – a living soul – but not a _real_ soul because a real soul would be whole, wouldn't it – that this silvery thing had trapped a piece of the Dark Lord's monstrosity, and would soon be annihilated –

Potter opened it using Parseltongue and cried, "_Stab!_"

Weasley raised his arms, the medallion wriggled almost desperately; Severus realised he was clenching his fists with tension, but _then_ –

"I have seen your heart and it is mine," an eerie voice rose from the medallion – Severus recognised the voice at once, and it made his blood churn.

"Don't listen to it! Stab it!"

"I have seen your dreams, Ronald Weasley, and I have seen your fears. All you desire is possible – but all that you dread is also possible…" the voice said slyly, evoking a lively echo in Severus' head. He had heard the same speech once. Had fallen prey to the temptation. Had surrendered to the promises without as much as a fight… And he could see the same happening again over there on the little clearing now –

Potter screamed at his friend to finish the damned thing, but the voice relentlessly went on in the underhanded tones of a snake-charmer, "Least loved, always, by the mother who craved a daughter – least loved, now, by the girl who prefers your friend… Second best, always, eternally overshadowed –"

Potter kept on yelling and Weasley raised the sword some inches higher, but in that moment, two uncanny spirits rose into the air – Potter's and the Granger girl's shapes, and the two phantoms began to taunt Weasley, telling him his mother would gladly exchange him for Potter, telling him that his girlfriend would do the same – _had_ done the same – and then, the ghostly apparitions kissed stormily – and it seemed as if Severus wasn't the only one believing that Weasley would lose his shaky grip on sanity and attack his best friend instead of the cursed silver thing – because Potter dived out of the sword's way with a desperate leap.

Severus awoke from his state of petrifaction and grabbed his wand frenziedly, ready to curse the Weasley boy before it was too late. A mighty scream pierced his eardrums next and he had half-way pronounced the curse to take down Weasley when realising that it wasn't Potter screaming in pain here – it was the Dark Lord's voice, distorted, strange, but absolutely unmistakable. Severus squeezed his eyes shut, tried to master his strained breathing and couldn't decide what governed him in this minute – utter elation to have been present at this groundbreaking moment, or the dire need for life-saving measures. His birthday was only a couple of weeks away, but he had the clear impression that more nights like _this_ one let him age much beyond his thirty-eight years!

* * *

_Wenn sie vorbeigeht..._ When she walks by she seems like fireworks. Against a sky it is she that I see. Her royalty deserves a king, and I am scarcely a noble man. She just doesn't see me. When she dances, everything dances, her hips, her arms, everything is enlightened by the light of this lady. She's got the grace and the pureness that no one else has; she's got everything that I have not. She just doesn't see me. The more I try to approach her, the more clumsy I become, my body, my voice, my face. There are borders that can be vanquished despite of millions of soldiers, but our limits can't be overcome. She just doesn't see me.


	116. Under Their Noses

Everyone listens to Potterwatch

* * *

**- 3.66. -**

Under Their Noses

* * *

_Non qua itur, sed qua eundum est, tibi eundum est._

_SENECA – De Vita Beata_

_

* * *

_

Draco had a bit of an idea where Longbottom was usually hiding from old Alecto's clutches, he thought. The Room Of Hidden Things was unknown to the majority of Hogwarts students. Draco knew it, obviously, and the members of Potter's little club of old did know it, too. Not many of _them_ were left for various reasons, and Longbottom was the most prominent of these. And the Room was shut more and more often, which was a predicament from Draco's point of view. Yes, Longbottom was in much greater need of a hideaway, but that didn't mean that Draco wasn't craving to have a place for himself. His old sanctuary – Myrtle's bathroom – was practically crowded these days, teeming with girls locking themselves up in the cubicles to escape the Carrows' incessant watch. Not even the dorm was a safe haven anymore, because frankly, Vince seemed to be going bonkers lately. He made that prat Zabini look harmless.

Draco was so sick of this. Sucking up to the Carrows only to be left alone – the public punishments that everyone was obliged to witness – the classes in themselves, mere travesties of what they were supposed to be… He would have wanted to leave Hogwarts, if the alternative hadn't been more gruesome yet. The Dark Lord resided in Malfoy Manor, and there weren't enough miles that Draco could bring between himself and the master. He _couldn't_ go home.

"There'll be a reward for the one catching Longbottom this time," Crabbe said now, scratching his square chin.

"Aha."

"We could give it a try, don't you think?"

"Do I look as if I was in need of money, Crabbe?"

His dorm mate's coarse features twisted into an even more unpleasant sneer – Vince didn't have the kind of face that looked favourable with a sneer. More like an ill-humoured ox. "Who's talking 'bout money, Malfoy?"

"I'm sorry. Seems I didn't listen. Didn't I hear the word '_reward_'?"

"In _your_ case, the reward wouldn't be about money, I guess."

"My case?" He returned the sneer coldly. "And what would _my case_ be?"

"Your dad's out. He's _so_ out. The Dark Lord only keeps him because he's so famous –"

"My father isn't a pet, Crabbe," Draco interrupted him icily. "No one, not even the Dark Lord, _keeps_ him!"

Vince wiped that objection away with a dismissive gesture. "Bah. But if _you_ distinguish yourself –"

Draco wouldn't have it – being berated by _Vincent Crabbe_ of all people! "What about _your_ father, then! _He_ can't fall out of favour because he's never been up there in the first place!"

"It's exactly that stuff that got your lot down," Crabbe barked. "Your arrogance! Your fucking superitity, thinking you were better than the rest of us!"

"It's called _superiority_, mate. Try avoiding the term if you can't pronounce it properly," Draco drawled with all the condescension he could muster, and turned on his heels to walk away. He was half sorry, half furious. No, he didn't want to argue with Vince, he really didn't. And ridiculing Vince's inarticulate dim wit wasn't right either – they had been friends for _ages_. As far as Draco could think back, he had been hanging out with Greg and Vince. But did Vince treasure their friendship of old as he ought to? He bloody hell didn't! Harping on about Lucius' downfall – what kind of _friend_ did that!

There was a small part in Draco that he didn't dare thinking about – because that part was secretly gratified that his father was no longer second-in-command, but was sitting without his wand in Malfoy Manor instead and made himself indispensable by occasionally donating some money, and smile broadly and falsely into some cameras. It was wrong to feel this way, he knew that, and it shamed him, but he couldn't help it either. That little voice in his head prevailed every now and then, mostly when there were reports of new attacks, new victims, new atrocities that Draco had never dreamt of.

One of Mil's brothers had been arrested for dating a half-blood, that had been mistaken for a Muggle-born witch at first. He had spent three days in Azkaban for this ridiculousness, and so had she! They might still be in prison, if Theo hadn't written to his father and old Mr Nott had used his bit of influence to quicken the procedures. The mother of Gryffindor's McDonald had been killed, just like Peakes' and Stebbins' and the Madleys' fathers. Ambrosius Flume had been found dead, various parts of his body severed, and nails in his forehead spelling 'TRAITOR'. The Lovegood girl was still held captive in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor. The prize on Granger's head had been doubled for the fifth time in four months. Zabini's mother had disposed of yet another husband by insinuating he was Muggle-born – when _everyone_ had known he was nothing but a plain Muggle. A whole class of Muggle children had been fed to the vampires and werewolves to pay for their allegiance. And the list went on and on like this.

Why did Draco know all these things? Well – some of them made the Daily Prophet. Others were whispered among the students. And then there was 'Potterwatch'. Draco grinned, just thinking of it. 'Potterwatch' was strictly prohibited for students, under the threat of one week detentions in Filch's dungeons. But the Carrows were so put off by the whole business, they couldn't even bring themselves to speak it out loud – instead, _all_ radio transmissions were forbidden to be listened to. Potter's name was almost as notorious as the Dark Lord's own – 'Unwanted Person Number One' all right, but pronouncing the words 'Harry Potter' nowadays equalled an act of rebellion. Draco frequently wondered how Professor Snape managed to endure those complete numbskulls.

The boy had never had a rebellious bone in his body – and courage really wasn't one of Draco Malfoy's fortes either. Still, he took a perverse pleasure in sneaking off and clandestinely listening to the defamed channel. Tonight, he used a Disillusionment Charm to disguise himself on his way to the Room of Hidden things, the tiny transistor safely wrapped up in a used handkerchief – if someone should catch him, they'd be unlikely to want a closer look at a handkerchief full of apparent goo. The Room for once opened itself without difficulties, and Draco took his usual route, past the cursed cabinet that he dared not looking at closer, and into a rather cosy wardrobe trunk, which was well-disguised by ample of cobwebs and palm-sized spiders that warded off unwanted intruders. Most people hated spiders, especially of that size. Draco always took caution to rearrange the cobwebs to conceal his favourite hideaway – history had proven that the Room of Hidden Things wasn't unconquerable, and he had no intentions to face punishment – or worse, compromise his father.

He checked four times if the lid was truly blocked; thank goodness Alecto Carrows was no patch on Narcissa Malfoy and her spells as a witch, or at least that's what he was hoping. He'd be in hellish trouble otherwise. He fumbled with the transistor, trying out all sort of passwords. He had missed the last show, it had been simply impossible to find himself a private spot without the risk of exposure.

He tried 'Dumbledore', 'Potter', 'Harry' and 'Harry Potter', 'Albus' and every other of Dumbledore's names, he tried the Founder's names, words like 'justice', 'mercy' and 'love', and was already close to giving up when a brainwave hit him. "Godric's Hollow," he muttered, and indeed, he recognised the voice of Gryffindor's Lee Jordan, who had given himself a code name, but was well-known to every Hogwarts student who had ever heard him comment a Quidditch match.

"…a minute's silence in memory of Kelly Jacobs, who was found dead yesterday. Many of you might still remember Kelly, she was a shop assistant at Florish and Blotts and continued to secretly pass on books and newspapers to Muggle-born wizards, witches and other _unwanted elements_. Our wishes and hopes are with Norm Jacobs, her husband who we believe to be still on the flight, hunted for being a Muggle-born –"

" – and a magnificent wizard, and a wonderful friend," a man with a deep, pleasant voice now said. "Norm, if you can hear us: we'll try everything to retrieve Kelly's body and give her the funeral service that she deserves."

There was a moment of silence, before Lee Jordan went on, "We have some good news though. We received word from the families of Cheeky and Icarus; they could safely escape from the Death Eaters pursuing them without being traced. Icarus is still maintaining his valuable position to protect the family of Harry Potter, who – do I have to say it, really – is still alive, and out there. Harry – if you are listening: Our hopes and good wishes are with you, wherever you may be!"

Subconsciously, Draco nodded with that statement, and was startled with himself when realising this. Since when did he keep his fingers crossed for _Harry Potter_ of all idiots that roamed this planet? He didn't _like_ Potter, to put it mildly! They had despised each other since the day they had met. Well, officially met, anyway. Potter – and his pals – had always been the beginning and the end of Draco's chagrin! He chuckled under his breath, but it was a sad, defeated little laugh. Oh yeah – Potter, and Granger, and Weasel King, had annoyed the hell out of him, back in the old times. But that feud of old – the feud of some school children – had faded into meaninglessness. With every corpse found, with every titbit of news about torture and mutilation, with every sobbing victim of the Cruciatus Curse that Draco had seen, Granger's Know-It-All attitude and Potter's Holier-Than-Thou demeanour had lost more of their sting. All this seemed so endlessly far away now.

Every muffled scream of Narcissa Malfoy, every surreptitious look of pain in Lucius Malfoy's cool grey eyes had enforced another view in their son, a wish to see the end of all this, a useless hope to regain the bliss of old. The days of his childhood slipped away from him further and further; he felt so much older than his seventeen years. If only he could get it back. The serenity of his home, shielded from the world, with his radiantly happy parents, coddling over and adoring their beloved only child. The joyous school times, the frolic parties in the Common Room, the grand celebrations of Quidditch victories, when the greatest worry had been a shortage of butterbeer and Fire Whiskey, or that Professor Snape would find half past four in the morning a suitable time to end a party. When being harassed by Panse had intimidated him more than Amycus Carrow's attempts now. When Draco's greatest dread concerning his parents had been that his mum would be disappointed with his marks, or that his dad found out that Draco had secretly tried his gin…

"Naturally, it was all hushed up by the present regime, but we have more great news for you," Lee Jordan said now. "A number of members of the Phoenix Order managed to overwhelm a party of Death Eaters sent after them. We cannot give you any names here, to protect the families of our brave friends – but Thornton Mortlake, Edgar Burrows, Cecil Pinkstone and Rupert Avery aren't going to harm anyone so soon again. From what we've heard, the Healers in St Mungo's are still looking for a cure to their curse marks."

_Thank_ _Merlin_ that his dad wasn't one of them, Draco thought. Safely at home without a wand, indeed – and Draco was doing everything he could to maintain that status quo. His aunt had been quite clear on that head. The situation of Lucius Malfoy was a precarious one, and depended solely on his family's immaculate – ha! – reputation. 'Immaculate', of course, merely meant that all of them presented their smiling faces for the warped 'image campaign' of the Dark New Order. While this image campaign, conceived by the ever-so-helpful Professor Snape, was really not much else but an underhanded device to prevent worse.

Speaking of Longbottom – the speech that his uncle had given him hadn't merited much success. Rather the opposite. By now, the boy didn't even bother for concealment any longer. He openly defied the Carrows whenever he could. He had come to actually attend class, but staunchly refused to perform a single spell in Amycus' classroom, and didn't let an opportunity pass in Alecto's to disagree loudly and disdainfully with whatever it was she said. And he accepted the subsequent punishments with stubborn pride.

Draco came across that very boy when he left the Room of Hidden Things; he practically banged the door into Longbottom's red, panting face. To say who of them was more startled would have been a hard one to call, all the more because the heavy oak door had smashed Longbottom's nose, which instantly started bleeding. Draco felt a rush of fear – the other boy _knew_ what this room was for, had probably tried to enter it himself just now – and around the corner, he could hear quickly approaching footsteps.

"One of the Carrows?" he asked swiftly, and Longbottom nodded, holding his nose and his eyes squinting in two different directions from the impact of the crash. Draco didn't hesitate. He pushed Longbottom away and onto the floor and jinxed the door shut inaudibly. Immediately, it disappeared from sight – just in time before Alecto Carrow sprinted around the corner, clutching her side.

"Got you," she screeched triumphantly and glared at the student on the floor. "Did you truly believe you could escape from me?"

"I've caught him already, Ma'am," Draco said smoothly and gestured at Longbottom. "I also took on the punishment – he _was_ to be punished, wasn't he?"

"If in doubt, always follow your first instinct –" she mumbled and scrutinised Longbottom's slowly swelling face with a satisfied smile.

"I thought so."

"Well done, Draco."

"Thank you, Ma'am."

Alecto wasn't done yet; she wanted to drag Longbottom to the dungeons, but with his most suave smile, Draco tried persuade her to entrust _him_ with that job. This was no mere fit of altruism – he was scared witless that Longbottom could blab what he had just seen. But the boy seemed to play along – scrambling to his knees, he scowled at Draco.

"Didn't get enough yet, Malfoy? Want to practise some more curses on me?"

"On you – always. Come on, Longbottom – off we go." Averting his face from Alecto and winking at Longbottom, he stooped and snatched the other boy by the scruff of his neck to pull him up and away, but Alecto stopped them.

"Not so fast, Draco. I think… Yes. I think this is a case for the Headmaster. He keeps on preaching me – well, anyway. I'll come with you."

Draco exhaled. Professor Snape would sort this out, and no one get hurt. Not much, anyway. And he'd also see to prevent Alecto Carrow hearing anything about any illicit behaviour on the _Head Boy's_ part. Indeed – after giving Longbottom another lengthy, tiring lecture, the Professor ordered him to 'bugger off and clean the Owlery – _without_ magic!'

Draco and the Muggle Studies teacher saw him vanish, and the latter gasped with indignation. "That's all?"

"All? He'll need three afternoons, if that's enough."

"This is a joke!"

Professor Snape cast her a cool glance. "What do you mean, Alecto?"

"You seem strangely hesitant, that's all I'm saying."

He sniggered. "Do I? Oh, well. You see – I have a _school_ to master here. Most students know that I killed their beloved Headmaster, and what's more – they've been raised to despise our cause from their infancy. Now that won't do, I'm sure you'd agree? We've won the war, we've won the positions of power – now we need to win the _minds_ of these people. I've been a Head of House long enough to know that the harsher the punishment, the more you drive the children into defiance. We've got to lure them in, in _my_ opinion. And incidentally, the Dark Lord agrees with me. Perhaps you want to talk to _him_ about your concerns?"

Of course, she didn't want _that_, and Severus exhaled surreptitiously. Indeed – the Dark Lord _did_ agree with his 'most trusted advisor' – but mainly because Severus presented him with the facts in a certain way. He downplayed the level of resistance, attributed the purposeful acts of sabotage to 'normal' teenage misconduct, and never failed to mention the value of certain students for the movement as such, since they came from such old, respectable families. In some cases, this was easier than in others.

Longbottom, for example, came from a very old family – the Longbottoms went back to the thirteenth century, his grandmother was a Rookwood, and even if the lineage of the boy's mother wasn't nearly as distinguished – Alice Longbottom's grandfather had been Muggle-born himself – it was enough to convince the Dark Lord, whose own father had been a plain Muggle, after all. The same was true for the Weasley girl – impoverished, yes, but so had the Dark Lord's maternal side of the family been, but nonetheless ancient as far as their ancestry was concerned. Zacharias Smith – a direct descendant of Helga Hufflepuff, it didn't get much better. Other students were more difficult to account for. Seamus Finnegan – a Muggle father, and a mother who was merely pure-blooded in the third generation. Terry Boot – offspring of _two_ Muggle-born parents. Hannah Abbott – daughter of a by-now-dead Muggle-born, and a father who had recently supported the Order of the Phoenix publicly. And so on. It was quite tricky to invent imaginary merits these children could have for the Dark Lord. And what happened when a child fell out of favour, the case of the unfortunate Lovegood girl had shown.

Disgruntled, Alecto left, and Severus beckoned at Draco to do the same, but the boy shuffled his feet awkwardly and said, "Perhaps I can be of help for you, Sir? Any papers you need to see through? Corrections to do? _Anything?_"

Clearly, the boy didn't want to get back to the dungeons so soon, or anywhere else for that instance, and Severus shrugged. "I'm afraid there isn't much you could do, no. Just some secretary st-"

"Brilliant! I can do that!" Draco beamed at him, a silent plea in his grey eyes. Severus nodded and watched him, sitting down at once and eagerly shuffling through a pile of Ministry decrees. Not so long ago, little Draco Malfoy would have wrinkled his noble nose and huffed that this was 'servants' stuff' – beneath his notice, that was. But the times had changed, and so had the boy, who really was more of a young man now. Abraxas Malfoy had always been going on about _priorities_ – 'you got to sort out your _priorities_, sonny', Lucius had often imitated his dad. Well, the son might have blundered in getting his one's straight, but apparently, at least the grandson now listened to that sage piece of advice.

* * *

_Non qua itur..._ You mustn't follow the path that everyone takes, but the path one must take.


	117. The Last Men Standing

Bellatrix encounters her brother-in-law after all

* * *

**- 3.67. -**

The Last Men Standing

* * *

_Last came Anarchy: he rode_

_On a white horse, splashed with blood;_

_He was pale even to the lips,_

_Like Death in the Apocalypse._

_With a pace stately and fast,_

_Over English land he passed,_

_Trampling to a mire of blood_

_The adoring multitude._

_And a mighty troop around_

_With their trampling shook the ground,_

_Waving each a bloody sword,_

_For the service of their Lord._

_And with glorious triumph, they_

_Rode through England proud and gay,_

_Drunk as with intoxication_

_Of the wine of desolation._

_PERCY B. SHELLEY_

_

* * *

_

"Did anyone see you?"

"If I _knew_ that, you think I'd have come in, moron?" George snarls and waves his wand to undo his concealment charms.

"We need to be more careful! Last time was darned close!"

"I _know_ that, Dung! _Jeez!_ Seriously, how did you _ever_ manage to make a single pull, with _your_ poor nerves?"

"I'm just saying!"

"Saying what? That we're all dead, if the Death Eaters get us? Hate crashing your illusions, mate, but I'm afraid we're all bloody aware of that much." He looks around. "Where's Fred?"

"Didn't arrive yet," Lupin says quietly.

George bites his lip, but rallies himself then. "And where's Tonks?"

Lupin's lips curl into a little smile. "After half a day's worth of persuasion, I managed to talk her into staying at home."

"Bet that wasn't easy!"

"Can't say it was, no. But she _must_ be careful, and her tummy's grown so much by now, she can't move as lithely as she ought to, in case we did come across Death Eaters. Last time _was_ too close for comfort."

They all sit down around the shabby round table, while Len Grimes takes out the Muggle light bulb and exchanges it for a magical bluebell fire to light the room. This is the back room of a rundown Muggle restaurant that's soon to be demolished. They've sometimes met here, and it seems the safest spot they've got – last time when meeting in a seemingly deserted subway tunnel, they were attacked by Death Eaters. Merlin knows how the bastards found them, but they did, even before they could begin the broadcast that always finishes their meetings. As soon as the show is on air, things become _really_ risky, so they must be done with everything else before they can dare it.

The reports begin. Tonks' father Ted, Dirk Cresswell, Dean Thomas and the Weasley twins try delivering food to needy Muggle-borns in hiding and other 'unwanted' persons that aren't imprisoned yet, employing the comparably unsuspicious means and premises of Fred and George's joke shop. They were fairly successful in the last week, George reports gladly, trying to disguise his growing uneasiness with his twin's absence. Kingsley, Grimes and a couple of others managed to prevent a major assault on a Muggle assembly; Bill Weasley made use of his Gringotts job and slipped bewitched coins to known Death Eaters to make it easier to trace their movements. This feat allowed them to know that the Death Eater's present Headquarters must be in Malfoy Manor – little surprise in that quarter – given the improbably high number of Death Eaters in the house at all times.

"I don't understand this…" Dirk murmurs pensively. "Old Lucius is You Know Who's right hand – right? You'd think he'd participate in _some_ action, but the only thing he ever does is show up in the Ministry now and then, or hold some silly speech. What's he up to?"

"I suppose if you're that high up in the chain of command, you needn't risk your arse for the cause anymore –"

"Never kept him all these years, did it?"

"Perhaps they're plotting something – something bigger than usual – and Malfoy's talent is called for the planning?"

A faint memory surfaces in Remus' mind. "He's got no wand –"

"Beg your pardon?"

"He's got no wand," Remus repeats, louder. "Lucius. I recall Greyback mentioning that when they… Anyway, I'm pretty sure he said that, then. That Lucius couldn't be doing anything, because he had no wand."

"I thought they had captured old Ollivander – why doesn't he simply get a new one if he lost his own?"

Realisation dawns on their faces, but Elphias Doge is the first to voice it – by erupting with wild giggles. In fact, he sounds as if he's close to suffocation, his frail, aged body quivering with laughter. He's soon joined by the rest of them. High-pitched, gleeful merriment fills the sombre room; tears of laughter run down George's cheeks. Mundungus Fletcher cackles so hard he's getting a hiccup. Dean Thomas slaps his thighs and gasps for air. They have sustained such heavy, painful losses in the past months – to hear how Voldemort's most high-ranking lieutenant seems to have fallen out of favour, that he's denied a _wand_ even – is just too gratifying! Ha! _Ha!_ Reap what you sow, arsehole!

As much as they're in need of a good laugh, they have more important things to do, as Kingsley reminds them after a few minutes and calls them back to order. They hand in the other reports, and Lee Jordan, responsible for the broadcasting, takes notes and keeps on shuffling papers. He beckons at Kingsley when he's ready, and that one says goodbye – he needs to get back to the Muggle Prime Minister before anyone notices that he's unprotected. Len Grimes accompanies him; he's got work to do as well. Dung leaves because he's too much of a coward to stay voluntarily. The remaining others prepare the show. Lee, George, Dean and Remus distribute the call sheets, Dirk and Ted perform the necessary spells – Elphias Doge merely lingers because he's got nothing better to do, and shyly settles in a rickety armchair in a corner.

"Ready?" Ted mutters, his wand arm raised.

"Ready," the boys retort in unison, and Ted whispers the last spell and gives them the thumbs-up.

"Good evening, esteemed listeners," Lee starts chirpily.

George butts in, "And 'nevening to all the Death Eaters out there listening, too. We feel honoured by your attempts to spy on us –"

"Oh, we do. The more danger, the more honour. – We should, perhaps, inform our listeners that last week's program had to be cancelled due to a dozen Death Eaters trying to attack yours truly –"

"Unsuccessfully, I might add!"

"Very unsuccessfully indeed, Razor!"

"Rapier," George corrects him with a wry grin.

"Sorry. My mistake, _Rapier_. However – we're proud and happy to announce that despite their most desperate efforts, these twelve Death Eaters achieved nothing but a couple of blackened eyes. Nothing that could seriously object us from airing your favourite show –"

"_Potterwatch!_" the three boys cry enthusiastically.

"What have we got tonight, River?"

"Ample of interesting stuff, Samoth. Our Hogwarts insider sources informed us that the struggle continues unwaveringly. Severus Snape versus half of the student body – zero to five hundred sixty, approximately. Looks like his Dark Arts instructor –"

"We can't bring ourselves to call the man a _teacher_, can we, boys?"

"Amycus Carrow bemoaned the loss of all the bones in his right leg, and spent three days in the Hogwarts Infirmary growing them back. Nasty business, growing back bones, as anyone who ever saw it can testify. Alecto Carrow, better known by her pseudonym _Old Hag_, meanwhile failed – _again!_ – to banish Peeves the Poltergeist from the school grounds. Cheers to you, Peeves! Keep up the fight!"

"Rumour has it that she still hasn't found a proper spell to remove the stink of the dung pellets that dear old Peeves hurled at her to defend himself."

"Good old chap!"

"And the man who dares calling himself 'Headmaster', was stuck in his office for two days and one night, courtesy of some handy spells blocking the exit. We can only imagine how it must have been like – unable to flee from the reproachful glances of the last, _rightful_ Headmaster's portrait! A toast to Albus Dumbledore!"

"To Albus Dumbledore," everyone in the room exclaims and salutes.

"Now. We've got more news for you. Most importantly, a warning."

"Let me tell you, folks – Wiltshire is _not_ a good place this time of year. Or anytime, presently. We've found the Death Eater density there rather unbecoming for one's health. So if you're looking for some cosy spot, give the area of Malfoy Manor a _wiiiide_ berth if you know what's good for you."

"Sure, it seems like some good fun to turn up on the Malfoys' doorstep and tell them what useless gits they are, and maybe leave some beauty tips for Madam Malfoy's sister Bellatrix Lestrange, but seriously – don't. For all we know, You Know Who himself might be there, and you wouldn't want to meet _him_, would you!"

"Oh, _I_ would. Right between the eyes, that is!"

"Good one, River!"

They're still chuckling when a white-gleaming giraffe bursts through the door, startling the present, and in the next second, Fred Weasley's hassled-sounding voice thunders, "Get out of there NOW! They're on their way!"

Lee almost drops his wand, and frantically, Dirk Cresswell starts taking down the Anti-Apparition spells to give them a chance of getting away.

"Sorry, dear listeners – looks like we got to finish early tonight. Tune in next week – I guess you'll have to figure out the password for yourself this time. However – the best of luck to all of you!" Lee hastily mutters. In the next second, a mighty explosion throws them off their feet or chairs, respectively. Elphias Doge is knocked out by a collapsing shelf and Remus crawls through the debris to reach the old man. Ted Tonks, Dirk Cresswell and George Weasley are the first to get up again, parrying the curses hurled at them through a hole in the wall.

"Out! _Out_, and now!" Dirk screams, giving cover to Remus, who Disapparates with the unconscious Doge in his arms. Lee and George manage to Disapparate together, too, grabbing as many of their papers as they can, but in the very second when Ted Tonks attempts the same, clinging to the wounded Dean Thomas, he is hit by a Stunner. Dirk stops his own Disapparition spell and, dodging another Stunner, tries getting to his friends, only to be hit by a spell in the back as well. The last thing he manages before he's overwhelmed by a bunch of Death Eaters, is setting the last papers on the table ablaze.

"Well, well, well!" Bellatrix Lestrange cries maliciously, climbing through the hole in the wall and examining the three unconscious wizards on the floor. "I _knew_ I'd be lucky sooner or later! I'll be damned if that's not my freakish brother-in-law!"


	118. Riddle And Ridicule

Draco tells Millicent a secret

* * *

**- 3.68. -**

Riddle And Ridicule

* * *

_Truth will out._

_ARTHUR WEASLEY_

_

* * *

_

On the way between his Charms class and his Defence – pardon. Old habits die hard. On the way between Charms and the Dark Arts class, Draco counted no less than four 'FREEDOM FOR LUNA LOVEGOOD', two 'GET RID OF RIDDLE', three 'ANARCHY IN THE UK' and eleven ''HAIL THEE HARRY POTTER' graffiti on total, and uncountable signs spelling 'DUMBLEDORE'S ARMY – STILL RECRUITING!'. Argus Filch, deep purple blots on his haggard features, frantically rubbed over the surface of one of the sprayings, though utterly in vain, a huge bucket of Mrs Scower's Magical Mess Remover next to him.

The way between these two classrooms wasn't even that long, and Draco wondered how many more of these slogans might be found in the school. The most remarkable thing, however, was that there were at least five different handwritings involved, and off the cuff, Draco thought he recognised at least three – Longbottom, Finnegan and Susan Bones. Draco had spent a good deal of time in the last year in detentions with McGonagall, helping her correct papers; he knew quite a few handwritings by now, if they were peculiar enough. He appeared to be the only one though, because he came across the Professors Flitwick and McGonagall surveying a particularly flashy (it changed colour between screaming pink, fire red and a violent shade of violet, and each letter stood roughly three foot high) sign, spelling– and the two teachers merely shrugged.

"I have _no_ idea who _this_ could have been," Professor McGonagall said with a thinly-veiled smile.

Her colleague nodded. "Upon my honour, neither have I!"

"A mystery."

"Indeed, my dear – a real riddle."

The two Professors were visibly shaken with suppressed laughter, and Draco stifled a grin, too. That little fool Longbottom – he ought to get out of the habit of making these little squiggles he adorned his S's with, if he meant to keep his arse out of detentions for once. And the teaching staff might want to be a _little_ less conspicuous, too.

"Outrageous," Pansy mumbled, sounding very scandalised. "How dare they say something like that about the Headmaster!"

"Because it's true?" Millicent answered under her breath, and catching Draco's gaze, quickly looked the other way.

"No, it isn't!" Pansy cried. "How can y-"

"_Shut up_," Draco hissed. "_Both _of you!"

Millicent inclined her head into a half-nod, but Pansy had never been one for subtlety. "But you –"

"_Quiet_, Panse," he groaned and grabbed her arm. "This really isn't the place!"

"But –"

Millicent's silencing spell had hit her before Draco had even taken out his wand, and they exchanged another look. "You, or I?"

"I," he replied, ignoring Pansy's furious struggling and pointing his wand at her. "_Obliviate!_"

For some seconds, the girl looked dumbfounded, and Draco quickly dropped her arm before she could get the wrong end of the stick. She still tended to do that, sometimes. Millicent pretended to continue some idle chatting and dragged her roommate into the classroom, but it didn't get better inside. Some jackass – not Longbottom; in fact, Draco didn't recognise the hand this time – had covered the entire blackboard with all sorts of insults aiming at Amycus Carrow.

"Oh, fuck me," Draco said and suppressed a grin, but seeing Pansy's bewildered face, added hastily, "Not you, Panse! _This!_ Now _this_ is really –"

"Totally," Millicent agreed and didn't even bother to appear serious. "Draco, in our capacities as Head Boy and Girl, I suppose either of us –"

"Indeed, Millicent. You are so right." He pointed his wand at the blackboard. "_Tabula rasa!_"

Nothing happened, of course, and behind him, he could hear some scornful sniggers. Millicent whipped out her wand as well, and uttered a similarly useless spell. More laughs, but Draco didn't mind – he very much wanted old Amycus to see this, that despicable git! With an imperious smirk, he demanded Gryffindor's Patil to go and fetch the caretaker, and settled next to Theo. Millicent sat down on this one's other side.

"_Tabula rasa?_" Theo whispered with an incredulous grin. "Oh, _come off it!_"

"Shut up, Theo," he growled and shot him an angry glance. He still didn't fully trust the boy, despite everything. Filch appeared, and directly behind him, Amycus Carrow as well – throwing an instant tantrum when spotting the insults aimed at him. Draco's favourites were the ones asking whether Amycus' and Alecto's parents might have been brother and sister, too, and the 'Blessed be ye poor in spirit – for yours is the kingdom of filth!'

"Who did this?" Amycus screeched, spit flying from his lips, and a vein on his forehead throbbing dangerously.

But as always in these cases, no one could, or would, answer that question. That afternoon, Draco sat down to write to his mother. Of course, anyone could read this – a whole bunch of Death Eaters lived right in the Manor, god knew what happened to his post before it reached its destination. But his mum and he had developed a certain routine to avoid _these_ pitfalls. And additionally, it was fun.

'Dearest Mother,' he wrote, gnawing on his quill. 'Thank you very much for your package. The cake was marvellous – or so Vincent tells me. I might need to find a better hiding place in the future. Thank you so much for the book, too – he tried to eat that as well, but didn't succeed. Things in school are in an uproar. Numerous cases of vandalism occurred – graffiti and the like. Some are very nasty and insult our fellow comrades – others seem rather nonsensical, like GET RID OF THE RIDDLE. I think the culprits might actually be drunk when going on their bouts –' Gosh, he _hoped_ that the letter was intercepted, indeed! Sniggering softly, he meant to continue when Vince came in.

"Oi! You're supposed to see the Headmaster," he grunted. "Bulstrode's waiting for you in –"

"Don't call her like that!"

Vince snorted. "What's _your_ problem now, Goyle? Prefer Bullface?"

"Look who's talking," Draco said under his breath and got up.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. I've got to see the Headmaster," he said and left, hearing his two friends argue behind him. Indeed, Bullface – uhm – Bulstrode – no, _Millicent_ was sitting in the Common Room and read a book for their History of Magic class. The History of Wizardkind was going through a period of severe rewriting at the present, and one could never be sure that the book one read today was still valid next week. Professor Binns was very much what he used to be – meaning he didn't bother to learn the names of his students, but on the bright side, he wasn't easily impressed by the Carrows either – being dead already, there wasn't much they could do to him anyhow – and even though his students were supposed to learn the grossest nonsense, he never failed from commenting on the harebrained nature of the topics. '… Under the regime of Gellert Grindelwald, only seven wizards and two witches were killed on total, by stray officers trespassing their orders – now, that's not true. There is sufficient evidence and countless accounts of eye-witnesses to prove that they killed thousands, and on their leader's orders. However, history is written by the victors, you should _always_ keep that in mind, and to pass your NEWTs, I'm afraid you'll have to present the most current interpretation. Please copy: Grindelwald's objective was to maintain the peace and…'

Millicent looked up from her book with a wry grin. "William the Conqueror didn't conquer, then, eh?"

"Yep. Read it this morning."

"Hope they can come up with a flashy new name for him. William the Un-conquering sounds lame."

"I am curious how our family tree will look like when I come home. My ancestors _arrived_ with William the Un-conquering."

"Take care they don't relocate your house to Normandy."

Draco pursed his lips. "Oh, but why not? I heard it's lovely at this time of year."

"Lovelier than Wiltshire?"

"Wiltshire isn't what it used to be."

They exchanged some poignant looks until she cracked up and stuffed her book into her school bag. They joked around until they stood before the gargoyles guarding the entrance to the Headmaster's office. "_Dumbledore_," Millicent said, and after the door swung open, she added with a shrug, "I wonder when he'll finally find a way to change the darned password. I suppose it doesn't sit well with him."

Draco didn't voice his doubts on _that_ point, but uttered instead, "At least, the office opens up to him. It didn't do for Umbridge, then."

"Weird, don't you think? She was a hag, but _she_ didn't kill the old Headmaster. Well, maybe that's the whole point after all."

"You ought to be more careful with comments like this, Mil," he whispered with mild reproach.

"Why, you think they send the _Head Girl_ to Azkaban? The Head Girl privileges were the only reason why I ever accepted the bloody job!"

Draco put his forefinger to his lips to shush her up and knocked. They were asked to enter, and found themselves in the middle of a lively argument between the Carrows, McGonagall and Professor Snape. Well, the former two were clearly the 'lively' part. The Headmaster just smirked – in a rather ironic fashion, Draco thought. And the Deputy Headmistress barely seemed to listen, her eyes glued to the empty frame of Albus Dumbledore's portrait.

"I don't have the time, nor the slightest inclination, to deal with these things," Professor Snape drawled. "Address my esteemed colleague, the Deputy Headmistress, please."

"Well, perhaps you want to address my esteemed colleague Professor Trelawney instead," McGonagall snapped. "_I_ don't have the gift of the inner eye."

"I'm afraid Professor Trelawney posseses none either," he retorted drily.

"These things ought to _stop_!" Alecto screeched.

"Oh, _absolutely_," the Professors Snape and McGonagall agreed in unison and exchanged a bewildered look.

"No matter where we hide the boy, his irksome friends find and free him!" Amycus swapped his forehead with a repulsive-looking handkerchief.

"How on earth do they stay in touch," Alecto growled and clenched her fists. "How is it _possible_?"

Draco did his best to keep himself from grinning, not daring to look at either Professor Snape, or Millicent, because _he_ knew that _they_ knew the answer to Alecto's question as well as he did. "I haven't got the foggiest," he muttered and to keep his face straight, he thought of Longbottom's latest punishment, which had been so disgusting that it was simply impossible to laugh about it.

Millicent shrugged, too. "I don't know either, Ma'am."

"But haven't you heard something? A whisper – _something_?"

"None of the other students trust _us_," Draco said gravely. "They do not _whisper_ when _we_ are around."

Alecto narrowed her eyes. Professor Snape went without smirking when saying, "But what does it matter, anyway, Professor Carrow? They're just children."

"Children who make fools of us!"

"You better get used to _that_. I've been here for seventeen years; I've accustomed well enough to their cheek, and I dare say, so will you before long."

"But this isn't only about you, or me, or my brother, Severus," she snarled and a dangerous glint flared in her cold dark eyes. "This is about _our cause_ – the Dark Lord –"

"The Dark Lord doesn't bother for trivialities," he cut her short and returned her look likewise.

"_Trivialities?_"

"Yes, dear – _trivialities_. Or how would you call this? Do you mean to dignify their childish antics by taking them seriously?"

She looked as if she had bitten into a grapefruit, but dropped the subject, and talked about other, more school-related problems, like the recent refurbishment of the library, until Head Girl and Boy were finally dismissed.

"What do they do with all the books they've chucked out?"

Draco knew the answer to that question, but thought it smarter to keep that to himself. The school had been donated with ten thousand new books – books obliging the Dark New Order – by the courtesy of Lucius Malfoy. In turn, the old, unsuitable books which got sorted out would be taken to Malfoy Manor. Narcissa Malfoy profited from her reputation as a collector of old or rare books, and her wish to add the tomes in question to the Manor's library had been granted without much ado. She couldn't save all, of course. Many, many books were going to burn.

"They'll make a lovely little bonfire," he whispered darkly after all, and added as an afterthought, "'Wherever they burn books they will also, in the end, burn human beings,' the Muggles say."

"I wouldn't be surprised if they were doing that already," she retorted in the same gloomy fashion. They walked passed a graffiti – 'YOU KNOW WHO – A RIDDLE WRAPPED UP IN AN ENIGMA' – and Millicent cocked a brow. "I don't get these. What are all these riddle jokes supposed to _mean_?"

He couldn't help himself – he burst out laughing, despite everything. "Come on – I'll show you something, Mil."

"_Show_ me?"

"Yeah. _Show you_," he said and winked at her. Making sure nobody overheard or followed them, he led her downstairs, straight into the trophy room. He knew where it was – the thing he was looking for – he polished it once a month, in honour of Myrtle – the wretched man's first victim. "You mustn't tell anyone, you hear me?"

"Then you better cast that handy spell of yours – the one to prevent eavesdroppers," she replied flatly.

Good idea indeed. He muttered the incantation, then pointed at the medal and said, "You see this? Read it."

"'To Tom Riddle – For Special Services To The School' – so what? That's the Riddle guy they're writing about?"

"You do know Moaning Myrtle, don't you?" She nodded with a wry, knowing grin, and he went on, "This medal was awarded to the student who caught her alleged murderer. The sad irony, however, is that it was really her killer who got the reward, because he framed another student for the deed."

"And – that Riddle guy is a Death Eater now?"

He cocked his brows poignantly. "He isn't just any old Death Eater, Mil. He is _the_ Death Eater – the Dark Lord himself."

"Really? I didn't know that… Now I get the joke."

"No, you don't." He grinned. "Come on, Mil – have you ever heard of someone – _anyone_ – who's called _Riddle_?"

"I…"

"For you should have, don't you think? The Dark Lord – leader of the campaign to ridden the country of all impure elements… He should have a mightily impressive family tree, don't you think? An even more impressive one than my father's?"

He looked expectantly, and she murmured, "So he's a – what – you mean –"

"He does have an impressive family tree – on his maternal side. Apparently, through his mother, he's a descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself. But his very own father is nothing but a plain Muggle. Not even a Muggle-born – a real, unadulterated _Muggle_. That's why he changed his name in the first place."

Her jaw had dropped. "And the very best he could come up with instead was Lord Vol-"

"Shhh!" His hands shot forth, and dropping his wand, he clasped her mouth to keep her from finishing. "You must never – _never_ – say that! He will _know_!"

With one easy movement, she pushed his hands away – she was twice as strong as he, probably. "Sorry," she said in mock earnestness. "However – is that why he doesn't want people to speak his name? He's finally realised that it sounds like in a Radcliffe novel?"

He lifted up his wand again. "I have no idea. What I do know, though, is that he doesn't want _anyone_ to learn about his true origin –"

"And how come you know?"

He looked dismayed. "I… I met the Lovegood girl… And before you say anything – she didn't get this out of the Quibbler. I asked my mother, and she confirmed the story."

Indeed – it had been little Luna Lovegood who had told him this remarkable bit of news, over a clandestine game of chess, during the Christmas holidays. She was a rotten player – _her_ only real strategy (and admittedly, it had taken him two days to see through it) was that she didn't have one, and played just as eccentrically as she would dress herself. He had felt a disproportional amount of guilt on her behalf, and since there wasn't much he actually could have done for her otherwise, he had resorted to take down the chessboard and keep her some company when nobody would notice it, and before his departure, he had persuaded his father that it wouldn't do much harm to lock her up in the same little vault to which Mr Ollivander was confined.

At first, he hadn't believed it. Had thought Luna Lovegood was making this up out of spite – her little revenge for being captured and imprisoned – ridiculing, slandering the Dark Lord himself. But some days later, he had realised that this girl didn't have a spiteful bone in her body – and he had dismissed her tale as the product of the same kind of vivid imagination that her father employed to make a living. He had mentioned it to his mother in passing – as a bit of a joke. 'Guess what the little lunatic in the dungeon told me, Mum – she staunchly claims the Dark Lord was a half-blood!' Only when Lucius Malfoy had turned pale and cast the door a panicked look, and Narcissa Malfoy had whipped out her wand and enforced the security spells on the door of the Music Chamber – only then, he had started to see that the Lovegood girl wasn't always as 'loony' as people thought. Ever since he had virtually been bursting with the urge to spread this piece of information, but had been prudent enough – for the first time in his entire life, probably – to keep his mouth shut. He knew that he could make an exception for old Mil though. She had no love for the Dark Lord and his New Order; she wouldn't give him away. Or would she…?

"You – you won't repeat this to Theo, right?" he murmured in sudden nervousness.

"But –"

"Please, Mil – my mum, she – my parents told me how bad _He_ took it when he found out that they knew; he threatened to punish my mum, and –"

"All right, all right," she said hastily. "But you should know that Theo – well… He – he isn't like that. He wouldn't give you away."

Curiously, he felt that this was true, but still. "It's not that, but… Look, being his father's son, there will inevitably come the day when he'll be expected to become a Death Eater, too, and the Dark Lord has ways and means to find out what's going on in people's heads…"

"And how come you tell me, then?"

"You're a witch. Witches as a rule aren't demanded to join up. The Dark Lord thinks females were too soft, so –"

She gave a raucous laugh. "What? With your dear auntie around?"

"My aunt may well be the most avid supporter he's got anywhere – but nevertheless, she never made it to the top spot, did she?"

"I guess it wasn't for a lack of trying!"

It bloody certainly wasn't! The last thing he had heard from his aunt was that she had finally managed to lay her hands on her despised brother-in-law, Draco's Uncle Ted. All his rightly-deserved fame as an artist, or the fact that he had been one of the friendliest men that his nephew had ever met, hadn't helped him in the end. He had been caught, tortured and murdered, and his maimed corpse had been thrown into some Muggle waste bin. At least the last bit, his _other_ sister-in-law had managed to reverse. She had secretly salvaged the body and, together with the hastily informed widow, given him a small, but dignified burial instead. Andromeda Tonks had been out of herself with grief, but not unreceptive for the unexpected kindness.

"Thank you," Andromeda had murmured, drying her tears with a handkerchief.

"You're welcome," Narcissa had answered, not stopping to wield her wand to cover the shallow grave again. "I'm sure you'd be doing the same for me, too."

* * *

_Blessed__ be ye…_ Inspired by: The Gospel of St. Matthew, 5,3

'_Wherever they burn…_' Saying by: Heinrich Heine.


	119. The Headquarters Of Doom

Harry Potter comes to Malfoy Manor

* * *

**- 3.69. -**

The Headquarters Of Doom

* * *

_Don't speak of safe Messiahs, a failure of the Modern Man, to the centre of all life's desires, as a whole, not an also, ran. Love in a hollow field, break the image of your father's son. Drawn to an inner feel – he was thought of as the only one. He was thought of as the only one. He no longer denies all the failures of the Modern Man. No, no, no, he can't pick sides, sees the failures of the Modern Man. Wise words and sympathy tell the story of our history. New strength gives a real touch, sense and reason make it all too much. With a strange fatality, broke the spirits of a lesser man some other race can see, in his way he was the only one. In his way he was the only one. He no longer denies all the failures of the Modern Man. No, no, no, he can't pick sides, sees the failures of the Modern Man. Now that it's time to decide. In his time he was a total man, taken from Caesar's side, kept in silence just to prove who's wrong. He no longer denies all the failures of the Modern Man. No, no, no, he can't pick sides, sees the failures of the Modern Man, all the failures of the Modern Man._

_JOY DIVISION_

_

* * *

_

"Yes, Dad. I _got_ it, okay?" Draco gnarled, unnerved. His father had seized the opportunity to give his son another looong lecture, knowing that here, like this, with his aunt in the room, Draco wouldn't dare to talk back to him like he had in private.

"You needn't play the smart aleck, you know?"

"_Yes_, Dad! I heard you the first time, too! And the second! And the tenth!"

"Listen to your father, boy," Aunt Bella chimed in. "And don't be so cheeky!"

"Yes, Aunt. I am sorry, Aunt," he drawled and rolled his eyes.

He heard her push her chair and come over, and braced himself for more belittling. "You know what happens to little boys who are too pert for their own good?"

Narcissa cried in the background, "Oh, cut it out, Bella!"

"You should ask your mum, Draco – _she_ was a saucy little girl once, too. Ask _her_ what happens with children who don't know how to behave to their superiors!"

"You mean you were always like this?" Draco snapped, catching his father's warning glance, but sneering back. That mad old cow! And anyway, who had started with this whole rubbish in the first place, eh? Draco, or Lucius himself? Suddenly, he felt her hand on his shoulder and gave a little start, freezing when her wand stroked down his neck and back, halting over his left kidney.

"Obedience is a _virtue_, Draco," she snarled. "Just like submission."

"Leave my son alone, Bella!"

"Keep out of this, Cissy!"

Narcissa had got up as well, and pressed the tip of her wand against her sister's throat in turn. "Leave my son alone," she growled deadly. Bella raised both her arms and Narcissa lowered her wand again, only to find her sister shoot around and disarm her in the next moment, pointing directly at her heart.

"Don't you dare that, Cissy. Don't you _dare_ threatening me!"

"Don't you dare threatening _my_ _son_, Bella," Narcissa replied without flinching.

"Stop it, Bella!"

"_You_ keep out of this, too, Lucius! I won't take orders from a man who doesn't even have a _wand_!"

Draco couldn't but stare at them. _All_ of them. His aunt aiming at his mother, that one scowling back in defiance, and his father towering over his sister-in-law with his most menacing expression. He might not have a wand, but Draco wouldn't have wanted to mess with him in this moment nonetheless. For a minute, Lucius Malfoy regained the oh-so-familiar air of power and intimidation, prompting even Aunt Bella to store her wand away and give back her sister's.

"Keep your wig on, Lucius," she murmured, head-shaking.

"Never point your wand at my wife again, Bella! Or my son!"

Now it was her who rolled her eyes. "In case you didn't notice, brother – I actually _supported_ you in what you said! Your offspring's forward, that's what he is, and I merely meant to teach him some manners!"

"Leave _that_ to me!"

"Yeah? Like his education in the Dark Arts?" she taunted and arched a brow in contempt.

"I –"

"Shut up, Draco –" his parents and aunt shouted in unison, and with an apologetic smile, his mum added more gently, "– darling, please."

They kept on glowering at each other. Lucius was some inches taller than his sister-in-law, but _she_ had a _wand_, so they appeared fairly even-matched in appearances, if not actual power. Draco wondered what his father thought he was doing – confronting a complete lunatic, being so outclassed in the arms department – but he was strangely touched by the protective gesture nonetheless. After all their arguments in the last days, his father would still step between his son and a wand aimed at him.

Narcissa shook her head in exasperation, seized her son's arm and pulled him out of the danger zone, whispering, "It's called _stir-crazy_, darling. Or cabin-fever, perhaps. Evokes lively recollections of my childhood, now that I think about it."

"Shouldn't we –"

She shot him a little grin and winked. "No, we shouldn't. Leave those two be."

"But –"

"_Leave them_, Draco," she insisted quietly, and so utterly confident that Draco actually believed she knew what she was doing. It took him a moment to grasp that his mother was actually _hoping_ that his aunt attacked his father. She wouldn't seriously harm him – they _were_ all family, after all – but she'd deliver them with the perfect pretext to keep his dad at home for a while, without raising the Dark Lord's suspicion. He suddenly understood the machinations that had allowed his father to stay at home all this time. Provoking Aunt Bella until she lost it… He cast his mother a glance of admiration, which she returned with a wink.

In this moment, the alarm set off, indicating someone at the gates. With a face distorted by repulsion, Elsy informed them that a bunch of Snatchers – werewolves, come to that! – were at the gates, and instantly forgetting about all their quarrelling, all four jumped to their feet in alarm.

"It's the – the – it's _him_," Elsy gasped for breath, and they all knew who she meant. Draco shuddered.

"What's _he_ want? At this time of night?" Narcissa hissed, absent-mindedly wrapping her shawl around her and covering her neck. Neither she, nor Lucius – why, not even Bella – was comfortable with the kind of looks that Greyback would shoot her – her neckline, in particular.

Lucius frowned. "Let 'em come back tomorrow."

"No… If he dares coming here in the first place, he's bound to have a good reason." Bella looked thoughtful, and checking that her little sister was duly covered, she added, "Shall _I_…?"

"This is my house. I won't be cowed by _Greyback_," Narcissa snapped back. "Not in my own house!"

"_I_ will go, then," Lucius said.

"Oh, nonsense. I'll go and that's the end of it. I actually like winding him up, the dirty bastard!"

Bellatrix and Draco giggled – always a pleasure to hear Narcissa forget her good manners – but the latter instantly remembered how deeply he disliked – and mistrusted! – Fenrir Greyback, and around his mother, for good gracious' sake! Narcissa however, seemed utterly unperturbed and strode for the door, while Bellatrix left to summon the servants and hide them in the dungeons in the Northern wing – the remotest one, come to that. The last time werewolves had entered the premises, they had actually had the nerve to abduct and subsequently kill and eat one of their servants. And while Lucius, using his wife's wand, had taught them a lesson they were unlikely to forget so soon, none of them was willing to take a risk.

In fact, Narcissa wasn't as self-assured as she let on. She, too, was vaguely scared of the werewolf doyen, but she didn't want her son and husband to fret more than necessary. Without his wand, she wouldn't allow Lucius to confront Greyback, and to see her baby around that beast was completely out of the question. Yes, maybe it would have been better to allow Bella to go – but Narcissa had grown so wary of her sister behaving as if she was the mistress of this house that her pride had forbidden the gesture. She jerked open the front door and tried not to flinch. A bunch of Snatchers stood there, with half a dozen prisoners tied together, and some of them looked plain miserable. Merlin knew what those monsters had been doing to them… "What is it?" she asked in her most disinterested tones.

Greyback replied with a leer, "We're here to see He Who Must Not Be Named!"

"Who _are_ you?" She seized them up with relish, all the more when seeing the werewolves' indignation.

"You _know_ me! _Fenrir Greyback!_ We've caught Harry Potter!"

Narcissa caught her breath for a moment, seeing Greyback drag the most battered-looking person to the front and presenting him – it was a _him_, was it? – to her. She had no idea if this was Harry Potter or not – the face was a mere pulp, so swollen that it was impossible to discern the famously green eyes or not. The hair would have fitted – it was jet black and shaggy. (A swift glance to the others confirmed the suspicion – because these were the youngest Weasley boy, the Granger girl and some other boy she recognised as being in Draco's year; she needn't look twice to know _that_, even though _all_ of them looked plainly miserable.) A wand was presented to her, but that actually militated against Potter being the pitiful boy over there. She had seen Potter's wand, and she had a good memory. No way this was Potter's wand – or had he got a new one, or…

She couldn't delay them any further and reluctantly asked them in, the whole bunch, feeling highly uncomfortable to walk in front of them. What if one of them lashed out, what if – she tightened her grip on her wand, and only to say something, she announced coolly, "My son Draco is home for his Easter holidays. If _that_ is Harry Potter, he will know."

She led them into the parlour, her mind racing. What if this was really Harry Potter? On the one hand, that'd be an unsuspected – nay, unhoped-for – stroke of luck. Harry Potter of all people – in their house – Voldemort would be out of himself with delight, and perhaps his elation would go far enough to allow Lucius getting a new wand, which would relieve her of her worst worries for a while… But _if_ this was Harry Potter… And the Dark Lord would get his fingers on him… Then all hope was lost, and forever.

"What is _this_?" Lucius asked, sounding disgusted.

She shrugged vaguely and shot him an expressive look. "They say they've got Potter. Draco, come here."

Draco couldn't hide his shock, and hesitated, not moving an inch. His father on the other hand looked like a child watching a Christmas tree. "Well, Draco? Is it? Is it Harry Potter?"

Draco didn't know what to do. He didn't even know where to _look_! A furtive glance had sufficed to recognise not only Potter – whose face might be swollen all right, but whose posture, height, glasses and hands still gave him away immediately – but also Granger, Weasley and Thomas. They looked _dreadful_, all of them, no disguising spells needed – for he was sure that this was what had disfigured Potter so badly in the first place. He dared not meeting Greyback's gaze, either, not to speak of his parents. He knew the stakes, yes. If he confirmed that this was Harry Potter – oh well. The Dark Lord would be delighted, no doubt. But once he got his claws on Potter, everything would be lost, wouldn't it? _The Chosen One_ – not even Draco's parents denied that Potter was exactly that. 'Harry Potter will undo You Know Who,' he had heard Longbottom utter this over and over again, so often that Draco believed it, too. Or rather – he _wanted_ to believe it, for if there was only the remotest chance that it was true, well, then everything wasn't lost yet. He clang to that hope like a life-saver.

He didn't know what to do, and decided to procrastinate as long as possible. He'd try not to say _anything_ before they hadn't got rid of the Snatchers again, and hopefully his aunt, too – and then? Then, they'd see. Hear if Potter had anything of interest to say, perhaps… Or work out how they could exploit the fact that he was here now – there must be some deal they could bargain for… Perhaps they could somehow manage that Potter managed to 'escape', and they'd keep Weasley to pacify Voldemort… But knowing Potter, he wouldn't play along such a scheme, would he? Of course not. This was the boy who hadn't left his friends behind even in a ridiculous game like the Triwizard Tournament.

"I can't… I can't be sure," he muttered evasively, mutely begging his mother for support.

"But look at him carefully! Look! Come closer," Lucius coaxed, sounding thrilled, and his son couldn't endure looking over to him. "Draco, if _we_ are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord – _everything_ will be forgiv-"

Greyback interrupted him with a furious hiss, "Now, we won't be forgetting who actually caught him, I hope! Mr Malfoy?"

"Of course not, of course not… What did you do to him? How did he get into this state?" Lucius scrutinised Potter, too, and Draco's pulse was rushed so badly, he felt a bit like fainting. It was just so bloody obvious that this was Potter – seriously, he didn't grasp how his father could actually be wondering. Draco had always hated the sight of Potter, but little had he known that there'd come the day when he'd actually have given his right _hand_ if only he needn't see him. Here. Like this. What did Longbottom keep on preaching? 'All hope's not lost yet – with Harry Potter out there!' Well, now he was _in here_, and Draco saw his last, and most desperate, hopes run out.

"That wasn't us."

"Looks more like a Stinging Jinx to me."

Draco cast his father a swift, incredulous look. What on earth was the man _talking_ about? By now, Lucius had stepped very close to the prisoners and inspected Potter's forehead. Oh, Jesus! Trying to look anywhere but at his father, or Potter, he caught Granger's gaze. She attempted to look unsuspicious, but didn't manage to contain her fear, and he couldn't blame her. She must know that this was the Dark Order's Headquarters – surely she listened to Potterwatch, too. She exchanged one furtive glance with him, and he thought there was a silent plea for help in there. But what should he do? Good grief, girl, what did she think _he_ could do to help them?

"There's something there… It could be the scar, stretched tight…" Lucius said; his son swallowed hard. "Draco, come here. Look properly! What do you think?"

He obeyed, tilted his head in fake contemplation and shrugged then. "I don't know."

Ignoring his father's indignant expression, he escaped to stand beside his mother – who Greyback kept on ogling unabashedly. Narcissa patted Draco's back in a reassuring manner. "We had better be certain, Lucius. _Completely_ sure that it is Potter, before we summon the Dark Lord." She brandished the wand that she had obtained from Greyback – puzzling her son for a second, who know very well what Potter's wand looked like, too. "They say this is his, but it does not resemble Ollivander's description… If we are mistaken, if we call the Dark Lord here for nothing – remember what he did to Rowle and Dolohov?"

Oh, they all did, but nonetheless, Draco exhaled. Apparently, his mother was thinking along the same lines like he did. Play for time – _not_ call the Dark Lord. But Greyback wasn't content with that, naturally. He jerked on Granger's arm. "What about the Mudblood, then?"

Of course – everyone knew how Granger looked like. Her face looked down from half of the WANTED posters nowadays. Vince had even hung up one of them in their dorm – pinned it on his dart board and practised aiming by trying to hit her nose.

Narcissa pretended thoughtfulness. "Wait – yes. Yes, she was in Madam Malkin's with Potter. I saw her picture in the Prophet. Look, Draco, isn't it the Granger girl?"

He exchanged a few glances with his mum. Her eyes seemed to say 'You can't save everyone', his said '_Doh!_'

"I – maybe…" He saw his father's eyebrows rising higher and higher, and he concluded meekly, "Yeah…"

"But then, that's the Weasley boy! It's them, Potter's friends! Draco, look at him! Isn't it Arthur Weasley's son – what's his name –"

"Yeah – it _could_ be," Draco replied, not bothering to turn around once more, and instead busy in a staring match with his mother, who kept on arching her brows at him expressively. He glared back. _He_ wouldn't have his hands in this, oh no, Ma'am, not he! In that very moment, the door opened once more, and in stepped the witch that Draco had almost forgotten about, making his heart sink another fraction.

"What is this? What happened, Cissy?" Aunt Bellatrix asked and surveyed the prisoners. "But surely – this is the Mudblood girl…? This is Granger?"

"Yes, yes, it's Granger! And beside her, we think, _Potter_! Potter and his friends, caught at last!"

"Potter? Are you sure? Well, then, the Dark Lord must be informed at once!"

She rolled up her sleeve and was about to touch the Dark Mark there, but her brother-in-law prevented her with an imperious gesture. "I was about to call him. _I_ shall summon him, Bella! Potter has been brought to _my_ house, and it is therefore upon _my_ authority –"

"Your authority! You lost your _authority_ when you lost your wand, Lucius! How _dare_ you! Take your hands off me!"

"This is nothing to do with you, _you_ did not capture the boy!"

"Begging your pardon, Mr Malfoy, but it's _us_ that caught Potter, and it's _us_ that'll be claiming the gold –"

"_Gold!_" Aunt Bellatrix scoffed; she was still struggling with Lucius to get her hand free, but he was decidedly stronger than she, even now, and she tried to get her wand instead. "Take your _gold_, dirty scavenger, what do I want with _gold_? _I_ seek only the honour of his – of –"

For some reason, she stopped struggling, and Draco followed her eyes, but he couldn't see what had caught her attention. There were only the Snatchers, looking half confused, half malicious. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw his father roll up _his_ sleeve instead, but he was stopped in turn now. "_STOP!_ Do not touch it – we shall all perish if the Dark Lord comes _now_!"

That was the sanest thing he had ever heard that woman utter, even though it was perfectly out of Draco's grasp why she was suddenly so sober. Sober? No – _frantic_. She approached one of the Snatchers and grabbed the sword dangling at his side. "What is that?"

"Sword."

_Doh!_ Draco slapped his palm against his forehead – proverbially speaking. Aunt Bella, however, stretched out her hand. "Give it to me!"

"It's not yorn, Missus, it's mine, I reckon I found it."

Stupid, _stupid_ man! Bellatrix stunned him unceremoniously – of course she did, who did he think he was messing around with? Hadn't he heard of _Bellatrix Lestrange_? The other werewolves were scandalised, so she stunned them, too, before any of them could have uttered a whole incantation. Only Greyback remained conscious, but was subjugated to one of her spells, too.

"Where did you find this sword?"

"How dare you! Release me, woman!"

"Where did you find this sword? Snape sent it to my vault in Gringotts!"

She held the sharp blade perilously close to his face, and he snapped, "It was in their tent! – Release me, I say!"

She obliged him and he retreated, looking as if it had finally dawned on him who he was up against. She beckoned at the stunned Snatchers. "Draco, move this scum outside. If you haven't got the guts to finish them, then leave them in the courtyard for me!"

"Don't you dare speak to Draco like –"

"Be quiet! The situation is graver than you can possibly imagine, Cissy! We have a very serious problem!"

Oh, they certainly had, and Draco was happy enough with the order, using his wand to lift the unconscious men up and drive them out of the door. This was bad. A real disaster. For the time being – Merlin might know why – the four other students might be safe, but it wouldn't remain like that, would it, once his aunt had solved _her_ 'problem'. Damn it! She'd summon the Dark Lord – and that one would come, would he not, and he would kill Potter, and _then? _Then his victory would be complete and there'd be nothing left to hope for.

He disposed of the unconscious men in the inner courtyard as his aunt had told them, but on a second thought – "_Ennervate!_" he muttered and pointed his wand at them, before hastily returning to his parents, hoping he could perhaps prevent them from calling the Dark Lord, at least for the time being. He had scarcely entered the hallway when hearing the blood-curling screams, making his stomach turn. Not _this_ again! Judging the scream, it was Granger, and following a strange whim, he quickened his steps and burst into the drawing room.

He took in the situation with one glance and put on his nicest smile. "Ah – torturing, Aunt? Perhaps –"

"Hold your tongue, Draco, this is serious!"

"Yes, I see. I merely thought – well, _you_ are so much better an instructor than Professor Carrow, and I thought –"

"Draco!" His father shot him a stern look, that he returned innocently.

"All the time, you keep on going on that I ought to practise, and in walks an opportunity – and my aunt is here to tutor me, too, so –"

Almost inaudibly, Narcissa whispered, "Let it be, Draco. She's lost, this way or that."

He ignored her and stepped closer, gesticulating at Granger on the floor, writhing in pain. He knew how that felt like. He knelt down next to her, and grabbing her hair, pulled her to her knees and traced her jaw with his wand. His aunt was behind him, unable to see his face, but Granger could see him; he gave her a very expressive look, and whispered as quietly as he could, "You gotta play along or they'll kill you, you hear me?"

She whimpered; he was inclined to take that as a yes. He got back to his feet, and lifted his arm in a dramatic gesture, but his aunt pushed him aside. "_I'll_ do that, Draco!"

"But –"

"Oh, just _shut up_, will you! _Crucio!_"

The spell hit Granger squarely in the chest, and instantly, she collapsed and curled up in agony, screaming her lungs out. Draco couldn't bear to see it. He had seen enough tortures for a lifetime, and _that_ had mostly been performed by laymen – not by a pro like his aunt, whose face was shining with malicious relish.

"_Finite Incantatem!_" Aunt Bella was clearly pleased. "I'm going to ask you again – where did you get this sword? _Where?_"

"We found it – we found it! _Please!_"

"She's lying!"

"Maybe it's true," Draco interjected with a shrug. "What do you want with that bloody thing, anyway, Aunt?"

"Leave your aunt alone, Draco," Lucius drawled.

"But I want to know! Dad! Aunt Bella! What _is _this? Why are you making such a big deal about it?" Draco employed his best nosy-teenage-boy voice – a voice that his father knew very well, and to which he reacted with predictable eye-rolling.

"Shut up, sonny."

"Shut up, _both_ of you – and _you_!" Bellatrix kicked Granger into the stomach, making the girl gasp. "Tell me now!"

"I don't _know_!"

"You are lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth! _Tell the truth!_" This time, she kicked against Granger's head – Draco squeezed his eyes shut in horror. Granger yelped in pain. "What else did you take? What else have you got? Tell me the truth or I swear I shall run you through with this knife!"

Draco groaned with the mere sight of it. Seeing people tormented by curses was one thing. Seeing them harassed with knives and the like… His stomach did a back flip. "A knife, Aunt Bella? Really – that's so crude. Why don't you allow _me_ to practise some more curses? I hardly get to practise them in school, due to my – anyway. Please, please – allow _me_!"

"You start getting on my nerves, Draco!"

Narcissa tugged on her son's sleeve, trying to pull him away, but he shook her off. "I'm sorry, Aunt. Forgive me. Still, I would truly appreciate it if you let _me_ do this. Look – I _know_ that silly cow! She – she even slapped me, can you imagine? The filthy little – come on, Aunt Bella! Give me a chance to pay back. I mean – where's the harm? Let me try!"

Bellatrix pushed him out of the way. "_What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! CRUCIO!_"

This was real agony, Draco could tell. His aunt didn't stop, despite all his pestering her – 'how can she speak if you don't stop every now and then? – Look, she'll faint! – Come, let me give it a go –' Granger screamed harder than ever; her shrieks were ringing in his ears and made him physically sick. He turned around to his parents. Lucius looked unnerved and Draco glared at him, approaching his mother instead.

"Make her _stop_, Mum," he implored quietly. "She'll kill her!"

"Probably, dear," Narcissa replied with a knowing expression. "Wouldn't be the first, or the last –"

"But this is someone I _know_! Mum! You mustn't let that happen! Right in front of me!"

"Then you better leave, darling, because there's nothing you or I or anyone could do about it now."

"_How did you get into my vault? Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help you?_"

"We only met him tonight! We've never been inside your vault," Granger whined, her face twisted. "It isn't the real sword! It's a copy! Just a copy!"

"A copy! Oh, a likely story!"

Lucius interrupted her raving, "But we can find out easily. Draco, fetch the goblin. He can tell us whether the sword is real or not."

Well, _anything_ was better than _this_, Draco thought, and opened the hidden door to descend to the small vault underneath the drawing room. He took a deep breath before the door. "Stand back. Line up against the back wall. Don't try anything, or I'll kill you!"

In the darkness, he could see the crouched figure of the goblin; he tried to ignore the others and snatched his arm, pulled him up and out, resealing the door with a spell. "You better get your act together, pal," he muttered through gritted teeth. "She's in a filthy mood – she'll murder you if you don't obey her!"

"They'll murder me this way or that," the goblin returned with a voice that was much firmer than his shaken state made believe.

"But she isn't after you!"

"As if that mattered."

Draco gave the door a kick, and dragged the battered creature into the startlingly bright room. Immediately, Aunt Bella commenced her cruel business – without asking the poor thing a single thing. The goblin held himself with unexpected dignity though – he hardly gave a noise, no matter what Bellatrix did to him – or maybe he was already too weakened to stir, Draco couldn't say. There was a loud noise – something like a _crack_, sounding like an inexperienced elf Apparating, or Disapparating perhaps, and Lucius jerked his head around. "What was _that_? Did you hear that? What was that noise in the cellar? Draco –" Lucius seemed to have second thoughts of sending his son into possible danger. "No, call Wormtail. Make him go and check!"

Draco nodded and went over to the smaller drawing room. He knew that Wormtail was sitting there, eavesdropping – it was the pathetic git's only hobby, and with all the elves out of the picture, no one objected him. He pushed open the door and beckoned at the little man. "I take it you heard my father, mister. Go down to the cellar and have a look."

"But –"

"Is it really necessary that I ask my aunt to order you…?"

That threat worked. It always did, with everybody. With a defeated look, Wormtail obeyed, following Draco to the larger drawing room and heading for the cellar then. For a while, there was silence, until Lucius cried, "What is it, Wormtail?"

A second or two passed, then came a meagre, "Nothing! – All fine!"

Aunt Bella looked back to the goblin. "Is this the sword of Godric Gryffindor?"

He furrowed his bleeding forehead. "That's impossible to say."

"Bah! Are you a goblin or not? Look at it!" She pushed the handle of the sword into his little hands and brandished her wand. "And don't think of doing something funny with it – I'm quicker than you."

He examined the sword and repeated flatly, "Impossible to say – I'd need more time for a proper inspection –"

She shrugged and turned away from him to resume her nasty work with Granger. "_Crucio!_"

"This is _barbaric_!" Draco grumbled, pulling on his father's arm. He had seen how Longbottom was tormented by Alecto Carrow, but _this_ was another league! Alecto Carrow was _nothing_ compared to Bellatrix Lestrange's might – or her will to hurt, which was crucial to the effect of the Cruciatus Curse. "Dad! Do something!"

"_Do something?_" Lucius turned around with an irritable sneer. "Are you out of your mind, Draco?"

He fluttered his hands at the agonised girl on the floor. "She'll _die_!"

"Better her than you or your mother!"

As true as this was, of course, Draco still wouldn't have it. "As my aunt told me herself when teaching me this stuff – there's no use in killing a prisoner when you want to interrogate them!"

"We still have the other one, that Weasley boy!"

Bellatrix made a break and turned to glower at the goblin. "_Well?_ Is it the true sword?"

"No…" The goblin stroke over the flat side of the blade almost tenderly. "It is a fake."

"Are you sure? Quite sure?"

"Yes."

He held his ugly, scarred face averted; his entire posture signalled defeat and resignation. Aunt Bella wasn't impressed though. "Good," she cried and beamed, only to slash the goblin's face with another spell. Draco winced back while the victim collapsed at her feet and she kicked him aside. "And _now_, we call the Dark Lord!"

Draco's nausea reached another peak when he saw her touch her Dark Mark, consequently making his own sting. The Dark Lord! Oh, how glad, how _relieved_ he had been, coming home for the holidays and finding the wretched man gone! And now he'd return, to god knew what ghastly end! He'd murder Granger, he'd murder Weasley, and _then_, he'd finish Potter off, too. Oh god, oh god, oh _god_ –

"And I think we can dispose of the Mudblood," Aunt Bella said indifferently. Draco gave another muffled groan, mimicking at his mother, but Narcissa chose to look the other way. "Greyback, take her if you want her."

Oh, Lord, no! Not Greyback! If they gave her to _Greyback_, being killed and torn to pieces would be the less repellent part of Granger's fate! Unexpectedly, Draco wasn't the only one in the room utterly disgusted by that suggestion. "_Nooo!_"

Weasley, of all people, stormed into the room with a mad expression, and before she could react, he had disarmed Bellatrix. Draco would have tipped his hat, if he hadn't been so startled. The next one hit by a Stunner was his father – finally waking Draco from his dream-like petrifaction. He hurled a Stunner at Potter – who had taken down Lucius Malfoy, after all – but missed him. Oh well. Maybe it was for the better. No matter how keen he had always been to beat Harry Potter – _this_ wasn't the situation for sure.

Perhaps she wasn't one of the world's greatest thinkers, but certainly Aunt Bella was the only one of them who had her wits together. She stooped, jerked on Granger's neck and pulled the barely conscious girl to her feet. "_Stop!_ Or she dies! – Drop your wands! Drop them, or we'll see exactly how filthy her blood is!"

Potter slowly came out of his cover; Weasley merely stared, his eyes wide with terror. For the first time ever, he had Draco's full sympathy. No one in the room seriously doubted that Bellatrix wasn't bluffing, and for all Draco knew, Granger was Weasel Bee's girlfriend. He'd watch his girlfriend being murdered. Heck, they'd all do! Bellatrix had taken up her knife again. The silver blade shone in the glistening light of the crystal chandelier, its point pressing against Granger's carotid artery. Draco had a vivid imagination; he could picture all too well how the blood would splatter if his aunt pressed only a little more. _Ugh!_

And she did; already the first drops of blood ran down the girl's throat. "I said _drop them_," she shrieked.

"All right!" Potter dropped his wand and so did Weasley.

"Good! – Draco, pick them up! The Dark Lord is coming, Harry Potter! Your death approaches!" Draco was quick to obey – the Dark Lord _was_ coming, after all! He collected the two wands, and his aunt continued, "Now – Cissy, I think we ought to tie these little heroes up again, while Greyback takes care of Miss Mudblood. I am sure the Dark Lord will not begrudge you the girl, Greyback, after what you have done tonight."

Draco closed his eyes, desperate to dispel his imagination for a moment. _Greyback!_ It'd have been better to have his aunt finish the girl off. The disgusting mess that the old werewolf would make of this was just too gruesome to think of. He opened his eyes in the next second, however, startled by a strange noise above their heads. The chandelier was moving – why was it moving? And in the next second, before Draco even trusted his eyes, it suddenly came crashing down. His aunt jumped out of its way, but the two unconscious prisoners did not, obviously. Only then, feeling a sharp pain, Draco collapsed, too, his hands shooting up to his face and touching a warm, sticky substance there –

He hardly noticed how the wands he was still holding were taken from him. His vision was obscured; his eyes were glued shut by the liquid – blood, _his_ blood, he thought faintly – and the hurt prickled so much that it itched. Around him, the fight continued; somebody grabbed him and dragged him away, and it took him a while to grasp that this wasn't Potter or Weasley, but his mother.

"Darling!" she breathed and tried to force his hands away from his face. "Let me – come, sweetheart, let me have a look!"

He refused, he couldn't even say why, and she didn't insist. Instead, he heard her incredulous voice shout, "_Dobby? _You – _you_ dropped the chandelier?"

Dobby? _Dobby?_ Draco rubbed his eyes and finally took down his hands to take a look himself. Indeed – there he was, their old, faithless servant, pointing his finger at Narcissa Malfoy. "You must not hurt Harry Potter!"

"Kill him, Cissy!" Aunt Bella screeched, but in the very second, her sister was disarmed, too. "You dirty little monkey! How _dare_ you take a witch's wand! How dare you defy your masters?"

"Dobby _has_ no master! Dobby is a free elf, and Dobby has come to save Harry Potter and his friends!"

The entire situation was so surreal, Draco wondered if his injuries were graver than he thought, and he was actually in delirium. Dobby. A free elf. Who had just disarmed Narcissa Malfoy. _Dobby_ – who hadn't managed to carry a tea tray without dropping it, the last time Draco had seen him. _Dobby_ had disarmed one of the most admirable witches that Draco had ever come across. No. No, it wasn't possible. It couldn't possibly be.

Potter screamed something, and both he and Weasley leapt forwards and grabbed the unconscious girl and the goblin. In the next second, they were gone. Draco couldn't move. He could only stare, his mother's hand on his shoulder digging into his flesh almost painfully.

"We're doomed," Narcissa whispered and woke from her petrifaction. "We're – oh god! Draco, come, _come_! The Dark Lord – he'll be here in a minute if that's enough – oh Lord, have mercy with us all!"

She headed towards the hearth, where the motionless figure of his father was lying, sprawled as he had fallen. She wanted to get her wand – but she no longer had it, and ordered her son to look for it, while she laboured to drag her husband to his feet. "Lucius," she panted helplessly. "Lucius, wake up! _Wake up!_ You must – we must get away from here! Lucius! My love, _move_!"

Draco was in a trance-like state. Utterly confused, he did as his mother told him, finding her wand behind one of the sofas, and returned it to her. The Dark Lord. They were all doomed. He'd come. He'd find Potter having escaped – right under their noses – he'd have them all killed… Aunt Bella was throwing a tantrum, but he didn't even look. He only saw his mum reviving his father, who staggered for a moment, taking in the scenery in bland shock.

"We got to flee," Narcissa groaned. "Mon amour! He'll come! He'll murder us all! Lucius! Have you heard me?"

He nodded slowly, but didn't look like apprehending a thing. Instead, his son had a bit of a brainwave. Or maybe it was simply his survival instinct. Mil had taught him how to produce a Patronus Charm, and he had heard the Lovegood girl explain that, and how, messages could be sent by these. He had never tried that, but he thought it was the only chance they still had now. He grabbed his mother's wand and whipped it, praying this would work, muttered the spell, and focused all his will on the message. – 'HELP US!'

"What – what was this?" Lucius murmured.

A call for help to the only real friend they had, but Draco didn't say that. Instead, he pulled on his father's arm. "Oh, never mind! Dad, _come_! _NOW!_"

But it was too late. Draco hadn't heard him enter, and he was so frightened as well as dazed, he didn't even give a start when hearing the eerie, high voice behind him now. "Brace yourself if you called me back without a very, _very_ good reason!"


	120. On The Hole

Neville can flee before it's too late

* * *

**- 3.70. -**

On The Hole

* * *

_An den Geboten dieses Naturrechts kann jedes positive Recht, von welchem Gesetzgeber es auch kommen mag, auf seinen sittlichen Gehalt, damit auf seine sittliche Befehlsmacht und Gewissensverpflichtung nachgeprüft werden. Menschliche Gesetze, die mit dem Naturrecht in unlösbarem Widerspruch stehen, kranken an einem Geburtsfehler, den kein Zwangsmittel, keine äußere Machtentfaltung sanieren kann._

_POPE PIUS XI. – Mit Brennender Sorge_

_

* * *

_

Draco flicked the wand, but it gave off only a few feeble green sparkles. He tried again – more sparkles, but no complete spell – and he sighed loudly, making Vince titter. "The girly wand still don't do it for you, Malf?"

"Stuff it, Crabbe."

But sadly enough, Crabbe said it like it was. The 'girly wand' – that was Narcissa Malfoy's spare rosewood wand, with the effeminate ornamental carvings – didn't work nearly as well as Draco's own always had for him. Most minor spells, or the easier ones, or those that he had known for ages, well, _those_ the wand did all right. But as for doing new stuff, or more advanced magic – no, the _girly thing_ wouldn't do.

With more effort, he flicked his wrist once more, willing the silly thing to do as it ought, and bless! A ray of green light darted across the room and accidentally hit Susan Bones. Draco had been so busy trying to get the spell right, he had forgotten to aim properly, and instead of the sparrow's that he had tried to convert into a vulture, Susan's neck grew longer and longer and she sprouted a beak and a pair of rather impressive wings. Naturally, she shrieked, and Draco swore under his breath, rushing over.

"Sorry – that was – uhm –"

"_Mr Malfoy!_" cried Professor McGonagall with her most uptight face.

"Sorry, Ma'am! I missed the –"

"Yes, we can all certainly see _that_!"

"Calm down!" he groaned, trying to get the panicking girl to hold still. "I'll undo it – stop moving, for heaven's sake!"

Perhaps Susan would have given an answer, but she could only clap her beak and make some coarse, guttural sounds. Her hands were slowly transforming into claws that ripped Draco's robes and made some painful scratches on his shoulders, and before he managed to get his wand to do the counter-curse, McGonagall ended the embarrassing spectacle. Susan's neck shrank back to its normal length; the claws turned into small, almost child-like hands again, and the beak melted away, and became a little button-nose and a sneering mouth again, too.

"Idiot," she gnarled.

"I'm sorry!"

"I'd say you did that on purpose, but then again, I know your performances of late!"

"Oh, come on, I _said_ I'm sorry!"

"_Idiot_," she repeated, softer, shaking her head almost leniently, and turned away to join her giggling friends. As a matter of fact, the whole class was giggling, as well with the funny sight as with the fact that Draco Malfoy, Head Boy and textbook example of what a proper pureblood was supposed to be, had totally messed it up. Greg was biting his lips to stifle a grin, but Vince didn't hold back. He was cackling so hard, he held his big, round belly, his shoulders shaking with giggles.

"Come on, Crabbe," Draco said with fake coolness. "_You_ show us how to do it."

Predictably, Vince failed – his wand didn't even give some sparks – but it was too ordinary a failure to make Draco laugh at him in turn. There were only two things that Vincent Crabbe had ever excelled at – swinging a club to bash Bludgers about, and – surprisingly! – Dark magic. His knack for those curses was almost uncanny. Out of their group, Millicent was the first to manage the transformation spell, followed by Theo, and a long while later, Greg, who was so shocked by his own success that his jaw dropped to his chest and his wand to the floor.

"Holy cricket!"

"Well done, mate," Draco commended warmly.

"Did you – did you see that?"

"Yep."

"Mil, did you _see_ that?"

"I did indeed, Greg," she said with a smile. "Well done!"

Vince merely shrugged, while Pansy put on her sourest expression. "Bah, every chicken picks a worm now and then."

"Envy doesn't suit you, Panse," Draco murmured. "Yellow really isn't your colour."

"_You_ can't do it either!"

"No, I can't, but that doesn't mean I couldn't appreciate someone else's achievement."

She narrowed her eyes and elbowed him, taking great care to hit his freshly mended ribs. He bent over with a gasp. Freshly mended or not, when someone pushed against them, or when he was lying on the wrong side in bed, his ribs and left arm still hurt almost as much as when they had still been broken. He faintly perceived how Millicent dressed down her roommate, and he tried to catch his breath again. Professor Snape said that it would get better in time and probably, he was right. It hurt fractionally less than two weeks ago, and a world less than last month. Draco had broken loads of bones – forearm, upper arm, legs, ankles, fingers – in his time on the Quidditch team. A broken bone was not much of a problem for a wizard. But for that, the injury needed to be looked after timely and properly, and _that_ was the crux in Draco's case.

The Dark Lord's wrath had been fearful to behold, and even more horrible to be subjected to. He had indiscriminately hurled curses about, not even stopping from hurting Aunt Bella, his most devoted follower. They had all got their fair share – Bellatrix, Lucius, Narcissa, Draco and Fenrir Greyback, regardless of their part in the disaster. Because what, for example, had Lucius Malfoy been supposed to do, without a wand? But the Dark Lord hadn't cared; he had cursed the hell out of him regardless. Draco himself had sustained four broken ribs, a triple fracture of his left upper arm, four deep cuts on his chest and belly, dislocated shoulder joints…

Professor Snape had arrived in time, before the Dark Lord had lost interest in torture and started killing his prey. The Professor had persuaded his master to let them all live; he had not, however, succeeded in being allowed to take care of the injuries inflicted on any of them. Why, not even Bellatrix had gotten away this time. Like the rest of her family, she had been incarcerated in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, and soon was joined by her clumsy husband, who had dared defying orders by trying to mend some of his wife's more serious wounds.

It had taken the Professor quite a bit of work to convince the Dark Lord that at least Draco was allowed to escape house arrest by the end of the holidays; and only when returning to Hogwarts, he had finally got the chance to have a professional look after his wounds. Madam Pomfrey had been forced to break his arm once more – because in the two weeks in the dungeons, the fracture had started to mend but wrongly. She had fed him potions, had applied ointments to the deep cuts… But not even her attendance sufficed to vanish the scars, and Draco's chest looked as if he had got into a fight with a sabre tooth tiger who had tried disembowelling him.

Greg had tried to console him by pointing out that the scars looked rather 'cool'. Vince had put on a precocious face and said that the punishment had been just. Zabini had joked that the deep purple of the scars didn't suit Draco's pale complexion. Theo had merely shrugged and said 'The important bit is that all of you are alive still, right?' Curiously, the only male student that had reacted with something like genuine concern had been little Neville Longbottom. He had been confined to the Infirmary, too, after the Carrows had tried to press him for the whereabouts of the Weasley girl, or any Weasley, at that instance, because they knew that Longbottom was a close friend of her. Longbottom had looked much worse than Draco, in fact. His face a mere pulp, every single of his fingers squashed and broken, his kneecaps smashed, he had still laboured to sit up and address his neighbour.

"I promise you, it'll stop hurting so much," he had mumbled, his lips so swollen that it had been hard to understand him. "Madam Pomfrey's a genius."

Draco hadn't known how to answer. Any sarcastic remark like he had given back to Crabbe and Zabini had been out of the question, with Longbottom looking the way he had. All he could have thought of had been a meagre, "You would know, wouldn't you, Longbottom?", accompanied by a beaten smile.

"Oh yeah. _I_ know for sure."

At last, Draco _had_ been hit by an idea how to repay the uncalled-for kindness. When visiting him that morning, Professor Snape had muttered something under his breath, while casting a glance at Longbottom…

"Listen, man," Draco had said in a low voice. "They're just waiting until you're halfway fixed again. As soon as you can walk again on your own two feet, you ought to get out of here!"

"If they wanted to kill me, they'd have done so on Monday."

"You don't get it, boy. They tried getting at your grandmother, but she escaped. I don't know if they mean to _kill_ you. But they sure want to make an example of you, and send you to Azkaban after a show trial. And depending how bad that trial goes, you might end up as Dementor food!"

"Gran? They – what about Gran?"

"She's fine for all I know. Calm down, and think of yourself for the time being!"

Longbottom had been silent for a while and sunk back to his cushion. Draco hadn't expected a reply, but it had come at last. "Thanks for telling me," the other boy had groaned and covered his eyes with his hands.

"You're welcome, Longbottom. – You really, really are…"

As heartfelt as these few, inconspicuous words, as genuine Neville Longbottom's gratitude was. No, he had no intention to let himself be shut up in Azkaban, let alone be fed to the Dementors. Dying for a just cause may appear very noble all right, but he surely prefers to stay alive and fight for that cause. So for a while, he pretended that his injuries weren't mending as well as they did – and Madam Pomfrey played along, bless her. As soon as his knees were mended, however, he seized the first opportunity to sneak out of the Infirmary, equipped with some food that he had hidden in the bedside table, just like some rations of bread that Malfoy in the bed next to him had hidden likewise.

Their goodbye was weird. Brief, yes, and not overly cordial. But that there was a 'goodbye' in the first place – that Malfoy tipped him off – that he saved food to help Neville's escape – and that he actually got up, sneaked to the door to check that the coast was clear, and shook Neville's hand before this one slipped out of the door – well, that certainly came as a bit of a surprise.

"Good luck, Longbottom. Potter is _still_ out there."

"So is hope."

Malfoy merely chuckled. "Yeah… Hopefully there's a bit of luck left, too. – You know how to get out of the castle?"

"Is that even possible?"

"By no way that I'd know of. But you mustn't stay, it's too dangerous."

"Well, better than let myself be caught by the guards, right? I know where to go for the time being."

"But your food stocks won't last very long."

"Yeah, well, I'll have to think of a way around _that_ problem."

Malfoy shrugged, peaked out once more, and ushered Neville to hurry without further delay. His knees still hurting like hell, he almost ran into Argus Filch on the way, and actually had to stun Filch's vicious cat. His heart missed a dozen beats when Snape turned around the corner once. Yes, it was dark, but for a few seconds, he was sure that Snape must have seen him, but luckily, the dirty old tosser was losing it a bit of late. After regaining his wits, Neville squeezed himself into a niche and held his breath – but Snape simply walked by, not even lingering for a moment. To describe Neville's relief and utter glee would be futile. He has always feared Severus Snape above everything and everyone else, including You Know Who, and to have that little triumph of outsmarting his old Potions Master actually gave him enough verve to complete his flight to the comparable safety of the Room of Requirement.

Here he's been ever since. And the Room has welcomed him with arms wide open – or rather say, a comfortable hammock, and a banner displaying Gryffindor's crest. The only thing it does _not_ offer is food, actually. Several times, he sneaked out at night, but the ratio between making it all the way downstairs into the kitchens, and the times he very nearly almost got caught was much too bad for comfort. At other times, Seamus or Pavarti, Hannah or Padma, Lavender or Ernie, suspecting where he was hiding, managed to come and bring along some sandwiches. Still, that solution is far from satisfying, and two days before yesterday, Hannah was caught – Seamus told him that, later that night – and although she claimed that the bananas in her sleeves were for her own consumption, Alecto Carrow didn't buy into her excuses and punished her badly. So Neville forbade Seamus to come again only to deliver food, and urged him to spread the word. It's not worth it.

Oh well, that's what he told Seamus, anyway, but by now, his guts are making pitiful noises; he's almost light-headed with hunger. Checking his watch, he realises it's only half past eleven in the morning – which means that he'll have to wait for another twelve hours, at least. Better make it fourteen, to be on the safe side. He really, _really_ doesn't want to meet Alecto Carrow, weakened as he still is, and half of his injuries only partly mended.

He's settled in his hammock, that gently rocks back and forth, and he tries to think of something to distract him from the hunger. He thinks of Gran, and touches her letter in his inside pocket, that Seamus brought along last time. She's got away! Oh, thank heavens! He's seized by a grim satisfaction. That serves those tossers all right! Attacking an old lady! Bah! But Gran's shown them. He has vivid pictures how it must have happened; he knows his grandmother, and she is fiercer than a dragon when someone provokes her! To tell the truth – she's fierce at the best of times, but that's the point, isn't it – because even when she's in a good temper, Neville wouldn't want to mess with her. That moron Dawlish! Well, he only got what he was in for. And Gran is safe. She can well look after herself, Neville knows it.

As happy as the thought of his grandmother's grand escape may be, it doesn't vanquish his stomach's moans. He keeps on swinging to and fro in his hammock, his eyes unfocused, when suddenly –

For a minute, he thinks he's hallucinating things – sure sign of starvation. But _starvation_ is hardly true – he's been without food for thirty-six hours, that's not all that much. He stares at the wall, and he could swear that ten minutes ago, it was simply that – a wood-panelled wall, plain, straight, even. But _now_ – he rubs his eyes, and opening them again, it's still there. A kind of stain. Or depression. Or – is that a hole…? He jumps out of the hammock and slowly approaches the – well, let's call it a hole for just giving it a name. He stretches out his hand – wary, certain that this is some nasty trick – and slowly inserting his hand into the dark depth, he's reminded of that crazy well in Rome that he's once been too, when Pop was still alive. Pop and Gran and Uncle Algy, they all laughed and insisted that Neville ought to put his hand into the mouth of that thingy – Mouth Of Verity or so it was called. They told him that the thing would bite off his hand if he had been lying, and he was scared out of his wits. Not that he remembered a single lie he had been telling – one had better not lie to Gran, she found out anyhow – but he was nervous still. The same kind of nervousness now grips him, seeing his left hand (he's trying to be on the safe side – he can live without his left hand if he must) disappear in the darkness. Nothing happens. Nothing bites him. There is virtually _nothing_. Or…

Well, _now_ he _must_ be imagining things, because he's sure to smell a roast – with onion gravy, and chips. Boy, that smells fine. It smells even better – more tempting – when one is as hungry as Neville. Gran would scold him for his carelessness if she could see him now, because he reaches out for the edge of the hole and chins himself up – he's learnt how to chin himself, it was inevitable with all the detentions in the dungeons – and crawls into the hole. He ignites his wand, and realises that it's a kind of tunnel – a passage, maybe. A passage to where? Well, he'll find out – he'll simply follow the heavenly smell. Maybe it leads down to the kitchens, where the house-elves are just preparing lunch. Maybe he can nick a piece of bread, or even a slice of roast, or at least an apple or so.

The way gets longer and longer, sometimes ascending, sometimes descending, and after a while, he thinks it can't be the Hogwarts kitchens he's heading for. Judging the way so far, he should have left the school's boundaries by now, but he could be mistaken. Finally, the tunnel comes to a sudden end – a kind of door, just that it doesn't have a handle. He puts his ear to the wooden surface, intently listening – but he can't hear a thing. It's very quiet on the other side. Then, a voice resounds; it's muffled and indistinguishable, but it's coming closer, and Neville gets very tense.

"… yes, yes, I _heard_ you! I'll just look after my roast, and then I'll get you your beer, Warty! – _Geez!_"

So he's in a tavern – or a pub – and if he should make a guess, a Hogsmeade pub. Which is as good as it is bad. On the one hand – maybe he manages to sneak out here somehow, so he could finally get out of the school for good and try finding Gran. On the other hand – Hogsmeade is teeming with folks, they might recognise him, catch him, and – he rather not think of it. Snape's forbidden to have his students killed off – very strange code of honour, that one's got! – but outside of the school, this rule is probably invalid.

He hears the footsteps retreat again and a door being slammed, and he starts examining the wooden panel separating the passage from the room beyond. He lets his fingers glide over it, searching for a hidden mechanism, or handle, when it starts moving, and startled, he realises that it's an ordinary swinging door, just waiting for a little push. Peering out, he finds the room empty, and quietly glides out of the hole and rushes to what he supposes to be the kitchen.

There's a lovely roast in the oven, and a huge frying pan with chips. In a big cauldron over the open fire, there's soup, and a bread loaf, as big as a medium-sized pig, is lying on the raw table. Mmmmmh! He's already snatched the knife next to the bread when it occurs to him that this is theft. He's no thief! Stealing is _wrong_. Not only Gran thinks so; her grandson deeply internalised that rule, too. In the outskirts of his mind, the term 'theft of food' appears, and he thinks he remembers that it's sort of all right to nick food when one's on the brim of starvation. But is he _really_ on 'the brink of starvation'…?

He lowers the knife again, trying to make up his mind. 'It's just a piece of bread! No one will miss it!' – 'But it's stealing all the same!' – 'But I'm facing worse than hunger if I try getting food otherwise!' – 'Tough luck!'

"Oi! What do you think you're doin' there, laddie?"

He hasn't heard the proprietor of the bread loaf coming in, and drops the knife in shock, grabbing his wand instead and whirling around. Before him stands an old man that seems vaguely, strangely familiar. The man has taken out his wand, too, but seeing Neville, his expression changes from annoyance to mild pity and he lowers his wand again.

Neville hectically attempts an explanation – "I – uhm – look, Sir, I didn't mean to –"

"Shh!" The wizard flutters his hands at him, signalling him to be quiet. "Not so loud, boy! The house is full with people, half of them Death Eaters!"

Neville can feel all the blood vanishing from his face; cold sweat breaks out, and he wildly looks around, but of course, they're alone in the kitchen.

"Be _quiet_, I say," the man says flatly, and cries, louder, "Darned cat! Shoo! Shoo! Get off my roast!" He idly throws a small pan into a corner, causing a loud _clang_, and continues in the same, flat manner, "Wait here, boy. Oh – and eat what you like while you wait, I don't mind."

He leaves the kitchen, swearing under his breath about 'the ruddy beast', and Neville is alone again, staring at the door through which the stranger has left. Now this was – erm – odd. If there are so many Death Eaters in the place – is he going to get some of them to take care of the intruder? Somehow, this seems unlikely, doesn't it? There's been a kind of familiar gleam in the old wizard's periwinkle blue eyes, a warm, benevolent gleam belying his otherwise forbidding appearance. Now what do these eyes remind Neville of…?

For a start, he accepts the invitation. He cuts of a bit of bread, and fills a cup with the lovely-scenting soup, devouring both with ravenous hunger. Only then, he starts looking around. The room is coarse; unquarried stones form the walls and the floor, the furniture is rough and plain. Still the room emanates a strangely comfortable air; there are flowery curtains on the small bull's-eye pane, sewn by someone without too much a knack for needlework, and some picture frames, displaying yellowed photos. Munching the bread, Neville steps closer and takes a look.

The biggest photo shows a couple in very old-fashioned robes. The man is tall and dark-haired, and like with the stranger, there's something very familiar about his clean-shaven face. The woman next to him is very tall for a woman, too, with a tight bun that reminds Neville of Professor McGonagall, and a similarly serious expression about her as well. On the photo to the right, there are three children, their robes just as out-of-date. Two boys, one eight or nine, maybe, with an oddly precocious smile curling his lips, the other one a few years younger, wildly waving at the camera and goofing around – his older, much more dignified brother shoots him an occasional, mildly disapproving glance for that. Lastly there's a little, angelic-looking girl, with a shock of straw-coloured curls, and big, serene eyes dominating her cute features, who shyly raises her podgy hands for a little waving. The younger boy sometimes stoops down, ruffling the girl's hair and making her giggle, but catching the other brother's looks, she quickly recomposes again and merely smiles.

The same girl, if Neville isn't mistaken, is depicted on another photo, just that she's some years older there. It's hard to say if it's her, really – the hair fits, so do the features in general, but the serene, amiable expression is gone, replaced by a haunted, fearful air. From the side, a boy's hand reaches into the frame now and then, stroking over the girl's cheek, and whenever this happens, she twists her lips into a warm smile, making her look more like the little one on the other picture. Neville faintly wonders if the stricter brother has cowed her so much, but he doesn't linger.

There's another photo of the woman, a good deal older now, and the 'serious' has transformed into 'sour', vanquishing the similarity to Professor McGonagall. Streaks of grey in her dark hair, that's still tied up into a bun, she almost scowls into the camera, clearly impatient, and waving her hands in a dismissive fashion. What's happened to these people? Why did they all turn out so – so…

Only then, he recognises the last photo, that he hasn't taken a closer look at before. It's much more modern, depicting a wizard in his forties, perhaps, in eccentrically cut robes with star-spangled sleeves, and a crazy top hat. His hair is auburn, his eyes are just as blue as the strange man's, and he's got a long, well-kept beard. Neville suddenly knows who this is, and his heart gets instantly light, no, downright happy. In a house where they have photos of Dumbledore in his prime on the wall – this isn't an enemy's house, for sure! And if this is Albus Dumbledore – why, then the stranger must be a relative of his, right, possibly the brother from the photo, the strict one!

That suspicion is confirmed when the man comes back; sealing the door behind him and muttering some charms to prevent others from eavesdropping. "That's my late brother Albus," he says carelessly and beckons into the general direction of the pictures. "But I reckon you've gathered so much yourself!"

"Oh, thank heavens! So you're – I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name, sir – Mr Dumbledore, sir – oh, sorry, of course that _is_ your name, I'm so –"

"Cut it out, laddie. The name's Aberforth. Mr Dumbledore was my father. And you are…?"

"Neville Longbottom, sir."

"Longbottom!" he cries, sounding delighted. "Why, you must be Augusta's grandson then, yes? Frank's and Alice's little boy?"

"Yes, sir –"

"Drop the _sir_, too, kid – that was my brother. It's just Aberforth. – I knew your parents quite well, boy, did you know that?"

"No, si- uhm… Aberforth…"

"Course you don't, stupid of me to ask. In case you're wondering – your grandmother is fine. I gather you've heard of the attack on her?"

"I did, yes." He touches his chest, where Gran's letter is hidden in his pocket. "In a way, that's why I thought it better to disappear out of the school –"

Aberforth interrupts him with a low sigh. "I'm sorry, Neville, but you cannot stay here. I'll help you getting away tonight, but it's too dangerous for the both of us if you stayed."

"No, no! That's all taken care of! I – I've got a hiding room inside of Hogwarts. It's just – well, I was so hungry, and leaving my cover is fairly dangerous, and then that passage opened…" He explains everything that's happened, roughly, feeling increasingly easy-going in the old wizard's company. He's almost as nice as his younger brother was. Well, in all honesty – Neville didn't know Professor Dumbledore very well, did he, so who's he to judge how nice he really was. But his brother surely is a solid number two on the 'nice' list.

All the while, Aberforth listens and slices up the roast, preparing little trays with bowls of soup and dishes with roast and chips and bread. "You can come over for food, Neville, that's quite all right with me. You just ought to be careful. I don't fancy being caught catering to what they nowadays call 'Unwanted Persons'. – Ph! _Unwanted Persons!_ – Anyway, you're welcome as long as you're cautious."

"Thank you, sir!"

"_Aberforth_, laddie."

"Oh, I'm sorry… It's just – well, it's hard not to say 'sir' to a member of the Dumbledore family!"

Aberforth laughs, a little bitterly, but Neville could be mistaken. "How many of us did you know, then?"

"Oh! Well, just Professor Dumbledore – and you, now. But…"

"Just winding you up, Neville," Aberforth says with a smile that's _decidedly_ bitter now. "I understand your difficulties. I take it's hard _not_ to be awed by my big brother. Bigger than life, really, he was, wasn't he? You see, you _couldn't_ possibly know any other of us. They're all long dead. Albus and me – well, we were the last. Now he's gone, and I reckon I won't be much longer of this world either."

Neville feels awkward and concentrates on the dish that Aberforth has put in front of him, ushering him to dig in. "You mean – the Death Eaters…?" he asks timidly, at last.

Aberforth laughs again, but genuinely merry this time. "Death Eaters? Nah. Just old age, laddie. – The Death Eaters fancy my ale and shepherd's pie too much to want harming me, as long as I don't give them another reason. Which I'm not planning to do."

He disappears again, levitating the trays and directing them out with his wand. When he returns, he settles down on a chair, too, and Neville plucks up courage. "You – you said you knew my parents, did you?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, I did. They, too, were members of my brother's Order. I guess I'm not telling you any news, Neville, but – your parents were wonderful, wonderful people. Kind at heart, always. And very, very brave." His tone was sad, saying this, but now he winks at Neville. "I can see that you're taking after them!"

Neville blushes up to his jug ears. "Er –"

Aberforth gestures at Neville's still swollen face. "I know you're a pureblood, and still you look like this. Means that you're standing up to them, don't you? I've heard of the stuff that's going on in the school these days. On _both_ sides."

He winks again and chuckles. "Still, you kids need to be more careful. I know, I'm in no position to tell you what you ought to do, but… Albus wouldn't have wanted you to be harmed. He was… Well… He was always quite protective, at least of his students."

"But… This is no longer about students' safety, is it?"

"So, what is it about, you think?"

"It's about what's right, and what's easy."

"And what _is_ right?"

Neville shrugs. "I don't… I don't really know… But I know it's wrong to give in to _them_. My – my… Look, you said you knew my parents. _They_ –"

"They've lost everything, boy. And they'd nearly have lost you, too. Don't you think they'd have wanted you to live, and live healthily?"

"_All_ parents want _that_, right? All those Muggles whose kids turned out wizards and witches – surely _they_ want their children to live, too, and these tossers don't let them. _That_ is the point, if you'll ask _me_."

* * *

_An den Geboten dieses Naturrechts…_ According to these commandments of natural justice can every positive rule, regardless of the lawgiver's identity, be scrutinised and tested for its ethical contents, and consequently, for it's ethical authority and obligations of conscience. Human laws, irresolvably conflicting with natural justice, suffer from a congenital defect, which cannot be mended by any coercive, any external act of power.


	121. The End Is Nigh

The Battle of Hogwarts begins, whether you want it or not

* * *

**- 3.71. -**

The End Is Nigh

* * *

_Now I'm not looking for absolution_

_Forgiveness for the things I do_

_But before you come to any conclusions_

_Try walking in my shoes_

_You'll stumble in my footsteps_

_Keep the same appointments I kept_

_If you try walking in my shoes_

_Morality would frown upon_

_Decency look down upon…_

_I'm not looking for a clearer conscience_

_Peace of mind after what I've been through_

_And before we talk of any repentance_

_Try walking in my shoes_

_DEPECHE MODE_

_

* * *

_

Draco had woken up, gasping, and clasping his left wrist. The Dark Mark. Someone had touched it. He sank back to his pillow and groaned, allowing himself another minute before actually getting up. These things happened quite often; whenever any given Death Eater touched the Mark for whatever reason, Draco felt it, and had been informed that, while in school, he needed to get in touch with Professor Snape in such a case. In all cases, he had been sent back to bed again immediately, and only one time, the alert had been serious in the first place – a group of Snatchers (idiots, all of them) had mistakenly believed to have captured Ron Weasley, had informed Mr Rigby, who had pressed his Mark then – and the end of it had been that Rigby _and_ the Snatchers had survived only for a hair's breadth, because it had turned out that this hadn't been Weasel Bee, but one of his uncountable cousins. Well, they all looked alike, sure, but why anybody would be so stupid to press the cursed Mark before being a hundred percent sure – well, that amount of idiocy was beyond Draco's grasp.

He fully expected that something similar had happened just now, and bit down some expletives. He had had some good dream before wakening up, and _good _dreams were the exception nowadays. Most of the time, he slept abysmally bad, and was haunted by all sorts of ghoulish nightmares. The contents of these dreams changed, but the paramount of them featured Greyback's fangs dripping with blood, the agonised screams of people begging to be killed at last to end their misery, and Dementors swooping down to suck out the soul of some struggling victim. He knew he was having one of the better nights when merely dreaming of Alecto Carrow harassing Longbottom, or the Lovegood girl crying because she was scared for her dad's sake.

Well, he couldn't procrastinate any longer, so he got up eventually. Greg and Vince were snoring, and as silent as possible, Draco stripped off his pyjamas and donned his robes, and he would have managed to slip out unnoticed if it hadn't been for one of his buddies' broomstick lying in the way. He tripped over it in the dark and the broom clattered noisily, waking up both Zabini and Vince.

"Idiot," the former grunted and turned around, pulling his pillow over his head.

"Where you're going?" the latter asked, wide-awake, and propped himself up on his elbows.

"None of your business, Vince. Go back to –"

"Twas a call, wasn't it? It was!" And he jumped out of his bed far more lithely than one would believe possible with a bulky figure like his. "I'll come with you!"

"No, you won't."

"I will!"

"Can you two _shut up_? Some of us are trying to sleep!" Zabini called from underneath his pillow, finally waking up Greg as well.

"Wassup," this one muttered and rubbed his eyes, while Vince simply put his robes over his pyjamas straight away.

"A calling," Vince replied expertly. "Move your lazy bottom."

Draco shook his head and said in his most decisive voice, "That's out of the question. You'll _both_ stay exactly where you are!"

"As if!"

"No way!" Draco cried, not minding Zabini's protests. He lost the argument in the end; Vince would come and the devil himself could not keep him back, no matter how useless this whole thing was in the first place. Greg wasn't half as keen, but Vince made it clear what he thought of such 'cowardice', and repeated once more that the Dark Lord would reward them, allow them in the Order even, if they managed to distinguish themselves. Greg didn't look convinced, but then Zabini spoke up once more, revealing _his_ priorities, and Draco had never envied Pretty Boy more than in this moment. Zabini could turn around and sleep, and no one would take it amiss. Oh, how he wished he could be in his place!

They weren't quite in the corridor leading to the Common Room though when bumping into old Slughorn, who huffed and puffed – and had never looked closer to a cardiac arrest. Draco braced himself for some explanations, at the same time welcoming the chance to get rid of Vince and Greg again. _He_ had the goddamned Mark and had to obey to it – but Slughorn's authority would well apply to his friends and send them back to bed.

"Mr Malfoy," their Head of House gasped, holding his sides. "How lucky you're up already. In your capacity as Head Boy –"

"Sir, I'm afraid I cannot help you. I –"

"I don't care what else you think you got to do, Mr Malfoy! The school needs to be evacuated, and _now_. I'll wake up the Prefects, and you three can start straight away with waking up the younger students and leading them up to the Great Hall. _NOW_, gentlemen!"

Never – _never_ – had Horace Slughorn emanated a similar amount of authority, but it wasn't his demeanour that made Draco obey him in this moment. Despite his sleepiness, he grasped what this was about. One look into Slughorn's face was enough to tell the whole story. This was no false alarm. This was _it_. The war would finally arrive in this school, and with it, the Dark Lord and his people would come. It was over. Draco Malfoy's respite was over. The time to fight – really _fight_ – had come, and _God_, he so wasn't ready for this!

"You heard the man," he ranted, similarly dominant, and beckoned at the two other boys. "Greg, you take the first two dorms on the right. Vince – go to the opposite numbers."

To his own surprise, they submitted without a single objection. He himself jerked open the next best door and turned on the lights with a flick of his mum's wand. "Wake up _now_," he cried briskly. "I want you to listen to me. This is no drill; the school will be evacuated. You must not panic, but you have to be quick and do as I say. Take your wands and your cloaks. Leave _everything_ else, and I mean it, _everything_ – you only take your wands and a cloak each. Then you wait in the Common Room for the Prefects to lead you up. You got what I said? Good."

He went on to the next room, scaring a bunch of twelve-year-olds, and not five minutes later, the entirety of Slytherin House _was_ assembled in the Common Room, the four Prefects showed more collected faces than they possibly felt, and ushered the frightened younger children upstairs, followed by the Sixth and Seventh Years, among them Draco, Greg and Vince.

"_Where is Professor Snape?_"

The same question was asked two dozen times at least, but Slughorn kept on ignoring it, giving Draco a very queasy feeling in the stomach. Had Professor Snape been found out? He had never asked him, he hadn't talked to his parents about this either, but for a long time by now, Draco had always suspected that his teacher – and guardian angel – had _some_ agenda of his own in all this, and if only to secure Hogwarts as good as possible against the horrors surrounding it these days. Now Alecto and Amycus Carrow certainly weren't the brightest sort of people, but even these dunderheads might have sniffed the Professor out, so could it be that… He shuddered, not daring to think what would happen – to the Professor himself, to Draco's own family, and the entire student body, if the Headmaster and his unquestioned authority no longer stood between them all and the Death Eaters.

Maybe Slughorn was their nominal Head of House these days, but even the First Years, who had never known Snape as their Head, still regarded _him_ as their guiding figure, not the Potions Master. And Snape's absence made them more nervous than any other thing, including the impending evacuation itself. Some of the First and Second Years were quietly weeping, the Third and Fourth Years were searching for _some_ sort of confirmation in the Prefects' faces and didn't find any, and even the senior students looked like standing on the edge of mass panic. One wrong word, one loud noise, and they'd trample down the small children on their flight; Draco could tell from their faces. Upstairs, they saw that the other Houses were similarly quick; masses of students were pouring through the open doors into the Great Hall, most looking aghast, others determined, among those –

"Potter?"

It had been Greg who had spotted him first, and Draco's jaw dropped. _Potter?_ Now _that_ boy had nerves made of iron! Walking into Hogwarts like that! What did he think he was doing? At least this explained why the school was to be cleared in the first place. If Potter was here, the Dark Lord would come, of course – and Potter must know that, the fool! Had he believed the Dark Lord wouldn't attack, only because this was a school? Only because some hundred children were in here? Could he truly be naïve enough to believe any of this? And _that_ was supposed to be their only saviour? Oh God, they were lost! Toast, all of them!

"Where's Professor Snape?" Millicent asked once again, intrigued, and so loud that the other teachers couldn't pretend to overhear the question.

Old McGonagall put on a subtle, but fairly spiteful smile. "He has, to use the common phrase, done a bunk."

There was raucous applause for that announcement among the Ravenclaws, Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. The majority of the Slytherins looked confused, only a few, like Draco, Theo and Millicent, were seriously concerned.

"You – you think they – they haven't killed him, have they?"

Draco tried to look far more self-assured than he truly was. "Professor Snape is one of the mightiest wizards of our time, Mil. No matter how admirable a witch McGonagall is – she's no patch on him."

He dared not speaking out that he wasn't entirely sure how the outcome would look like when _all_ the teachers turned against the Headmaster. But no. No. Professor Snape was a hell of a shrewd, capable wizard. Even _if_ the rest of staff had revolted against him, he would have gotten away. Yes. Surely he had merely joined the Dark Lord for the impending attack. Speaking of which…

The teachers and other students were still discussing the evacuation, when suddenly – Draco's blood churned – an uncanny, high voice resounded through the Great Hall. "I know that you are preparing to fight. Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood."

There was silence, and Draco battled hard to fight the shaking that gripped him, hearing that voice. The last time he had heard it – a cold shudder grabbed him, and he could do nothing against it. Yes, it was true. No one could fight the Dark Lord. And perhaps, just _perhaps_, he was speaking the truth and didn't _want_ to kill them – but he wouldn't hesitate for a second to do it all the same.

"Give me Harry Potter, and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded. – You have until midnight."

Draco looked over, and with him, a thousand other eyes were fixed on Potter, who looked even skinnier, smaller, less intimidating than ever. _This_ boy was supposed to save them all…? Seriously, for the life of him, Draco couldn't imagine _how_. But then, he had never managed to imagine how exactly Potter could have defied the Dark Lord numerous times before, how he had escaped squads of Death Eaters and Dementor attacks, that he had even survived a direct duel… Even as a baby, the Dark Lord hadn't managed to kill Potter, right? Had vanished himself instead. So there _was_ a chance, however unlikely. Yes. There _was_ a chance. There must be. Longbottom had always said… –

He was disturbed in his mantra by Pansy. She had got up, and now pointed at Potter, shrieking, "But he's there! Potter's _there_!"

Millicent groaned and pulled on her robes, but her friend ignored her. Scandalised faces stared over, and more and more students from the other houses got up and defensively placed themselves in front of Potter. _Of course_ they did. It was hard to be as short-sighted as Pansy Parkinson was.

"She's got a point there," Blaise Zabini muttered.

"Mmh. _You_ tell that to the other five hundred people over there, Pretty Boy," Millicent groaned disdainfully under her breath.

"You don't _understand_," Pansy insisted, gawking over in disbelief and sheer terror. "He'll come! If we don't deliver Potter, he'll –"

"I think we all understand perfectly well, Panse. Now _sit down_, for Merlin's sake!"

The Deputy Headmistress – or was she the Headmistress now that Professor Snape was gone? – Anyway, McGonagall clearly thought along the same lines; she shot them all a cool glance and said curtly, "Thank you, Miss Parkinson. You will leave the Hall first with Mr Filch. If the rest of your house could follow…?"

Pansy had never been happier to obey; she practically sprinted forth, and Millicent watched after her, linking arms with Theo and Greg. "Heart of a lion, she has."

"And a leopard's speed."

"Well, personally, I must say I can't get out of here quickly enough either. It'll be carnage!"

Draco glanced back over his shoulder at the students staying to fight, and so did she. He said flatly, "I reckon they know that. But what else could they do?"

She knew he was right in most of their cases, yes, still Millicent was quite impressed. Many of those students who remained in the Great Hall were purebloods even. Even if they did _not_ betray Potter now, but simply fled the castle, they were unlikely to be killed for that. And yet they stayed; pale, fearful, desperately inferior to the forces they were up against and well aware of this, but determined all the same. One couldn't help it but be impressed, could one?

Draco checked his watch. Twenty past eleven. That was forty more minutes. Would they be able to put up enough additional defences in so little time? What was more – what defences could they put up in the first place? Maybe Dumbledore had intimated some of his secrets to McGonagall before he had died…? No, he clearly hadn't, or McGonagall would never have allowed the Carrows in – or Professor Snape, at that instance. Apropos Professor Snape – where _was_ he? Was he all right? Draco felt a pang of guilty conscience. The Professor had saved his own life so often, just like his parents' – was it possible that he was in need of help himself just now, and no one was there to support him? And if that should truly be the case… What should Draco do about it, even if he could? If the choice was to be made between Harry Potter's life and Professor Snape's – what weighed more? Being loyal to the Professor, after everything he had done for them? Of course, that _should_ be the only possible answer. But if Potter lost _his_ life, none of them would stand any chance at all on the long run.

In that second, the pain hit him, clear, icy and scourging hot in the same moment. This time it _was_ the Dark Lord, summoning him by means of the Dark Mark on his left wrist. The difference between another Death Eater touching their own Mark, and the Dark Lord doing the same, was very distinct. The former merely hurt. The latter made Draco's stomach revolt. He struggled and accidentally pushed against the banister of the staircase leading up to the seventh floor, with his left side, come to that, making the pain even worse.

"What is it?"

He opened his mouth, but shut it again, and tried to regain posture as if nothing at all had happened. "A bit low on circulation, I suppose."

Millicent arched a brow, but at least she was silent. Vince's face was shining with slow realisation though. "It's – it was _him_, right? A calling? A real one? Yes?"

"None of your business, Crabbe!"

Theo shot him a look. "Cast that spell of yours, Malfoy!"

Good idea, yes, and Draco did as advised to prevent the other students from hearing them. His mind was racing. Yes, this was a calling indeed – just that he, honestly, hadn't got the _slightest_ inclination to answer it. If there was one single thing for sure, it was this! He would _not_ partake in attacking his own school, preposterous! On the other hand – desertion was out of the question, too, was it not? Perhaps _he_ would even manage to make a – momentary – run for it, but his parents were somewhere out there, and if their son betrayed the oath he had given, _they_ would be the first to pay the price! So perhaps he should just join the other Death Eaters, march into battle with them, and pretend to have been hit by a spell at the first possible occasion. Or…

"What now?" Crabbe elbowed him, and although he hit Draco's good side, a push from Crabbe was enough to knock the air out of more solid fellows than Draco was.

"Ouch!"

"Oh, don't be such a wimp! You're supposed to fight for him, aren't you? Yes?"

"Leave me alone, Vince!"

"I'll come with you!"

"Don't be silly!" Mil cried and slapped the back of Vince's head.

"You keep out of this, Bullface!"

Draco, Theo and Greg all stopped in their tracks, causing a group of Third Years to bump into them. All three boys scowled at Vince, and Theo drew his wand. "Apologise, or –"

"Oh, cut it out, Nott! _You_ should do what you ought, too!"

"I am. _Apologise to Millicent NOW!_"

Vince lifted his wand, too. "Yeah? Make me!"

Distractedly watching the younger students squeeze past them, Draco came to a decision. "See you later, folks."

_That_ bit put even Theo and Vince off their quarrel about the fair maiden's honour. Said fair maiden shook her massive head frantically. "No! No way, Malfoy! You mustn't!"

He was halfway gone already, replying over his shoulder, "I think I know what I'm doing, Mil. Take care."

He took two steps at a time to the next floor, turned around the corner and was gone before any of the others could hold him back. Millicent's expression changed from incredulous concern to a subtle little smirk. Crabbe woke from his surprise, and without another word followed his mate. Over his shoulder, he called, "Goyle! Nott! Are you coming or what?"

Theo made no sign that he had even heard him, but Greg instantly set after them, too, and Millicent cried, "Don't! Are you _crazy_?"

"I've got to help Draco!"

"But you _can't_ help him!"

"Well, maybe I can!"

No, he could not, rather the contrary, Millicent thought, but didn't dare speaking it out. She had seen it in Malfoy's face. He wasn't going to answer the summoning, because he didn't want to fight; she just _knew_ it. But he couldn't afford open defiance either – so he'd stay back the castle, so he could later on claim that he had been looking for Potter, and pretend to be dead in the meantime. Clever – and the only real option he had, anyway.

Gregory Goyle had closely watched a face, too, and made his decision based on that verdict – but unfortunately, it hadn't been his roommate's. He had only seen Millicent's smile after Draco had announced he'd remain in the school. There had been appreciation in that smile, understanding, a hint of admiration even. She believed Draco was doing the right thing. But she didn't believe that Greg could do it as well. He would prove her. He would prove to her that he wasn't just the simple-minded numskull that everyone took him for.

"Greg! _Don't!_"

He was halfway gone already, calling back, "I'll show you!"

"Show me what?"

But he had disappeared around the corner, and without the massive boulders of Crabbe's and Goyle's shoulders keeping the stream of pushing students at bay, she and Theo were pushed further on, past the corridor in which their friends had vanished, and on still. "That _idiot_," she riled, suddenly very scared indeed. "Show me _what_?"

"Good heaven's, Mil," Theo murmured and tightened his grip on her arm to prevent them from being separated by the other pushing students. "He's got a terrible crush on you and wants to show you that he is a real hero."

"_What?_"

"You are the last to notice then, hm?"

"You – you mean – are you trying to imply that he's doing the most stupid thing in his entire life for _me_?"

"That's a roundabout way of saying it, but I guess that's it, in a nutshell."

"_GREG! Come back!_ COME BACK! You needn't – you _mustn't_ – you really don't impress me like this!" she screamed, but Greg could no longer hear her. Being six foot ten – not to speak of the sheer massiveness of his body – he had no difficulties to negotiate his way through the mass exodus, and as a Quidditch player, he also had the constitution to run along the corridor now; he quickly caught up with Crabbe, and before long, they had found Draco, too, who glared at them in incredulous anger.

"You are worse than dogs, you are! Get back! _Go back!_ You have no business here! You know what's going to come! It's going to be a blood bath!"

"The Dark Lord will smash them to pieces," Vince said cheerily. "And he will not forget who helped him!"

Draco closed his eyes and willed himself to remain calm. Vince's dumb lust for blood and glory, the sheer fact that these two morons were _here_ now, unwittingly sabotaging Draco's own plans – he would have liked to shout and scream at them; he needed a vent for his fear, his repulsion, his disbelief, but he also knew that he must not let either of it show. Well, not all was lost yet. Crabbe and Goyle weren't the world's greatest thinkers, and more importantly – they believed in him. They'd do what he'd tell them. He merely needed to adjust his ad-lib plan, that was all. Hell, he hadn't had much of a _plan_ to begin with.

"Okay, then," he gnarled. "I'll tell you what we'll do. The Dark Lord wants Potter. We'll get Potter for him. With me so far?"

Vince's face was shining with elation and excitement, and nodded. Greg didn't seem likewise thrilled, but he nodded as well, though not equally fiercely, and Draco took the lead. There was more than one way leading up to the Seventh Floor; that was where they were heading for now. They'd get into the blithering Room of Hidden Things and – obviously – _hide there_. He'd stun Greg and Vince once they were in there, and make sure the incantation would hold on until the battle was over, and…

Well, he couldn't say what then; he'd have to make this up as he went along. In the same moment when turning around the corner of the hallway leading to the Room of Hidden Things, Draco stopped dead in his tracks, grabbing Greg's and Vince's robes and pulling them back. Damn it! How could he have been so short-sighted? Only now he realised that the other students had been led up to the Seventh Floor for _exactly_ the same reasons that had brought Draco here – they were going to hide in the Room of Hidden Things! Fuck! _That_ was their grand evacuation plan, then? Damn it! Damnitdamnitdamnit!

He boxed against the wall in frustration, badly hurting his hand, and biting down so hard on his tongue to keep himself from yelling that he drew blood, which made everything worse still.

"You think Potter's fleeing as well?" Vince asked.

Twisting his face in pain, Draco replied through gritted teeth, "Well, it's possible, isn't it!"

Greg arched his brows in bewilderment. "Why didn't we simply go up with them, then?"

Good question. "So they don't see us, moron! Really, if all _you_ have in mind is pestering me _at the worst possible timing_ –"

He took a deep breath, his mind spinning. What should he do, what _could_ he do – he'd have to get in there somehow… All right. There was only one way. He tiptoed to the corner, peeked around and quickly withdrew again. "Look! But careful!" he hissed, stepping back himself and ushering Greg and Vince to do as he had. As soon as they were turning their backs on him, he whipped his mum's wand and confounded them non-verbally, followed by a whispered Disillusionment Charm.

"What?" Vince's now bodiless voice asked.

"There was Potter," he replied and used the Disillusionment Charm on himself as well.

"No, there ain't."

"Oh yes, there _was_."

He put utmost conviction and authority into his tone, thinking it'd suffice to persuade his confounded friends, before it dawned on him that the spells hadn't really worked that well to begin with. With his mother's spare wand, he didn't manage spells of such difficulty; and now his panic truly reached maximum level. Greg and Vince were not as confounded as they ought to be in order for him to deceive them, the Room of Hidden Things was cramped full with other students, and Draco didn't even have a proper wand – he was doomed! He was absolutely _fucked_!

And as if to confirm that fateful thought, a sudden explosion shook the castle. Draco couldn't have checked his watch due to the Disillusionment Charm, but he didn't need to, either. It was midnight. The Dark Lord would charge and not stop again until he had got Potter, no matter how many he'd have to kill on the pursuit. More and more explosions, screams, the unmistakable sounds of death and destruction… And all that Draco could do was leaning heavily against the next wall, trying not to faint, and his head as blank as if _he_ had just been at the receiving end of a more successful _Confundus_.

"What now? What we do now?" Greg asked.

"Don't ask 'im," Vince replied. "'E's lost it!"

Great, Draco thought dimly. _One _effect the hex had had, after all. Vince finally sounded as stupid as he was, too. They'd all die, any second now, another mighty curse would hit this part of the school and they'd be buried in the debris – well, it mattered not, it was probably much less painful then when he'd be punished by the Dark Lord…

"Hold it," Greg's voice resonated flatly now. "I think there _is_ the _other_ two jackasses!"

In surprise, Draco risked another look around the corner. Indeed, there were Granger and Weasel King, carrying – _something_… Could that be _fangs_? Why would they – obviously, fangs could be immensely useful, but if those fools thought they'd make patent weapons in a fight with a Dark Wizard, they were much sillier than Draco had given them credit for. Granger was a fucking genius, what did she think she was doing there!

And as if hearing a secret cue, Potter came sprinting around the corner now, too, shouting at his two mates, "Where the hell have you been?"

"Chamber of Secrets," Weasel Bee retorted smugly and Draco thought he had finally lost his last scrap of common sense. Either of them – Draco or Weasley – must have. _Chamber of Secrets_, my arse!

Potter seemed to think the same, judging his reaction. They talked about something that Draco didn't understand, but one word stuck out, ringing _some_ sort of bell in his head, but he couldn't put a finger at it. A _Horcrux_… He knew that word… He had read it somewhere, and he could say with certainty that it had been in a book about very advanced magic, too… So Potter _did_ have some better plan after all? He _had_ realised that one couldn't fight the Dark Lord with _Expelliarmus_ and some Stunners? Oh, thank Merlin!

His temporary relief shattered in the next second when another mighty blow hit the fundaments. Draco wasn't religious; he didn't believe in any deity, but in this second, he was ready to fall on his knees and start praying. His grandmother had often mentioned the Apocalypse when he had been a small child still; back then he hadn't comprehended what she meant by that term, in later years he had come to see it in some of his mum's famed paintings, and now, right in this moment, he finally knew what it was all about. The final, epic battle. The end of life and the world in general. The end of everything. Of course, tomorrow morning, the world in itself would still be there. Only Draco's world would have been eradicated from the surface of the earth, and with it, everyone he had ever cared for, would have perished, too.

He faintly noticed that Potter and his pals vanished in the Room of Hidden Things. Vince urged them to follow them, and numbly Draco obeyed, but like before, in similar situations – no, not _similar_; back then he hadn't wanted to hide to save his poor, sorry skin, he had merely sought refuge to listen to some silly broadcast! However, the door wouldn't appear, and his last bits of hope ran out like sand in an hourglass. Doomed. Forfeited. Lost. They were bloody lost… People came _out_ of the frigging place – Mrs Longbottom, his cousin Dory, Little Red Riding Hood – but the door always closed again before either Draco or his friends could have gotten in. Several times, he re-bounced from the wall instead, rubbing his invisible forehead and cursing under his breath.

"I thought you knew 'ow to get in there," Vince ranted. "You don't _want_ to get in there!"

"Shut the fuck up, Crabbe!" he hissed back into the general direction from which the voice had come. He seriously considered jumping out of the next window, which had just been smashed by a mighty curse that had scourged the wall on the opposite side, when the door appeared again, and this time, the Golden Trio themselves stepped out, and vanished inside again almost immediately.

Hang on… Once again, he walked past the designated spot where the door _should_ be, and no kidding, this time it _did_ appear, and overwhelmed by real, solid happiness, Draco jerked it open and stumbled inside. They were safe! They _were_ safe! Oh Merlin!

"_Accio diadem_," Granger yelled somewhere in the distance. Draco couldn't have given a damn, but Vince had other plans, clearly. He set off at once, and eye-rolling, Draco followed the sound of his footsteps to prevent worse, until realising that this might be a _lot_ easier if he finally undid the blithering Disillusionment Charms.

"What are you doing! They'll see us!"

"Stop being such a prat, Crabbe," Draco groaned impatiently. "We stand much better a chance if we don't separate, and how shall we stick together if not even _we_ can see each other!"

"We can do Dark magic!"

Chuckling hysterically, he retorted, "So can Potter, mark my words!"

"Bah! _'E_ tries _disarming_ people!"

"Well, in that case I'd try making sure he doesn't disarm _you_ for a start!"

"Shh!" Greg made and came to a sudden halt so that Draco almost ran into him. "They's there!"

Draco had trotted along behind the two other boys, racking his brains which spell to try on them – one that wasn't as advanced as a Confounding Charm, but that'd take them down for a while all the same. They had managed to get inside here – they had a reasonable chance to survive this bloody battle out there – now all he had to do was keep them from accidentally killing Potter, but as things looked, it was too late.

What the _hell_… He had difficulties to see much, and elbowed Vince so he could at least point his wand at Potter. "Hold it, Potter," he said, trying to sound calm, though he knew that he didn't get far. He felt like swooning. "That's my wand you're holding, Potter."

"Not any more – winners, keepers, Malfoy! Who's lent you theirs?"

"My mother."

Potter laughed dryly. "So how come you three aren't with Voldemort?"

Draco was startled like always hearing the name, but thought it hardly mattered right now. Before he could speak, Vince replied merrily, "We're gonna be rewarded! We 'ung back, Potter. We decided not to go. Decided to bring you to 'im!"

"Good plan," Potter taunted, and Draco inwardly shook his head. How could a single person be so _completely_ out of luck? All he had wanted was sitting out the battle and no harm done, and who – _who_ – did he chance to encounter? With these two morons around? He contemplated to take Greg down and hope that Potter would handle Vince, but that plan – well, it wasn't really much of a _plan_, was it? It was risky. Too risky. For a start, Narcissa Malfoy's wand didn't work very well for her son (as the odd Confundus Charm had just proved!), and he was scared to accidentally injure Greg instead of merely stunning him. And Potter could do terrible Dark magic himself – what if he got Vince killed? This time, Professor Snape wasn't around to mend the injuries!

"So how did you get in here?" Potter asked in a see-through attempt to play for time, and Draco found he could well play along. They were both in need of some extra time.

"I virtually _lived_ in the Room of Hidden Things all last year. I know how to get in."

"We was hiding in the corridor outside. We can do Disillusion Charms now!" Greg cried, and Draco shut his eyes for a second, seriously re-considering the idea to simply try cursing Greg. Greg's capacity to cast that charm was as elaborate as his pronunciation of it in this moment – how did these two think they were supposed to get through a battle? But Greg continued in the same vein, "And then you turned up right in front of us and said you was looking for a die-dum! What's a die-dum?"

Draco opened his mouth for the answer, but could merely groan. Weasley's voice resounded through the aisles, "Harry? Are you talking to someone?"

For the first time in his entire life, Vince reacted genuinely quick-witted, though ill-advised, and cast a spell to bury Weasley in the debris of all this junk; there was a shriek that sounded very much like Granger, and then, Potter finished the whole thing before the pile of junk came down completely. Vince would have repeated the spell, but this time, Draco was quicker.

"No!" he shouted, his mind racing for an excuse. "If you wreck the room, you might bury this diadem thing!"

"What's that matter? It's Potter the Dark Lord wants, who cares about a die-dum?"

Potter clearly did, and if Potter thought it mattered – in a dire situation like this one, with the Dark Lord merely waiting for his chance to get Potter and wreak havoc and destruction on the castle and everyone in it on the way – if this thing was so damned important to Potter, he had better find it, and soon!

"Potter came here to get it," he gnarled, eye-rolling, desperately hoping to get some sort of brainwave. "_That_ must mean –"

"_Must mean?_ Who _cares_ what _you_ think! I don't take your orders no more, _Draco_! You and your dad are finished!"

Why on earth didn't Potter curse him? What the hell was he waiting for? Was he waiting for Weasley and Granger? Speaking of whom – where were they? Years and years, they had been inseparable from their buddy – where were they now? Suddenly, Potter reached out for a strange-looking hat-like thing that faintly reminded Draco of something, though he had no idea of what, and Crabbe tried to Cruciate him.

Draco snatched his arm and pushed it down. "STOP! The Dark Lord wants him alive!"

Vince had no difficulties to shake him off though. They were very much unequal in the muscle department. "So? I'm not killing him, am I? But if I can, I will, the Dark Lord wants him dead anyway! What's the diff-"

Draco had never babysitted anyone, but he suddenly thought he was looking after two three-year-olds, who were being absolutely _idiotic_, mildly confounded, AND, unfortunately, outclassed him both in the weaponry, and muscle power. The only thing he _could_ do was trying to prevent worse, for example by pulling Crabbe out of harm's way when Granger tried to curse him. And did Crabbe thank him for it? He cocksure did not.

Instead, he brandished his wand at Granger and yelled, "It's that Mudblood! _Avada Kedavra!_"

Draco was stunned for a second. He didn't trust his own ears, frankly! Vincent Crabbe had just attempted a _Killing Curse_? Just like that? Like – like – Draco thought he had more qualms squashing a mosquito than Vince clearly had about getting someone killed! He was so shocked, he lost his wand when Crabbe pushed against him, evading Potter's next spell. Goyle and Crabbe still had theirs though and aimed at Potter now.

"Don't kill him! DON'T KILL HIM!" Draco screeched in overwhelming panic. Greg cast him a baffled look, why, even Vince hesitated for a split second, and in the next, Potter had disarmed Greg. Draco groaned. Now neither he nor Greg had a wand – only Crabbe still had his, and he was the biggest problem, too. Greg would still listen to Draco, he was rather sure of that, but Crabbe had clearly lost his last scraps of common sense and trust in his friend. Blast it. He dived out of the way of Granger following curse, and Crabbe repeated _Avada Kedavra_, this time aiming at Redhead. Oh Merlin! Next to him, Greg was hit by a Stunner and crashed down, and Crabbe continued to behave like the big fat idiot that he was. He cast the Fiendfyre Curse, and Draco suddenly knew that he wouldn't leave this room alive.

Instinctively, he grabbed Greg's collar and dragged the unconscious boy along. Greg's soft robes glided with surprising ease on the polished floor, but he was goddamned heavy still, and Draco heard the roaring fire come closer and closer behind them. He didn't dare turning around – he didn't want to know how close it really was, he merely headed for the next corner, praying they'd make it before the fire caught up with them. _If_ they should manage to get out of here again, Draco promised himself he would strangle Crabbe with his bare hands!

He couldn't say how, but he did manage to escape around the corner, losing sight of Crabbe and the Golden Trio – losing sight of the people with wands, that was, and he swore loudly. He watched the fire make its way along the aisle, and the first fiery creatures started to leap into the side ways. Damn it! Damn it! Where was the bloody exit? He had completely lost all orientation, and scrambled on without a clue where to go or what to do. This was the moment when Greg's robes tore and he glided out of Draco's grip.

"Greg! Wake up! WAKE UP!" He slapped him, hoping against hope that he could wake him up, but Greg wasn't simply unconscious; he was stunned. He couldn't be woken up by some slaps. Draco didn't know what to do; regardless where he looked, he saw fiery chimeras, dinosaurs, snakes, dragons, coming closer and closer. He had nowhere left to go, but he couldn't bring himself to sit here and wait for death. Instead, he stooped and managed to hurl Greg over his shoulder, and it took him a couple of tries to get to his feet again. Straining to set one foot after the other, he began climbing up a table and onto a solid-looking shelf then. From there, he managed to reach a pile of desks. He nearly lost balance; the impossible heat took his breath and Goyle's sheer weight crushed his spine. He shrieked, wildly waving with his free left hand, but then he regained balance. Gasping for breath – oxygen got rare in the midst of the raging blazes – he let Greg glide of his back and made sure he wouldn't fall down from the desks – into the open, snapping mouths of a twin-chimera.

So this was the end, then. He hadn't thought it'd come like this. Dying, because Vincent Crabbe, one of his two oldest and best friends, had cast a spell he couldn't control… The thought was too absurd. As absurd as that thing he believed to see. He was starting to hallucinate. Someone who looked like Harry Potter came flying towards them on a vintage Oakshaft '79. It took him a while to figure out that this was no mirage, caused by the dazzling heat and lack of air. It _was_ Harry Potter on an Oakshaft '79, both clearly distinguishable by the lightning bolt scar, respectively the thick septangular knob. Draco couldn't say why he noticed these tiny details so clearly, more clearly than ever before. Perhaps these things would be the last things he saw in this life.

Rather unexpectedly, Potter dived, clearly directing his broom towards Draco, who raised his arm at once in a kind of reflex, not truly expecting that Potter – Harry Potter of all people! – would save him – _him_, Draco Malfoy… But believe it or not, he did. Potter grabbed his hand and pulled, but Draco couldn't cling to the outstretched hand; his own was too sweaty and sooty, and he couldn't – _couldn't_ – let go of Greg. Out of the blue, Weasley and Granger appeared, flying on a broomstick, too, and together with Granger, he managed to push Goyle onto the second broom, and Potter helped him to sit behind himself.

Was this clever? Heaving Greg, who must weigh two hundred fifty pounds at least, onto a broomstick that was already carrying two people? Granger was small and didn't weigh much, but Weasel Bee was really tall, whereas both Potter and Draco himself were more normal-sized, and lean. Their weights would have been so much more evenly balanced if Greg and Draco had traded places.

He woke up from that train of thought, startled. They'd all die anyway, did it matter who was sitting on which broom for that, and wasn't it a comfortable notion that Draco wouldn't die next to Weasley of all people; if this were his last seconds on earth, he'd sit behind Potter, the Chosen One, at least?

And come to that! If Potter was the Chosen One – and Draco had not the _slightest_ doubt about that – he could impossibly die like this, in an out-of-control-curse cast by _Vincent_ _Crabbe_, right? _Right?_ Not Potter! And if _Potter_ couldn't die like this, Draco behind him wouldn't either! The way it looked though, Potter had no intention to get out of here; instead he kept on zigzagging above the flames –

"_The door, get to the door! THE DOOR!_" Draco shouted, out of himself. The _Chosen One_? The Chosen _Idiot_! They needed to get out of here; this was Fiendfyre, and the curse had long got out of control in the first place! "What are you doing? WHAT ARE YOU DOING? The door's _that way_!"

Potter gave no sign that he had even heard him and steered the broomstick into a steep dive instead. Draco just closed his eyes, deciding that he didn't want to see this. He vaguely perceived that he kept on screaming on top of his lungs, holding on to Potter like dear life and trying hard to remember some of Potter's more ingenious flying moves as a Quidditch player. The guy _could_ fly, couldn't he, and he _would_ fly, wouldn't he? Please – he didn't want to die like this!


	122. No Surrender

Tonks fights until the very end

* * *

**- 3.72. -**

No Surrender

* * *

_I have, myself, full confidence that if all do their duty, if nothing is neglected, and if the best arrangements are made, as they are being made, we shall prove ourselves once again able to defend our island home, to ride out the storm of war, and to outlive the menace of tyranny, if necessary for years, if necessary alone. … Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous states have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender!_

_WINSTON CHURCHILL – June 4__th__ 1940_

_

* * *

_

Her mother was positively livid with fury. "Your child _needs_ you, Nymphadora!" she hissed.

"He'll be fine, Mum. He's such a good little fellow, he's going to sleep all through the night, my word on it!"

"You know perfectly well that this isn't about him sleeping through or not!"

She ignored the implication and smiled. "He'll be fine, here with you. And I'll be back before the morning and relieve you. I promise you, Mum, I'll be back before the break of day!"

"And what if you're not, Nymphadora? _Your son needs a mother_, damn it!"

"He'll need his father, too, Mum. And in this moment, Remus needs me more than Teddy. He's in the best of hands when he's with you."

Of course, her mum wouldn't have it, but what could she do, after all? Tonks prevailed at last, Apparated straight into the Hog's Head and is now running along the narrow tunnel leading up to the school. It's not as if she didn't grasp her mother's meaning… But she's got to stand by Remus tonight. She is the reason why he's even there! _He_ wanted them to flee, leave the country, and try making a new start. _She_ was the one insisting to stay, insisting that they must not surrender, must keep up the fight! She _cannot_ abandon him tonight of all nights!

What is more – all these people that are bound to rush to the school's defence tonight, who are they? Students and housewives, teachers and middle-aged wizards, hitting their maximum level when fighting a garden pest! _She_ has been trained to battle Dark wizards, and the way things are, there won't be many Aurors there tonight. Half of them are dead, another portion is controlled by the Imperius Curse and fights for the other side! They _need_ her! They need any help they can get! What was all her preaching good for if she doesn't stand up for what she believes in now!

If anything, the thought of her little boy will give her strength. Her little, adorable, utterly enchanting baby! How dearly she wanted to have him! How blessed she is that he is there! And Remus – can there be a better father than him? He is as bewitched by the miracle that Teddy is as Tonks is herself. They shall overcome _for Teddy_! No parents could ever have been prouder of their child, and tonight she'll make sure that their baby can be proud of his parents, too.

She has reached the end of the passage and scrambles out of the hole, finding herself in a strange room that she's never seen before. The walls are covered in huge banners bearing the colours of Hufflepuff, Gryffindor and Ravenclaw; and there is Ginny Weasley, with an almost comical expression of frustration.

"Oh, it's you," she mutters wryly.

"Where _is_ everybody?"

"Getting ready to fight. The ultimatum will end in a few minutes." She checks her watch with a pout. "In five minutes, exactly."

"And what are you doing here?"

"Yes, _that_ is a good question, isn't it? My entire family is out there! Even Percy – can you believe it, _Percy_ returned! And fights out there alongside my other brothers, and Mum, and Dad! And I'm condemned to sit here, only because I'm not seventeen yet! It's _ridiculous_! I'll be seventeen in three months!"

She keeps on ranting, not giving Tonks a chance to speak up, and she finds she can well do with a little break before joining the fight. She's out of breath, so much she hurried to get here, and since the pregnancy, she's not as athletic as she used to be. They're joined by another late newcomer; an elderly witch with a sharply-cut face, a fierce scowl and a ludicrous hat.

"Where is my grandson?" she asks without saying hello, and with the air of someone automatically assuming everybody must know who her grandson _is_. Ginny Weasley does seem to know though, because she beckons at the door at the opposite site of the large room, and repeats her angry tirade.

The old lady listens with growing impatience, before interrupting the girl after all, "Well, then just _go_! Not old enough! Pah! If you're old enough to be killed, you're old enough to fight for yourself as well, girl!"

"_Exactly!_"

In this moment, the door is opened, and in come Harry Potter himself, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, all looking awfully shaken, sweaty and a little bit frantic, but that's only to be supposed in a night like this. The latter two carry – _fangs_ – or something that looks like fangs, though Tonks isn't sure what beasts have such long, thin, pointed teeth.

"Ah, Potter! _You_ can tell us what's going on!" the woman exclaims.

"Is everyone okay?" Ginny Weasley and Tonks cry in unison, and Tonks keeps herself from adding, 'Remus? Where is he? _How_ is he?'

Harry seems distracted when replying, "'S far as we know… Are there still people in the passage to the Hog's Head?"

With an important face, the elderly witch says, "I was the last to come through. I sealed it; I think it unwise to leave it open now Aberforth has left his pub. Have _you_ seen my grandson?"

"He's fighting."

"Naturally!" The old lady smiles haughtily, reminding Tonks of someone, but she can't put her finger on it. "Excuse me, I must go and assist him!"

Only in the moment when she leaves, realisation hits Tonks. She's seen that woman on a WANTED poster. That's Augusta Longbottom, of course! Seventy-eight years old, she escaped from both the Ministry _and_ a Death Eater squad in a panache! Mother of the Auror Frank Longbottom! Grandmother of Neville Longbottom, who gave the Carrows and Snape hell for all they are worth! Well, the lady's got a reason to look that proud!

"I thought you were supposed to be with Teddy at your mother's?" Harry interrupts her musings.

"I… Couldn't stand – not knowing… She'll look after him… Have you seen Remus?"

"He was planning to lead a group of fighters into the grounds –"

That's all she wanted to hear, and without another word, another look, she follows the determined old witch, Mrs Longbottom, who wants to stand by her grandson. She – Tonks – will stand by her husband. She's sworn she'll stand by him at all times, after all, and by God, she meant it.

The fighting has already begun. Right in front of the door, several windows are smashed, and she can see red and green flashes on the ground outside. She squints down, finding a group of Death Eaters trying to get into the castle, only held back by a group of wizards. Is Remus among them? She can't see him, and begins aiming curse after curse out of a broken window, and before long she's joined by Ginny Weasley without another word. Together they strike down six attackers on total. Harry appears and vanishes again, just like Aberforth Dumbledore, who, despite his age, is an admirable fighter still. Well, she guesses he's got some bills to settle himself, and she'd rather not be Severus Snape tonight. For all she knows, Snape is vastly powerful – but from experience she knows that _nothing_ is as powerful as the thought of one's beloved.

"Have you seen Remus?" she shouts after the disappearing old wizard.

"He was duelling Dolohov – haven't seen him since!"

_Dolohov!_ Oh Lord! There have been entire _books_ written on Dolohov's technique alone! Ginny says something to her, but she doesn't even listen; she turns on her heels and runs into the general direction from which Aberforth has come. Powerful spells are shaking the old castle; and only then, Tonks realises that it's not only magic causing these tremors – through a broken window, she spots a giant running towards the building, and each of his steps hitting the ground rumbles through the foundations. With a leap, Tonks jumps out of the way, just in time before the giant has boxed his mighty fist through the wall, crumbling it as if this was a doll house with walls made of chipboard.

Blimey, that was close! Rolling over her shoulder, she trims her wand at the fist and casts a curse at it, letting it swell with the speed of a Firebolt. The giant roars, trying to get his hand out of the hole again, pulling as hard as he can, and with a little grin, Tonks casts another spell, the hand deflates, and the giant falls backwards with a deafening _thud_. She crawls towards the hole in the wall, grateful for the moonshine that makes it bright enough for her to aim well. The first two curses hit the eyes of the giant, blinding him. The third hits his nose, clogging his air passages, and finally, she binds him with magical ropes.

Prying through the hole, she tries to get her bearings, wondering if Remus is somewhere down there on the grounds, but then she realises that this is the wrong direction. The Death Eaters are unlikely to charge from the side of the Forbidden Forest, so it is equally improbable that Remus would lead his team over there. She's got to get to the other side of the castle!

So far, the magical protections still hold astoundingly well. Spells break through, giants and Acromantula – but these beasts are so solid and insensitive, there aren't many spells capable of holding _them_ back for long! – but all in all, so far, the castle itself hasn't been invaded by hostile wizards, and she's got an almost pleasantly easy way downstairs. All she needs to do is duck a stray curse here and there – and that's what they learn in their first year of Auror training!

She's almost in the Entrance Hall when a loud, surging noise echoes through the air. Tonks screws her face. Damn it! This is the sound of a counter-curse – a Dark spell strong enough to absorb the magical protection – and the Death Eater will come any minute now! She jumps down the last six steps, whimpers when realising that she's not as lithe anymore, directs a mending charm at her sprained ankle and heads on towards the main entrance door, which is pushed open in the same moment when she's reached it, throwing her on the floor with the impact.

A bunch of students and adults come running in, hunted by red and green rays of light, and closely followed by a group of ghosts shielding them as good as possible. "They're coming!" somebody shouts. "They're coming!"

'Spare your breath for the spellwork,' Tonks' mum always says, but she doesn't speak it out aloud – instead she casts a couple of shield charms into the general direction of the fugitives and scrambles back to her feet. "You!" she yells at the next best student. "Secure the steps up here! Curse them! Make them untreadable! And you – _oi, I'm talking to you, Bill Weasley!_ Give me cover!"

"Tonks!" he cries, sounding joyful, and obeying, fires a volley of curses out of the door at the approaching Death Eaters. Tonks kneels next to him to give as little target as possible, and with a few flicks of her wand, she's torn open the ground leading up to the castle, creating a deep, wide gap, and fills it with –

"_Water?_" Bills gasps.

"You'll see, pal, you'll see… Keep on firing at them!"

He does as she tells him, but the Death Eaters come closer nevertheless. One, two, three, four jump into the water and make for the other side of the abyss, and when the first of them reaches the opposite side, she brings down her wand with all her might. "_Ignatio!_"

A lightening flash materialises out of nowhere and strikes the improvised pond, so quickly, so unexpectedly, the four Death Eaters inside don't even have the time to scream before they're fried. Their buddies shout, though, and retreat a little.

"Where's Remus, Bill?" she asks quietly, before shouting at the others, "Close the doors!"

"I have no idea!"

"Close the doors, guys, and seal them!"

"Seal them? What's that good for?"

"Don't argue with me and seal the doors! You –" She beckons at the students and two unknown wizards. "Get out of here at once. They'll be here in two minutes, maximum!" She looks over to Bill. "Stay with me, will you? I don't think I can do this on my own… Where's Fleur, anyway?"

He suddenly looks anxious. "We got separated when they started to charge –"

"She'll be fine, Bill. She's a magnificent witch." She gives him a smile, then waves at the ghosts. "Please, can you stay as well? As soon as the Death Eaters enter, can you please swoop down at them and try making sure you cover their mouths and noses?"

A pompous-looking medieval horseman (his horse seems to have had the grace to die with him _and_ stay with him still) makes a deep bow and cries, "My dear Lady, I shall be honoured to –"

"Thank you," she cuts him short and smiles sweetly. She's her mum's daughter, she knows how to do the sweet-girl thing if necessary. She turns back to Bill. "However – as soon as they're coming in, you and I are going to poison the air. You know _Conversa_?"

"Converses air into carbon dioxide, right? We did it the other way round when breaking open an ancient tomb."

"I hoped so. Of course, it won't do much good, or last long…"

She explains her plan to him; then they take positions at opposite sides of the Entrance Hall, taking cover behind some pillars and waiting for the intruders. In the very moment when they have forced the sealed doors open and come pouring in, the ghosts do as they're told and encase the heads of the attackers. Tonks shouts the signal and shoots the first converting curse directly at the first ghost, alternating with Bill. One Death Eater after the other tumbles and falls, clenching their throats and gasping for breath. She counts another four men, and thinks this is it, for the time being, but is careful nevertheless when finally approaching the door and glancing out once more.

"Phew…" Bill wipes his forehead, then binds the unconscious Death Eaters with some spells. "Perhaps we should take them as hostages?"

"You seriously think any of them will hold back only because we threaten to kill one of their mates? Think again, Bill! Now come, we've got to find Remus and Fleur!"

They skid around the corner towards Hufflepuff House, where loud noises and explosions indicate that the castle's protections have been breached severely. Bill is faster than her, and vanishes around a corner, and the next she hears is a loud, disgusted '_Yuck!_' She is ready to see corpses, blood, anything really – because Bill Weasley isn't disgusted easily – but once she makes it around that corner, too, she can't help it but screw her face as well. Hundreds of spiders, their bodies as big as an average cauldron, are swarming along the hallway. There are clusters of spiders here and there, and revolted, Tonks realises that they're feeding on bodies.

Well, Bill has come across some spider in his time as a Curse Breaker – they're quite common in Egypt, and seem to have been a favourite with those Pharaohs trying to protect their tombs. Can't blame them, can you? At any rate, Bill throws Green Fire Curses at the beasts and is pretty successful about it. Tonks does likewise; they're standing back to back and keep on turning around, slowly but steadily, until most of the spiders have gone up in green flames, leaving back nothing but a putrid stench and a slimy, tar-like goo.

"Brilliant, kiddo," he recommends her and gives her the thumbs-up.

She opens her mouth for a reply, but the thing entering the hallway at the far end takes her breath. Yes, okay, she has heard of Acromantula. She's seen a few big ones in her time, too. She's seen pictures of _really_ big whoppers. But _that_ is just – _gross_! Over there, a spider with a body the size of two elephant bulls, comes charging towards them, obviously enraged by the death of his (or her) offspring, and making a peculiar, ear-shattering noise somewhere between a hiss and a roar and the sound of splintering glass.

They fire the Green Fire Curse at the monster, but nothing happens. "Oh shit," Bill groans and tries it with a Stunner instead. Just as well he could have sent a paper plane.

"Out! We got to get out of here! Into a narrower passage where he can't get in!"

So that's what they do – they run for it, not even bothering to throw curses over their shoulders, because frankly, that beast doesn't seem to be affected by those the tiniest bit anyway. Frantically, Tonks searches her memory. She has learnt how to deal with that stuff, blast it! – Right! _Blast it_ – that's it! One's got to blow the bloody things up once they've grown to such a size; nothing else helps much. But for that, they need more than two. And even though the castle is _teeming_ with people tonight, they're not coming across anyone, and the monster closes in bit by bit. On their heedless flight, they suddenly collide with something pretty solid.

Scrambling up, Tonks realises they've bumped into the tallest girl she's seen in a while – blimey, she must be six feet six or something, and she isn't alone either. It's a bunch of students, Sixth or Seventh Years, Tonks fathoms.

"Heaven sent you lot," she gasps. "Acromantula –"

"Listen – when I tell you, you all cast a Stunner. It's important we do it simultaneously, because –"

"Yes, yes, because it takes at least half a dozen Stunners to take down a full-sized one," a tall boy with oddly distorted features cuts Bill short. "We _know_ that!"

Without further instructions, the students line up, and not a second too early. The Acromantula crawls around the corner with rapid speed – having eight legs _does_ help a lot – and Bill shouts, "_Now!_"

With one voice, Tonks, Bill and the students shout the incantation, and all hit the beast. Well, it's hard to miss a target of this size. It comes to a halt; they send more volleys to diminish the monster's magical shield bit by bit, and then Tonks finally gets a clear shot to kill the spider – let's just call it a spider, right? – at last, with a well-aimed blasting hex going right through the not-so-well protected eyes. Quick-witted, three students perform a shield charm that wards off the splattering body parts of the exploding spider, and then they give a collected sigh of relief, and the huge girl groans, "I _hate_ these!"

"What's wrong with your face?" Tonks asks the tall boy. "Shall I –"

"No!" he and the big girl shout in unison, and he adds, "My dad is on the other side. They'll kill him if I'm recognised!"

"Show her your arm, Anthony," another girl says, and the boy in question rolls up his sleeve, disclosing a nasty wound that's provisorily patched up with a magical bandage that's soaking with dark ooze. Tonks can't do much for him, but replace the bandage with one that at least stops the curse from spreading.

"Listen – did you happen to see Remus Lupin somewhere?" she asks when she's done; she just can't help herself. "He's perhaps five foot eleven and –"

"We know him, he was our teacher, but I don't think I –"

"I saw him," the boy with the Death Eater father says. "He was with a group of teachers who defended the Southern entrance."

"Are you coming, Bill?"

"No, I gotta find Fleur first. Listen, guys – you saw an incredibly good-looking woman, blonde –"

Tonks doesn't hear the rest of his description; as soon as hearing the rough whereabouts of her husband, she's started to run, trying to get her bearings. When fleeing from the Acromantula bull, she's lost direction somehow, and that the castle is in shambles, with few recognisable features, the paintings in an uproar and all the armours gone to fight, doesn't help her knowing where she is either.

She comes across more people, more fights, manages to take down two Death Eaters and a vampire, but still, there's no trace of Remus. She gets more and more anxious; the knot in her guts becomes tighter all the time, and she's on the verge of crying when finally hearing his voice somewhere in the vicinity. Following the sound of his voice shouting curse after curse, she sprints up a flight of stairs, along a hallway that shows the signs of embittered combat – smouldering paintings, smashed windows, black curse marks on the walls and holes in the ceiling as well as the floor, until she's finally there –

Her heart misses a few beats. There he is – Remus, at last! – battling Antonin Dolohov, and good heavens, Dolohov didn't make it to the tops of the Wanted lists for nothing! He fires curse after curse, missing Remus for mere inches, his face twisted with malice and his eyes shining with hunger for murder. Only then, she realises that this is really the worst possible moment for being unprofessional. As an Auror _and_ as a wife, she aims her wand at Dolohov and shouts, "_Petrificus Totalus!_"

She blocks the spell easily, of course he does, but the brief interruption gives Remus the chance to cast a curse himself and hit Dolohov squarely against the chest. The Death Eaters stumbles back with a surprised expression, but when Tonks takes another stab, trying to take him out, he is prepared and reflects the curse non-verbally, which knocks her off her feet and her back against the wall. She gasps for breath.

With a furious scream, Remus charges again, sending a series of hexes at Dolohov, most of which he ducks, giggling maniacally, and keeping on firing back at both Tonks and Remus. She's got back to her feet and jumps out of harm's way.

"Remus, remember those Snatchers? On count of three," she yells. "One –"

"I love you! Two –"

"How sweet you are, scum!" Dolohov taunts, but doesn't get any further.

"Three," Tonks and Remus shout in unison and fire a Stunner each simultaneously. Dolohov can't deflect two curses from opposite directions at once, all he can do is cast a Shield Charm and retreat some steps. Step by step, they drive him further back like this, until he backs against the wall. Tonks raises her arm, knowing what she must do now, focusing on the hate she feels for this man, the many he's murdered, the fact that he would have killed Remus just now if she hadn't found them by coincidence.

"_Avada_ –"

She cannot finish the spell because she's hit in the back herself and keels over, her face smashing on the floor. She can taste blood and rolls around, trimming her wand into the general direction of the new attacker. She swallows hard when recognising who this is. In her worst nightmares, she has met this witch. She's had nightmares, fantasising how she killed Tonks' dad, fantasising how she'd torture Tonks' mum and husband. And Bellatrix Lestrange looks _exactly_ like she did in those dreams. Her face is skull-like, her dark, heavy-lidded eyes are _wide_ open and pierce her prey, her mouth is twisted in a wild, hateful grin.

Tonks has rallied her shock and throws a curse at her. Bellatrix Lestrange dismisses it with a little nod of her head, laughing raucously, and behind her, Tonks can hear that the fight between Remus and Dolohov continues.

"How I hoped it'd be me to find and kill you," Bellatrix Lestrange exclaims and deflects another jinx. "Oh, how I have _prayed_ I'd be the one to finish _you_ off!"

"Ditto, Aunty Bella, ditto!"

"You think you can take on me? _You?_ I'll hack you to pieces, you piece of Mudblood filth, just like I did with you dear Mudblood daddy."

If she thinks that would intimidate Tonks, she is very much mistaken. The mention of Ted Tonks and the way he died infuses her with fury and power; she is back on her feet in a heartbeat and fires a volley of curses at her aunt. This time, she doesn't duck them so easily; she has to use her wand, and nods appreciatively.

"They taught you well, didn't they? Ah, I like it like that. It's so boring if the victims don't even struggle. Your dirty daddy had _nothing_ to ward me off. How nice that you take after your mother."

All the time, they keep on casting non-verbal spells at each other, and parry the counter-curses with their wands, and step closer and closer, until they're only ten feet apart. Subconsciously, Tonks perceives that the fight between Remus and Dolohov has become more heated still, but that they _are_ fighting still makes her pluck up hope. She manages to land a deep cut on Bellatrix Lestrange's left forearm – which entertains the witch inappropriately much; she lifts the arm, squints at the wound, and then she _licks her own blood_, making Tonks' stomach revolt.

With blood-smeared teeth, her aunt cries, "Careful, pig! If you had hit the Mark on my wrist, I'd have you eat your own liver before you're dead!"

"Interesting priorities, Aunty Bella."

"I am not your _aunt_, scum!"

"My mother begs to differ. If it was only up to me, though – I'd happily renounce that particular connection, too!"

She's hit by another spell in this moment, and has a startled instant to think that this was _it_. It was no curse though, as she realises in the next second; it was a simple summoning charm, and with a sharp tearing sensation, her necklace is ripped off her throat and flies into Bellatrix Lestrange's outstretched left hand.

"No!" she shouts and brings down her wand for a non-verbal _Ignatio_. Her aunt jumps sideways, a split second before the lightning strikes the spot where she's stood a millisecond before. The distinct smell of ozone lingers in the air, and faintly, Tonks thinks that she's lucky because for a short while, she wore her first wedding ring on that necklace, right after Remus gave her one of his own. Nowadays, however, she wears both rings on her ring finger. The little locket that replaced it – with photos of Remus and little Teddy right after he was born – she can do without these. She's got lots of photos of them.

"That was not half-bad, maggot," Bellatrix Lestrange exclaims, and actually manages to give her voice a slightly less disdainful tinge. "It's a pity you picked the wrong side. We'd have forgiven you for your rotten father – by your mother, you've got noble, ancient blood. But that you've thrown yourself into the arms of a _half-breed_ – Salazar, what _were_ you thinking! Now let me see what we've got here…"

Two more curses, and in between, Bellatrix Lestrange opens the locket and casts it a swift glance. Her expression changes as if she had been doused with cold water. The scorn is replaced by red-hot fury, and the following curse hurls Tonks into the air, and she lands fifty feet further down the hall, feeling a couple of ribs cracking when she hits the floor.

"Desecration!" Bellatrix Lestrange screeches on top of her lungs. "Bestiality! You rotten bitch, you abomination of the name of witch! How _could_ you – how –"

She is so outraged by the realisation that her ancient, noble family has got a new, even less pure-blooded addition that she gets a bit distracted, and Tonks lands two good shots at her, throwing her onto the ground, too. For the second time tonight, she raises her arm for a final Killing Curse, and she doesn't even have to focus – hate and fury and disdain suffuse her without additional measures – but then something happens – something so horrible, so monstrous, so _unthinkable_ – it defies her perception and any other thing she could do, or think.

In the corner of her eye, she sees a green flash – she slightly turns her head to follow the direction of the curse – sees it hitting Remus – and her mind gets hung up on this sight. She doesn't perceive Dolohov's triumphant scream. She doesn't register Remus' body dropping down like a puppet without strings. She doesn't see her aunt getting back to her feet, laughing like a lunatic. She just knows – _knows_ – that this was no ordinary curse. She knows with certainty that Remus isn't simply unconscious. She _feels_ it.

She doesn't feel the retaliation for the spells she hit her aunt with. She doesn't notice how she's thrown to her back once more. Only faintly, the image of Bellatrix Lestrange towering above her, penetrates the picture burnt into Tonks' retinas – Remus being hit by that ray of green light. She is blind and deaf and numb and mute; she doesn't even scream when the Cruciatus Curse hits her for the first time. And when she does scream at last, it isn't for the actual, physical pain that shakes her body – it is for the knowledge that Remus is dead.

"This is what the Master means," Bellatrix Lestrange tells her companion Dolohov matter-of-factly. "All that nonsense about _love_. She _could_ have landed a curse on me if it wasn't for _love_. She had me right there – good girl, I've got to hand it to her. I think it's – now how does Cissy call this thing… _Poetic justice_, I think. Yes. It's poetic justice that she's getting herself killed for her _love_ for that filthy half-breed."


	123. It Ain't Over Till It's Over

Severus remains true to his oath as well

* * *

**- 3.73. - **

It Ain't Over Till It's Over

* * *

_Rise with the wind, my great big serpent_

_Silence the birds and darken the air_

_Change me with terror, alive in a moment_

_Strike for the heart and have me there_

_W.H. AUDEN  
_

_

* * *

_

Lucius' head was spinning. His order was finding Severus, and some morsel of common sense dictated him to do exactly that, but he couldn't bring himself to pay the proper attention. He knew his master. He knew that sort of look. He knew that kind of speech. The Dark Lord lusted for murder, and Lucius had no doubts about who it was that had angered the master so much. Only this afternoon, he had escaped his wrath for hair's breadth, and this time it _would_ have cost his life if it hadn't been for Bella's timely shield charm –

Where _was_ Draco? How could he not have responded to the call? There was only one possibility, but it was too dreadful to pronounce. No, no, the boy _must_ not be dead – his father couldn't bear to believe that. But surely, he must be so severely injured that he had dared to defy his master's orders. How on earth should he tell Narcissa that? What was to be done? They had to get inside the castle somehow and find him! Knowing his wife in this respect, she'd cast all caution to the wind and go at once, which would only make things worse regarding the Dark Lord's fury – but on the other hand, it also was the single option Lucius saw!

He came across Severus almost accidentally. Looking decidedly discomfited, he quarrelled with Bellatrix about the whereabouts of the Carrow siblings. His sister-in-law looked both dishevelled, and smugger than he had seen her in a long time, and Lucius faintly wondered whose blood had paid for her complacency. On a second thought – he didn't want to know. Other people just hit to kill, whereas Bella loved to make a game out of murder, in which _she_ was the only one having 'fun'. She had always been deranged in this respect, but since she had escaped from Azkaban, her blood lust had moved into the realms of sheer lunacy.

Severus looked unnerved, and Lucius heard him snarl, "I'm not their baby sitter, woman! I do not _know_ where they are, and frankly, I don't give a damn!"

"Betrayal!"

"Oh, get a grip, will you! I got chased out of the school by a bunch of teachers – if I should make a learnt guess, I'd say the same happened to the Carrows. Now would you –"

"It would have been your duty to look after them!"

"_No_, in fact my _duty_ was answering the Dark Lord's call. I have no reason to believe my fellow Death Eaters incapable of dealing with a few petty teachers! Now get off me!"

Lucius ran the last few metres, relieved to have found Severus, and desperate to talk to him. Severus always kept a cool head upon his shoulders, and perhaps _he_ knew what had happened to Draco, and –

Bella opened her mouth for some retort, but Lucius pushed her aside. "Stop it, Bella. I am supposed to take Severus to the master."

She looked half frustrated, half triumphant, clearly expecting some kind of punishment. She had never liked Severus, but the higher he had risen in the Dark Lord's favour, the more embittered Bella's hatred had become. Lucius cast her a warning glance and dragged Severus away, whispering under his breath that Severus should cast a spell so that no one could overhear them.

The man complied, and dropping all restraint, Lucius cried, "Where's Draco, Severus?"

"What? Isn't he here –"

"Where is he? Did something happen to him? What –"

"I don't _know_! Geez, what do you people _think_! – Does the master truly want to talk to me, or did you merely want to talk to me in private?"

"No, no, he _does_ want to see you. But Severus – he as good as condemned Draco! The boy didn't come as he ought to – he senses betrayal, and I – I –"

Severus groaned; his hands flew up to his temples and rubbed them. "I'll do for Draco what I can, Lucius. You know I will."

"But –"

"Don't you make it worse now! Let me –"

The concerned father's voice was bordering on hysterical now. "Worse? How can it be _worse_? My son is somewhere in that castle, probably injured, heavily perhaps, and – and – oh god, and if Cissa hears about –"

"Then you might want to get back and _calm_ _her_, Lucius!"

"Swear that you'll put in a good word for him, yes?"

"_Of course!_ Go to your wife, man, and let me do my job!" Severus squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and proceeded, calmer, more quietly, "By the by – you wouldn't have any notion where Potter might be, would you?"

"_Potter?_"

"Yes, Potter," Severus said lightly and gave his old friend a lopsided smile.

"You think I'd be such a nervous wreck if I had the faintest clue? If I _had_ Potter, I'd trade him for my son's life!"

Severus inhaled deeply and shook his head. "Do me a favour, Lucius – _if_ you should come to hear anything else, let _me_ know before you talk to anybody else about it. I swear to you, it shall not be to your, or Draco's harm, but I _beg_ you to grant me that one wish. All right?"

"What the hell are you on about?"

"It would take too long for me to explain that to you now. I think, however, that I never gave you a reason to mistrust me. If I can have it my way, Draco will benefit from it. So will you, and Cissa. Just have faith in me!"

"I have!"

"Good! Now – did the Dark Lord mention anything? What's he –"

"I haven't got the foggiest, pal. Game plan, I s'pose?"

Something told Severus that debating the 'game plan' wasn't on the menu. Not tonight. He felt the same prickling sensation under his skin that he had felt when encountering Minerva and the other teachers, and he knew – he couldn't say how, but he _knew_ it – that Harry Potter had been there, so close, he had been close enough to touch with outstretched hands, probably, hidden under that Invisibility Cloak of his. Oh, if only Severus would have had one more minute then!

But he couldn't blame Minerva for finally losing her nerve, could he? She had been – good Lord and everything that was holy, but the woman had excelled herself in the time since Dumbledore's death. Her composure and restraint, her resilience and sheer nerve had surpassed his most wishful expectations. He'd have believed her to lose it much sooner, and in that case the other teachers would have crumbled, too, and the school would have been in the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange and her cronies… Strictly seen, Minerva hadn't lost her nerve up there in the corridor either. She had done what had appeared necessary, and _how_ she had done it! He applauded her spellwork, indeed. He knew how powerful a wizard he was; he knew that there were not many wizards and witches, a handful perhaps, that could even rival his own might – but Minerva had given him a truly surprisingly hard time. Of course, he couldn't have used most of his arsenal against her, but nevertheless… It was a spot of solace to think that the defence of the school rested in her hands now.

How well would the defences hold? They had been breached already, but a certain amount of protection would remain still, until the Dark Lord himself would enter the battle. When a wizard died, most spells of this kind that he had cast would lose their efficiency, too, so all through the year, Severus had tried to repair Dumbledore's spells on the boundaries in secrecy, but speaking of might – he had not managed to reinstall all of them, although he had followed the portrait's instructions down to a tee. Dumbledore had appeared to expect that though, even if he hadn't deigned to intimate the reasons to his ever-so-faithful lieutenant. Well, truth to be told, Severus was beyond caring. He still trusted the old man to know what he was doing in everything that concerned his school and Harry Potter, if nothing else.

What was it that the Dark Lord wanted from him now? He had heard about this afternoon's incident, but somehow he doubted that the 'master' wished to discuss it. Lucius was lucky to have got away in one piece, and wryly, Severus cursed his own bad luck that Lucius' sister-in-law had managed to escape, too. There wasn't much that could destroy _her_, save a curse from her venerated master perhaps. Somehow, even now, knowing what was at the stake tonight, he still thought that it would have given him plenty of satisfaction to know that _that woman_ was out of the picture. Alas, she was not, and since she had taken Lucius with her, Severus thought he mustn't feel too sorry about her getaway.

Lucius! Oh, good heavens! What did he expect of Severus, eh? He was doing as good as he could, damn it, he was doing even better than he had ever dared to hope, but he was neither omnipotent nor omniscient! He didn't _know_ where Draco was – how would he! And what was he supposed to do for the boy in this moment, in his father's eyes? Plead with the Dark Lord – as if _that_ had _ever_ helped!

Of course, it wasn't difficult to see through Lucius' intentions. _That_ man had once been less transparent, too, before losing his wand, his last scraps of freedom, not to mention parts of his sanity. Yes, like his wife before him, Lucius had tried to evoke a memory – of another successful (or not!) entreaty that their friend Severus had once uttered. Just that when Cissa had done the same, it had been somewhat more compulsive. Why did they even assume for a single second that Severus would _not_ do all in his power to protect their son? Had he given them a single reason to doubt him? Hadn't he held his hand over the boy _the entire time?_

And speaking of _the boy_ – where the _hell_ was Harry Potter? The prickling sensation got stronger and stronger, the closer he got to the Shrieking Shack. Could it be possible that the Dark Lord had captured Potter already? Somehow, he associated this feeling so much with Potter that it seemed less unlikely than it truly was. But _if_ he had Potter there – what the hell should he do in _that_ case? Well, play for time, obviously. He was good at that. It had worked the whole last year, and why should it stop working tonight of all nights?

He cursed Dumbledore for the one millionth time if that was enough, thinking that this one's oh-so-wonderful plans were every bit as idiotic as the Dark Lord's, riddled with countless ways to go wrong, and that the prickling in his neck had grown to a downright itch only supported that notion. He opened his topmost robes button to relief himself, and also removed the old-fashioned black cravat, pushing it carelessly into his pocket. Idiots, all of them, idiots, idiots, _idiots_ –

He entered the Shrieking Shack, for the first time in his whole life so preoccupied with more pressing matters that he forgot to feel his old apprehensions that were inevitably linked with this of all places. For more than twenty years, he had associated this house with death. Not that he had actually died here – _obviously_ – but this was the house where, for the first time in his life, he had seen death in the face, a drooling, slobbering and growling face (nay, visage), come to that. Death had lost its horror for him since then, and tonight even the Shrieking Shack in itself had lost its implications. Worse than death was before them all.

_Where the bloody hell WAS bloody Harry Potter?_

He took a deep breath before pushing the door to the little room open, bowing his head respectfully. "My lord wished to see me?"

The Dark Lord hardly looked over – and for the better, because Severus wasn't sure how well his defences would hold tonight – and kept on playing with his wand instead. Next to him, and this sight took Severus' breath for a swift moment, there was Nagini, the cursed beast, suspended in a protective orb. Nagini – protected… Oh. _Oh!_ So tonight really was _the_ night!

"Yes, yes," the Dark Lord murmured absent-mindedly. "Any news from the battle, Severus?"

"They've sustained heavy losses from what I hear, while we have only few to report. The worst, I gather, is due to the Acromantula prying at our own fighters, my lord."

"Ah, pah. If one of my men can't defend himself from as inferior a creature as that, he's not worth my notice in the first place."

"Of course, my lord."

"And? Did you come across Lucius' son somewhere?" There was a lurking note in the question.

"No, master. I expect that the teachers took him as a hostage –"

The Dark Lord laughed. "You truly think so? Severus, Severus – either you're naïve, or you are lowering yourself. What could you gain from playing Lucius' game? He's got nothing to give to you anymore. Or did he offer you gold to ask me that?"

"He offered me nothing, my lord, and I'm not interested in _gold_," he replied silkily, giving the last word a disdainful spin. "_My_ interest is advancing our cause. And young Draco has his parents' talents – I should be sorry to see his blood spilled tonight. He can, and will, make it far, I believe."

The laughter became even more unpleasant. "You believe that, Severus, you believe that. But _I_ know the boy. I don't know what he inherited from his father save for his face, but I know for a fact that he has a share of his mother's softness, and that, of course, won't do."

Severus bowed again in his most docile manner, and kept his head like this, waiting for the Dark Lord's next cue. It wasn't wise to speak too much in his presence if not expressly asked, and Severus' mind was racing anyhow. Nagini, extra-safeguarded. One had to hand it to Dumbledore – the man had possessed an _incredible_ gift of foresight! Not a tad more than that, unfortunately, but alas! He had to find Harry Potter immediately, and once he had found the obstinate child, he'd have to immobilise him and _somehow_ drag him into the Headmaster's office – through an on-going battle, come to that! 'Bet you didn't think of such minor obstacles, did you, Dumbledore?' And then one could only hope that the old man's portrait would make enough of an impression on the child so Potter would hold still long enough for Severus to intimate the truth to him – and even then, that totally hare-brained scheme was bound to fail still!

For the moment, the Dark Lord remained just as silent as his desperate lieutenant, and continued to flick his wand and trace it with the tip of one of his long, spidery fingers. Just as curiously, Severus squinted over to the giant snake, trying to figure out the spell that protected the bloody beast. He couldn't say what incantation exactly this was, but he could tell that Potter wouldn't stand a chance to break it. And _these_ bits were still the less problematic ones!

He broke the silence at last. "My lord," he began anew, "if you have no further assignment for me at present, I entreat you to allow me returning to the fight. We're so close to victory, my lord, their resistance is crumbling –"

"And it is doing so without your help. Skilled wizard though you are, Severus, I do not think you will make much difference now. We are almost there – almost…"

He swallowed; the prickling returned, itching madly by now. "Let me find the boy. Let me bring you Potter," he said, straining to keep the begging note out of his voice. "I _know_ I can find him, my lord. Please!"

He stepped closer to the table and the Dark Lord got up, giving him an odd glance. "I have a problem, Severus…"

"My lord?"

The 'master' raised his wand delicately. "Why doesn't it work for me, Severus?"

_What?_ The wand? The world? What was the wretched worm talking about? As if Severus hadn't got more pressing problems! "My – my lord?" he asked, hoping his voice didn't give his bewilderment – and annoyance – away too much. The Dark Lord raised his wand a fraction higher and only now, Severus recognised it and strained not to groan. This was – this was Dumbledore's wand… "I do not understand… You – you have performed extraordinary magic with that wand –"

"No. I have performed my usual magic. _I_ am extraordinary, but this wand – _no_. It has not revealed the wonders it has promised. I feel no difference between this wand and the one I procured from Ollivander all those years ago." He waved the wand as if for underlining his point, and the prickling in Severus' skin turned into the sensation of falling into a fire-anthill, butt-naked. The Dark Lord twisted his thin lips. "No difference."

Oh. _Oh!_ Well, Severus _was_ an intelligent man, and he thought he saw where that train of thought might lead to… This was _obviously_ Dumbledore's old wand, he had seen it so often, there could be no doubt. The Dark Lord had pressed it out of Mr Ollivander that his own, trusted wand would not work against Harry Potter because the boy's wand was made of the same Phoenix tail feather, and had decided to give Lucius' wand a try, because, as was common knowledge, a wand absorbed the power of the magician using it, and Lucius' powers had been almost without competition. Perhaps Bellatrix Lestrange and Severus himself were in the same echelons of power, but – lucky them – only Lucius had fallen out of favour at that time. The Dark Lord had reasoned that _if_ he had to use another wand, he could just as well go for one who had belonged to a mighty Dark wizard and had absorbed his powers accordingly. This was also the reason why Lucius had never got it back, even though Severus had employed his best powers of persuasion to talk the 'master' into returning the wand to him, after seeing that it didn't work for him either. But the Dark Lord had said, not entirely unreasonably, that by no means he would give Lucius a wand that had taken up powers beyond his own capacities, the powers of the greatest Dark wizard of all times even. That had surely proven the Dark Lord's insight into Lucius' sense of loyalty, even if Severus had done everything he could to hush up the impression.

And now he had Dumbledore's wand… Good heavens, this next step had been _so_ obvious! Severus wanted to slap himself for not figuring it out sooner. That was the reason why he had wanted to see Dumbledore's grave… He had come to take his old adversary's wand, because this wand would have absorbed Dumbledore's great power. The old man _had_ managed to stand up to the Dark Lord in a duel after all! And if the same wand now disappointed the 'master', that could only mean…

"I have thought long and hard, Severus… Do you know why I have called you back from the battle…?"

Oh, Severus had some imagination, but he must not dwell on it now. He had a mission to accomplish. He had to find the sodding boy! He had to tell the boy what was necessary!

"No, my lord," he answered the question smoothly and untruthfully, "but I beg you will let me return. Let me find Potter –"

The Dark Lord sneered. "You sound like Lucius. Neither of you understands Potter as I do. He does not need finding. Potter will come to _me_. I know his weakness, you see, his one great flaw. He will hate watching the others struck down around him, knowing that it is for him that it happens… He will want to stop it at any cost. He will come."

Oh, one could only hope he would! Indeed, Severus knew the child much better than his 'master' would have believed, and he knew that Potter was dogged enough, blindly obedient enough, to march straight to his own grave if he had to. But to accomplish _that_, Severus had to find the goddamned child first! _That_ was what mattered! _That_ was what all these people were giving their lives for, in this very minute, just like back then! This was what Lily Potter had died for!

He tried again, "But my lord, he might be killed accidentally by one other than yourself –"

"My instructions to my Death Eaters have been perfectly clear. Capture Potter – kill his friends – the more, the better – but do not kill him."

Severus furiously bit down his retort – namely that the 'faithful Death Eaters' weren't exactly the most competent lot in the history of warfare! Since he had joined up then, Severus had seen twice as many fall in combat due to friendly fire than had been killed by Aurors! And out there in this very minute, the Acromantula and the giants, the Dementors and the vampires, were prowling and minding their own business, _quite_ careless who it was they were feeding on!

The 'master' turned around and looked at him, and his 'trusted advisor' managed barely so forcing his features into impassive submission. "But it is of you that I wished to speak, Severus," the Dark Lord went on, a steely edge to his voice. "Not Harry Potter. You have been very valuable to me. Very valuable."

But not valuable enough, yes, yes! Point taken! But not _now_! "My lord knows I seek only to serve him. But," he groaned, no longer suppressing the urgency in his tone. "Let me _go_ _and find the boy_, my Lord! Let me bring him to you! I _know_ I can –"

"I have told you, no! My concern at the moment, Severus, is what will happen when I finally meet the boy!"

Giving his voice his most honeyed, flattering tone, he replied, "My lord, there can be no question, surely –"

"But there _is_ a question, Severus," the Dark Lord cut him short. "There _is_! – Why did both the wands I have used fail when directed at Harry Potter?"

"I –" He took a deep breath, trying to clear out his mind lest the Dark Lord should manage to overcome his defences in this most crucial moment. "I cannot answer that, my lord."

"Can't you?"

_Of_ _course_ he could! One needn't be a genius to know the answer to this one. But if the wretched man thought he'd give him permission for the final shot, he'd be sorely disappointed! The 'master' looked straight into his eyes now and Severus glanced back without fear. The irony! Oh, Dumbledore would surely _love_ the sheer irony of this situation! For Severus could return this scrutiny so innocently because that wand that this was all about – it had nothing to do with him. He had suddenly understood why Dumbledore had been so keen that _he_ should be the one killing him – he had wanted him to get the sordid wand. _Great_ foresight. But it would have been a _tad_ smarter still if the old man had, somewhere along the way in the past two years, damn it – if he had _told_ Severus about his ingenious plan! It would have been a cinch to overwhelm young Draco, but as things were, Dumbledore's wand had no connection to Severus Snape, even if the 'master' obviously seemed to believe that. It belonged to Lucius' son. Who didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell against the Dark Lord – why, he didn't stand much a chance against _anybody_, because young Draco Malfoy had as much a gift to fight as he had a gift for raising the dead –

Still looking at his servant's vacant expression and possibly frustrated with the lack of anything in there, the Dark Lord went on, "My wand of yew did everything of which I asked it, Severus… Except to kill Harry Potter. _Twice_ it failed. Ollivander told me under torture of the twin cores, told me to take another's wand. I did so, but Lucius' wand shattered upon meeting Potter's…"

Because arrogance and stupidity precede the fall, bastard! Each and every bloody time! How had this man become so big! How had he _ever_ managed to become so powerful! Severus inclined his head a little and cast his eyes away, "I – I have no explanation, my lord."

"I sought a third wand, Severus. The Elder Wand, the Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick –" Severus eyes flew back to him with that mention. Now it was official. The man had finally lost his very last ounce of common sense. And it'd also mean that Severus' own death sentence was finally and irrevocably sealed. If the Dark Lord truly believed he had got one of the legendary wands out of Cuthbert Binns' favourite myth selection, there'd be no way talking him out of this rubbish again! "I took it from his previous master. I took it from the grave of Albus Dumbledore."

Well, this was it. He'd be killed – not because he had failed, not because he had given himself away, not because he had actually _done_ anything _useful_! He'd be killed because of some ridiculous superstition! Oh, _please_! He deserved more than that, didn't he! He stared back into the red eyes, resigned and taking a deep breath. Curiously, the itching in the small of his neck had ceased – and was replaced by defiance rushing through his veins one last time. He must not give in like that!

"My lord, let me go to the boy –" he said once more, and was once more interrupted.

"All this long night, when I am on the brink of victory –"

'And clinical insanity,' Severus thought, but did not say.

"I have sat here, wondering… Wondering why the Elder Wand refuses to be what it ought to be, refuses to perform what legend says it must perform for its rightful owner –"

'_Legend_ being the key term in this context!' – But again, Severus kept his icy silence.

"And I think I have the answer." The Dark Lord seemed to wait for a reaction, but Severus was in no humour to give him that satisfaction, so he went on, with a little smile even, "Perhaps you already know it? You are a clever man, after all, Severus. You have been a good and faithful servant, and I regret what must happen."

"My lord –" He bit his lip. There was no use in arguing anyhow. For a split second, he had contemplated to correct the fool's mistake and tell him the truth about Draco Malfoy being the technical owner of Albus Dumbledore's wand. But it wouldn't make any difference; the Dark Lord would kill them both, just to make sure, and once he killed Draco, Severus' only real backup plan would be ruined, too, because if something happened to the boy, Narcissa would completely lose it, and _not_ stick to the promise she had given Severus once. She'd be dead herself before she could fulfil it.

"The Elder Wand cannot serve me properly, Severus, because I am not its true master. The Elder Wand belongs to the wizard who killed its last owner. You killed Albus Dumbledore. While you live, Severus, the Elder Wand cannot be truly mine."

Yes, the mythical _Elder_ _Wand_ might very well be of such a peculiar nature, but this was just a plain wand, even if it had belonged to the most powerful wizard of their time, or at least the solid number two on the list, and it obeyed to the same simple rules like every other freaking wand out there, damn it! Oh, to die over a misunderstanding and a bedtime story! _Preposterous!_ Where he had so much to do still!

"My lord!" he cried despite himself, angry and indignant, and snatched his own wand.

"It cannot be any other way." At least the Dark Lord had the grace to look a little ashamed, but Severus could only sneer back. "I must master the wand, Severus, master the wand, and master Harry Potter at last."

The Dark Lord moved his wand – Severus was ready to strike the spell back – but strangely, nothing happened. For a split second, he wondered if the 'master' had had second thoughts on the matter before it was too late, and Severus thanked his own calmness for not having cracked, and not having shouted at the arse what he thought – of him, of his whole crusade, of the state of his mental health, and of the one thing that overrode _any_ other hateful feeling for the wicked worm –

The prickly sensation returned, and it took Severus another moment to realise that it was different from the nervous itch he had felt half of the night. Something had touched his neck indeed, and only then Severus knew _what_ it was. The magical sphere containing the shoddy snake had sheathed itself over his upper body – but unfortunately excluded his lower arms! He yelled in shock and surprise, feeling the rough snakeskin scales pressing against his skin – well, the _itch_ was at least taken care of – and tried poking his wand against the magic orb, but naturally, without the slightest success –

The Dark Lord hissed something, and Severus didn't need to understand Parseltongue to guess what it was he had said. He didn't bother to keep himself from screaming when the fangs pierced his neck and throat. He struggled, but it was no use; he felt the venom intruding his body – the itching was back, and it itched like thousand tiny flames flickering through his veins, hurting less than one would expect, and benumbing him with the speed of an arrow. With every heartbeat, the poison advanced, and in less than a minute, it had paralysed him almost completely. He hardly perceived the snake and its sphere retreating, he didn't notice the Dark Lord leaving. He just wondered – and very faintly so, somewhere in the outskirts of his still conscious self – what would kill him faster – the loss of blood that spluttered out of his neck like a merry fountain, or the cursed snake venom. To be killed like that! To die like that! And the big, fat moron hadn't even _grasped_ that, even _if_ Severus had been the owner of that stupid, stupid wand, he ought to have killed him _himself_, and not let his ugly pet do it. It truly stung him that all this was such a complete waste. He had always thought that if he would be killed at last, it would be for something that was worth it, in some respect or other.

Unfathomable sadness grabbed him, but it wasn't the undeniable fact of his impending death that anguished him so. It was the _how_, the _why_, but most of all, it was the awareness that he had failed to accomplish the one thing – the only thing that had kept him going for almost twenty years now. What had he gone through, only to reach that one aim! He had sworn to honour her memory. He had sworn to take care of her son. He had sworn to see to the end of the monster that had killed her. He had tried so hard – he had come so far. And yet he had failed, once more failed. He was denied to fulfil the pledge he had given to the child's mother.

And then… Was he already dead? Was he hallucinating in his last wake seconds? There he was. Harry Potter. Right there, appearing out of the blue, and gazing down at him with a strange expression. Harry Potter. Somehow, Severus didn't believe that his own subconscious would be so cruel, and masochistic, as to flash him images of _Harry Potter_ of all people in the moment of his death, and summoning all strength he had got left with his rapidly decomposing constitution, he reached out for the boy, who was leaning over him, grabbed his lapels and pulled him closer.

He would _not_ fail. Death had granted him a single merciful favour. The boy was here, and mustering his last scraps of power, Severus' trained mind – primed for so many years to control itself and conceal what must be hidden – let go off the significant bits that he had buried so deep inside of him all that time. "Take – it –" he croaked, panicking because his voice was so distorted that he was scared the boy wouldn't understand. "_Take_ – _it!_"

The boy collected the swathes of visible memories in a little flask, and Severus knew it was done, at last. With his dying breath, he had accomplished what he had lived for. The boy knew what this was. He knew how to use them. He'd see what he'd have to see, and then he'd choose for himself. Perhaps he would obey Dumbledore, and die, and ridden the world of this monster. Or perhaps he would just get out of there, and honour his mother's sacrifice by doing what she had tried to make possible for him. _Live_. For Severus, both possibilities were just as well in this moment. The boy would choose well. For his mother. This way or that.

"Look – at – me," he managed to utter, and the child looked straight into his eyes. It was a beautiful, soothing notion to think that this was the last thing he should see in this world. Lily's almond-shaped, impossibly green, sparkling eyes… The eyes of the small child he had once held in his arm, in the blackest night of _both_ of their lives… The eyes of the young man that might have more flaws than Severus could ever have put up with in life, but in whom he had full trust in the moment of his death.


	124. The Prince's Peace

Severus says goodbye

* * *

**- 3.74. -**

The Prince's Peace

* * *

_In the grey summer garden I shall find you  
With day-break and the morning hills behind you.  
There will be rain-wet roses; stir of wings;  
And down the wood a thrush that wakes and sings.  
Not from the past you'll come, but from that deep  
Where beauty murmurs to the soul asleep:  
And I shall know the sense of life re-born  
From dreams into the mystery of morn  
Where gloom and brightness meet. And standing there  
Till that calm song is done, at last we'll share  
The league-spread, quiring symphonies that are  
Joy in the world, and peace, and dawn's one star._

_SIEGFRIED SASSOON_

_

* * *

_

The pain ebbed away and he suddenly felt light, and unjustifiably easy. He ought not feel _easy_ – there was a battle going on – and he had just sent the kid to his certain death – Lily's little boy – into the wide-open arms of the enemy – or not…? No. Somehow, he suddenly _knew_ that the boy would do it, but there was no sadness connected to that idea any longer; it had faded away with the pain. Everything would be well.

The image still lingered on his retinas; those incredible eyes, resembling his mother's so very much that it had always hurt Sev to look into them, just like he hadn't managed to draw his gaze away at other times. The image of the green eyes was eventually supplanted though, by the back of the boy's head, the unruly, jet black hair, which in turn resembled his father's, but strangely enough, Sev didn't care about that striking similarity anymore in this moment. Not only did he see Harry Potter's head – he also saw Miss Granger's brown shock of hair. And his own, come to that, sticky with congealing blood. His features dead white – his eyes wide-open, but empty and somewhat dull.

It didn't shock, or even mildly amaze him that he was dead. After that injury, death had been inevitable, of course. And he didn't mind the fact that he was no more, so to speak, either. For half a minute, he had been sick with fear that he would die before fulfilling his last, his most important mission, but luckily, Potter had been there already, quick enough for Severus to give him all he needed to know, more than that, even. He didn't care for where the boy had suddenly come from. It only mattered that he _had_ come.

Really, Severus would have _hated_ to be forced becoming a ghost, only because he hadn't managed to tell Lily's son what was necessary. Lingering here until the end of time – he had always thought he'd been here far too long already. How glad he was that he was spared _that_ fate! He would be delivered. Any moment now. He had never died before, he wasn't quite sure how it would happen, but there was one thing he staunchly believed in – he _would_ be delivered by blissful oblivion and nothingness.

His vision drove away from that weird scene, Potter's and Granger's heads became smaller and smaller, now he saw the roof of the Shrieking Shack, and a few moments later that, too, was as small as a needle pin. He wasn't actually _flying_, nor hovering, nor anything he could have described with words. He perceived the mild breeze of the spring night, but differently than ever before – of course, after all he was _dead_. In the distance, he saw the castle with blazing fires lambent out of windows here and there… The sky was sprinkled full with stars adorning the blackness of the night, he watched them feeling utter peace; how pretty that sight was… He didn't know when he had last taken the time to take a look at the stars. It must have been decades ago. _Before_ her death, of course. _After_ that, he hadn't taken a look, a deliberate, open look, at anything much.

He was moving, and faintly noticed that it felt like rocking on a swing. He broke away from staring at the night sky, finding himself sitting on a swing indeed, but what was even more wonderful – mysterious and wonderful – Lily was sitting on the swing beside his own, swaying back and forth in the same pace and rhythm. She gave him a smile, a broad, kind, only-Lily-could-smile-like-that smile.

"Welcome, Sev!"

"Lily!" he gasped, nearly falling off the swing with excitement.

"Let me start with the bad news, shall I? The bad news – you are dead, Sev."

She beamed at him, and winked, and he couldn't help it but laugh. "Yes, I suspected so much."

"That aside, there'll never be _any_ bad news again, and isn't that the best bit of news one could get?"

He laughed again. "I suppose so."

"Any questions? Mark my words, there's nothing I had no answer for. Death is like that."

"Lily, I – let me begin with – I –" he spluttered, suddenly anxious. "It's – I'm – gosh, where to _start_! You must know how sorry I am – _sorry_ isn't nearly strong enough a word to express how –"

"Shhh." She put a finger to her lips and indicated him to stop, then smiled again. "It's okay, Sev. I _know_. I know it all. You needn't tell me, there's nothing I don't know, down to the bottom of your heart. I do know everything, you see?"

In life, he wouldn't have managed to suppress a blush, but curiously, he didn't feel embarrassed now, but simply smiled back. "I've always loved you. Always. You were everything to me from the first moment I saw you, and I only grew to love you even stronger than then."

"I've loved you, too, you know?"

_In life_, he had been far from suspecting any such thing, but death did change everything, oh yes. Swinging back and forth here – and Lily reaching out to take his hand – he _did_ know that it was true. He would have believed that this would shock him, dismay him, that he'd bemoan everything they had lost without ever having it in the first place, but the serenity didn't wane, quite the opposite.

"Did you forgive me in the end?" he asked, remembering the last words he had ever got from her.

She laughed brightly and lifted his hand up to her lips to kiss his fingertips. "Long ago, Sev. Dumbledore then told me about your pledge – about your courage to spy on Voldemort – I saw you that night… Thank you for trying to recover my body, Sev. Thank you for rescuing my baby, too… If I had a shred of grudge still left then, it was wiped away in the same night. And since then – since _then_, I'm _completely_ in the picture. There's nothing that I wouldn't know. Once you're dead, you bloody know _everything_."

He found it was true, again. He knew, for example, that just now, Harry Potter was storming into Dumbledore's office and crammed for the Pensieve. He also knew that in a few minutes, the boy would brace himself and march out of the castle to face his own end, he knew that the Killing Curse wouldn't work _again_, and another thirty minutes, and a third Killing Curse would be deflected on the one casting it, and Voldemort would finally be undone, once and for good. Lily's son would _live! _Harry Potter would _live_.

He found himself laughing in a way that he hadn't heard in two decades either. Lily joined him and exclaimed exuberantly, "You, Severus Snape, are a hero! Hengist of Woodcroft is nothing to you. Heck, you'd have made an exemplary Gryffindor!"

"Gryffindor, pah." But he couldn't stop sniggering in genuine merriment.

"I believe you paid back every morsel of injustice you've ever suffered through from Gryffindor. We're _square_."

"No, we're not." For a swift moment, he lost that felicity suffusing him. "I know that I… If you know everything, you also know… Please, allow me to say it out loud. I never said it. I never felt like saying it, either. Your son – Harry – I… It hurt me so much to look at him, Lily. I know it sounds feeble, but that's how it was. It tore me asunder to look at him, reminding me of _everything_ all at once, you, how I lost you, how I betrayed you, how you were torn out of my life for good. He looks so much like – like James, and quite often, he _was_ like James, too. I – I didn't know for a very long time, Lily. I didn't know what your sister would put him through. I took his timidity as secretiveness; that he knew nothing, I thought to be due to laziness and vanity. And his cheek –"

"Oh, but that he got from _me_," she cried and pressed his hand.

"I tried as good as I could, Lily, I did. I know I failed very often."

"You protected him, Sev! You rescued him, you saved him, you supported him without him even noticing, and I don't think you ever got a word of thanks. Accept it from me now, Sev. _Thank_ _you_. Without you, my son would _not_ live. He would have died by Voldemort's curse. He would have suffocated in the burning house. He would have broken his neck by falling off his broom. His soul would have been taken by the Dementors. Crouch would have murdered him. Voldemort, or his guys would have murdered him many, many times if it wasn't for you. But now Voldemort is dead, and Harry lives, and he'll live the life he's dreamt of, he'll be an Auror, he'll have a family, he'll know what you have done and name his child after you."

He smirked. "Foolish child!"

"You mean Harry, or little Albus Severus?"

"If you know _everything_, Lily – you know the answer to this, too!"

She chuckled, before her face turned more earnest, and she pressed his hand. "I've got some apologies to make, too, Sev. I'm so, so sorry. I know what a cow I was –"

"Rubbish!"

"No, Sev, it's true. I valued out friendship just as highly as you did, and I was always ashamed about the way it ended."

"But that was _my_ fault!"

"You said a stupid thing, all right, but… As a friend, I forgave you that bit easily enough. Just… Just as a disappointed teenage girl with a bad crush on you – in that respect, I didn't have the greatness of mind for forgiveness. And when I did realise that, it was too late… But before this is over – before taking the next, big step – I want to tell you how very, very sorry I was – and still am."

He was hoarse, and whispered, "I've missed you so much, Lily… I've missed you every sodding minute since twenty-three years…"

"I've missed you, too, Sev. I never had another friend like you. But the good thing is – I always knew you'd make it. I even knew it when you didn't believe it yourself, and I was proud that we were such good friends once. But I had some consolation – I knew you'd take care of my little boy, and I also knew that we'd meet here one day, and have this talk at last."

They both laughed again, a little more quietly, but nonetheless heartily, swinging higher and higher all the while. The night sky slowly lightened up in the East. Before long, the sun would be rising; that notion filled him with a tad of sadness once more. "It's over when day breaks, I assume?"

"Smart as you've always been, dear. But it's not going to be _over_. Just different. It's never over."

"How is afterlife?"

"Pretty much as you've already imagined."

"So I'm not going to spend eternity on a cloud next to you, seeing you united with – well, not me, at any rate?"

"'Course not. Afterlife would be a wretched state to be indeed if it only carried on like life, don't you think?"

"Will you be there, nonetheless?"

"Oh, yes! Yes! We'll all be there, somehow, but in no way comparable to life. The anger, the disappointments, the fears, the hurt, the isolation – it'll all go away. Only the good things, the love, the joy and the wisdom will remain. We will be united in eternity, Sev. You and I will never be apart again."

"One more thing…"

She giggled, squeezing his hand once more. "Yes…?"

"You _know_…"

"Yes, I do! And _yes_, I _will_ kiss you, _of course_ I will! This is _your_ death, Sev, you'll have it all exactly like you wish."

"Do _you_ wish it, too? Because I wouldn't –"

"I do wish to kiss you, Sev, and don't make a fuss now!" She kissed his hand. "I ought to have plucked up the courage to kiss you in 1975."

"Nothing of this – at least on my part – would have happened if you had kissed me in 1975…"

"Seeing that this is how Voldemort was undone, we should be grateful then for my cowardliness. That aside – I'm very sorry that I didn't do it then. I had such a _terrible_ crush on you! How jealous I was, how unreasonable – really, I was just impossible. How could you put up with me?"

"I loved you. I'd have put up with anything – and really, you never were _impossible_ to begin with. What were you jealous of, anyway? Did I ever give you the slightest reason to be _jealous_?"

She twisted her face in a comical manner. "I was jealous of Pretty Narcissa, of course. You always admired her so much, and so overtly!"

He couldn't help it but laugh out loud, shaking his head. "Oh, _please!_ Why does everybody always assume I… She was like – like a mother to me – well, perhaps more of a big sister, but –"

"It would have helped if your 'big sister' hadn't been so endlessly good-looking, I s'pose. As things were, I wanted to scratch her beautiful eyes out half of the time… And then, after – you know – that the first thing you did after we no longer talked, was going to Malfoy Manor – I could have strangled you. I thought you were doing that only to annoy me."

"I did. But not – not because I believed you'd be bothered by _Narcissa_!"

"Come, come, Sev – as a Head of House, you've seen long rows of teenage girls making total fools of themselves."

"Yeah." He smiled. "But teenage boys aren't a tad better. As a teacher _and_ a former male teenager, I can say with absolute confidence that it's hard to be as silly as a sixteen-year-old boy."

She laughed again, and looked so beautiful – her green eyes shining, her red hair glowing in the light of the dawning morn – it took his breath to see her like this, and he pressed her hand with the greatest animation. The first rays of sun light were emerging on the horizon, they swung higher and higher still, more light, more height.

"Just tell me when you're ready, Sev."

"I thought you'd know?" he asked playfully.

"'Course I do, but I want to hear your voice one last time."

He was completely relaxed, thinking that death meant _peace_ indeed. He had never in his life experienced such complete and utter bliss. Nothing remotely as happy as _this_. And before he let go of the swing, he did say what she knew he would, the one thing that had kept him going on since he was eight.

"I love you, Lily."

"And I love you, Sev."

If anyone could have been privy to this scene, they'd have seen a man with a very young, boyish face, ruled by a hooked nose, a wild smile and sparkling black eyes, and a young, beautiful, smiling woman with ample of flaming red hair, soaring skywards and holding each other's hands. Ascending, the woman cupped the man's face and brushed a gentle kiss on each of his cheeks; he opened his eyes, looking stricken, and she kissed his lips, very softly, very tenderly. They were rising higher and higher, their shapes became indistinguishable from another, and in the moment when the solar orb had finally edged over the Eastern horizon, they appeared to have disappeared.


	125. Finding Draco

Within battle, Lucius and Narcissa set out to find their son

* * *

**- 3.75. -**

Finding Draco

* * *

_Lay your sleeping head, my love,_

_Human on my faithless arm;_

_Time and fevers burn away_

_Individual beauty from_

_Thoughtful children, and the grave_

_Proves the child ephemeral:_

_But in my arms till break of day_

_Let the living creature lie,_

_Mortal, guilty, but to me_

_The entirely beautiful._

_Soul and body have no bounds:_

_To lovers as they lie upon_

_Her tolerant enchanted slope_

_In their ordinary swoon,_

_Grave the vision Venus sends_

_Of supernatural sympathy,_

_Universal love and hope;_

_While an abstract insight wakes_

_Among the glaciers and the rocks_

_The hermit's carnal ecstasy._

_Certainty, fidelity_

_On the stroke of midnight pass_

_Like vibrations of a bell_

_And fashionable madmen raise_

_Their pedantic boring cry:_

_Every farthing of the cost,_

_All the dreaded cards foretell,_

_Shall be paid, but from this night_

_Not a whisper, not a thought,_

_Not a kiss nor look be lost._

_Beauty, midnight, vision dies:_

_Let the winds of dawn that blow_

_Softly round your dreaming head_

_Such a day of welcome show_

_Eye and knocking heart may bless_

_Find our mortal world enough;_

_Noons of dryness find you fed_

_By the involuntary powers,_

_Nights of insult let you pass_

_Watched by every human love._

_W.H. AUDEN_

_

* * *

_

Narcissa was numb with fear for Draco – and frankly, Severus, too (where _was_ he? Lucius had told her that he had taken their friend halfway to the Shrieking Shack because Voldemort wanted to see him, but where had he gone to since?) – and sick with the realisation that the last scrap of ever-so-unreasonable hope was lying dead on the ground there, but still, she couldn't help it but notice that something had been odd about this scene. She swiftly glanced around, wondering if she was the only one registering this, but they had all gathered around their _master_. It was only a second, not even that. A split of a second, the blink of an eye.

She knew what was expected of them and she led Lucius over to the group of crouching Death Eaters. No, _he_ wasn't dead either, so much had been certain right from the start. Not that Narcissa had hung her hopes too high in this respect. He had come back from the dead once, and how should _this_ have killed him, after he had managed to overcome the blood protection of Lily Evans' sacrifice?

Still, he had been knocked out, and she knew there would come a moment when she would laugh out loud about _that_. Bella looked as if she was close to hysterics, whimpering, "My Lord! _My Lord!_"

He got to his feet again, pushing the many helping hands away. "That will do!"

"My Lord, let me –"

"I do not require assistance," he snarled testily, prying over to the boy on the ground. "The boy – is he dead?"

Oh. So he _did_ wonder about that, too, eh, Narcissa thought gleefully, but tried to keep her face as impassive as she possibly could. Maybe she didn't look disinterested enough, or _too_ disinterested; she really couldn't say, but in the next second, Voldemort hurled a hex at her. Narcissa gasped, squeezing Lucius' hand reassuringly and hoping desperately that he'd keep up whatever façade he thought appropriate.

"You! Examine him. Tell me whether he is dead!"

Lucius didn't want to let go of her hand, but she smiled confidently and made a little bow to his _master_. So Voldemort _was_ worried, and sent his most dispensable 'servant', just in case – this idea gave her a rush of satisfaction, strangely enough. There had been enough occasions when she had wished to strangle the Potter boy with her bare hands, basically always when he had distressed Draco, not to mention the night when he had almost killed him… If she had had the time to think about this, she'd have found that every feeling of vindictiveness she had ever harboured towards the boy had dripped away. There was but one person she wanted to see vengeance brought upon, and it was _not_ this child over there!

She strode over to Potter and knelt down beside him, and following a whim, she bowed down so deeply that she made sure her hair would shield both their faces from sight. It took her a second to understand that she had not been mistaken and she smirked triumphantly. Indeed! Potter _was_ alive! Ha! Hit by _two_ Killing Curses and _still_ breathing; beat that, old man!

She performed all the usual – she would assume – moves, but then her anxiety got the better of her caution. She couldn't have helped it, she just _had_ to ask, so she whispered as quietly as she could, "Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?"

It was a desperate attempt, all right, and she didn't even expect Potter of all people to either know, or soothe _her_ worries. Her heart was racing even faster than his, and to her greatest astonishment, she heard the similarly quiet reply – "Yes!"

Good Lord! If she hadn't been on her knees already, she might have fallen down on them now, overwhelmed by relief and utter gratefulness. Draco was alive! He was in the school! Alive! _Safe_, if only she could get him out of there quickly enough! What was to do, what… For a start, she realised, she'd have to satisfy the _master's_ request though.

"He is dead," she said solemnly and got up again, shooting the boy on the ground a last, surreptitious look. If Potter did as much as blink now, _she_ would be dead, and so would Lucius, and ultimately Draco, be. But, curiously, she couldn't bring herself to fret. Her inner elation pushed every other frenzy aside. What a lucky coincidence that her mood matched the officially called-for reaction – around them, the Death Eaters cheered and applauded loudly – and Narcissa allowed herself to throw her arms around her husband's neck.

"Draco is alive," she whispered, tightening her arms around him like a vice to prevent his face from being visible to anyone else. "Join the chorus of jubilation, my love, or they might notice!"

"What?"

She cast a non-verbal _Muffiliato_ and said, "Once we get into the castle, we need to be quick. Draco's alive, Potter told me –"

"_What?_"

"Smile, Lucius! Smile! What if someone looks over!" She mimicked expressively at him and forced her own face into an appropriate mask of gleeful triumph again, while the other Death Eaters and their rotten _master_ decided what to do next, and Lucius, though smiling, eyed her as if she had lost her mind.

"It's okay," she said through gritted teeth. "Draco is fine; we merely need to get to him before anyone else does!"

Lucius' gaze darted over to the limp figure of the presumably dead Harry Potter in the half-giant's arms, and so did hers. Her husband looked like fainting though, far too scared to be believable, and she snatched his hands, pressed them in great animation and repeated, "_Smile_, mon amour!"

He gave a start and stared at her, but reading her expression, strained to regain his composure. "_But –_"

"I don't know how long Potter'll manage to maintain that sham, so we –"

Trying hard to smile like an idiot, he interrupted her, "Are you crazy? You downright _lied_? To the Dark Lord?"

"Of course I lied! He'll murder Draco, Lucius! He'll probably have either you or me doing it, too! You said so yourself!"

"He'll murder us all for this as well, Cissa!"

"Well, at least we have a chance. We'll find Draco and flee. They didn't catch Potter in an entire year – he walked onto the scene himself tonight. And I'm a more capable sorcerer than an eighteen-year-old boy, and so are you. We can manage even longer."

"But – how long do you think until they _notice_!"

"Potter can vanquish him – he's survived the second Killing Curse trimmed at him – if we have just the tiniest bit of luck, Lucius, all this might be over tonight. And even if it isn't – I'm not having it anymore! Tonight, he's threatened the life of our son for the second time, and I'll not stand by and let him do that! _Again!_ And this time he might do it for real!"

He pressed her hand and shot her a futile, but all the more loving glance. "So what's your plan, my love?"

"I'm not really having one," she admitted, but added far more confidently, "We'll manage. Once we're inside, we'll sneak away. Come on, Lucius, you showed me the secret passages yourself! We'll find Draco –"

"_How?_ How on earth do you mean to do that?"

"I'm his _mother_, Lucius. I'd walk into hell itself for our son and find him!"

In that moment, Voldemort announced Harry Potter's death to the stunned crowd before the castle, and offered clemency for every fighter surrendering now. Everybody still resisting would be murdered together with their families, and with that mention, Lucius' grip on his wife's hand became almost painfully tight. She cast him a smile and whispered, "And if it is so, I shall be happy to die with you and Draco, mon amour."

How lucky they were that none of the other Death Eaters had eyes for them in this moment, because Lucius Malfoy's expression would have given him away, and no Legilimency needed. _If_ the Dark Lord killed them all? That he would do exactly that was out of the question, for all Lucius could say. It didn't even matter what would blow up first – Potter's 'cover', or the fact that Draco was still missing. The Dark Lord had as good as promised him that their son would pay, and in that case Narcissa would no longer hold back. And without a wand, Lucius didn't even stand a chance to help her, her or their child.

The remaining fighters had gathered in front of the castle's back entrance, staring at the supposed corpse of Harry Potter in disbelief and bottomless dismay. Lucius closely scrutinised the crowd, unable to decide if he hoped to see Draco among them or not. If Draco was there, he was well and healthy, and they could get to him without further ado. If he was there and someone else but his parents recognised him, they'd be dead before the Dark Lord had finished gloating because of Potter.

Some boy shook off the momentary lethargy, jumped forth with his wand raised, and was disarmed and hurled to the ground with one bored flick of the Dark Lord's wand. "And who is this?" he asked with unveiled amusement. "Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?"

Lucius didn't even look over; he scanned the windows of the castle, measuring their best chances, but when Bella spoke up, he did risk an astonished glance. "It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?"

The boy got back to his feet with a stubborn scowl, amusing the Dark Lord even more. They kept on taunting each other, and Lucius – used to doubt his own perceptions, thoughts and memories these days, and rather rely on Narcissa's opinions – vaguely wondered who the heck the kid was that _he_ had believed to be the son of Frank Longbottom. The one _he_ remembered from Draco's descriptions and the little he had seen of him over the years, had been a total wimp, incapable of binding his own shoes, let alone stand up to the Dark Lord and shout 'I'll join you when hell freezes over!'

The Sorting Hat was summoned, the Longbottom kid was petrified, the Hat put on his head and combusted due to another lazy little spell. It was like looking into the eyes of a vampire – compulsive to watch, and horrifying in the same instance. Narcissa gasped and averted her face, pulling on Lucius' hand and waking him up again from the dreadful fantasies how the same would happen to his son before the night was over.

The boy was still ablaze, but unlike everybody else, he didn't utter a sound, he just stood there, burning. Suddenly, the sounds of clapping hoofs approached, and it weren't only centaurs – _masses_ of people came storming towards the castle, and the giants set in motion again, too. The sudden and utterly unexpected commotion distracted the Death Eaters as much as their master, and Narcissa hissed, "_Now_, honey!"

He knew what she meant, and with entwined hands, they made a run for it, towards the wide-open entrance of the castle. There was a loud gasp behind them that surpassed all other noises for a second; Narcissa didn't stop running but gazed over her shoulder.

"He beheaded the snake!" she cried, incredulous, and with the most malicious triumph in her voice. "Longbottom killed Nagini!"

Lucius didn't look back, but squeezed her hand in silent agreement. That snake had had it coming, oh boy, she had, and perhaps the Dark Lord would finally get to swallow a bit of his own medicine. He had been more attached to that nasty beast than to any other being. He'd see how it was to lose someone, and Lucius hoped with every fibre of his heart that it hurt him remotely as much as it ought to.

They weren't the only ones heading for the castle; the chaos created by the giants and centaurs drove defenders and attackers alike into the school, where the battle continued as if it had never stopped. Oh, what the heck! It no longer mattered! Clenching his wife's hand, he pushed through the fighters, not looking twice who it was he ran into and over, and screamed, "Draco! _Draco!_"

Narcissa mimicked at him, beckoning at the main staircase. To get there, they needed to make it through the entire length of the Entrance Hall. Technically, there would have been a passage to avoid this, but he decided that it'd take too long. The Dark Lord was fighting to kill; all this might be over in a few minutes. Lucius cast a swift glance around to get his bearings. He saw Bella duelling no less than five wizards; he saw Greyback, Yaxley, Rigby, the Lestrange brothers, all of them engaged in fierce combat. He also saw Thelonius' son and another of Draco's classmates, but was surprised to realise that they were hurling curses at Antonin Dolohov.

Narcissa trimmed her wand at the back of that Dawlish character, who was duelling Madam Rosmerta. The curse hit him and knocked him off his feet, landing on his bum thirty feet away. "Superb, blossom," Lucius muttered and pulled her along.

She kept on blasting the combatants out of their way, while he continued to yell for their son on top of his voice. Narcissa seemed to know what she was doing, even though he didn't have a clue; once they had reached the staircases, they raced up, around the corner, another corner, through a large puddle of water, so deep, they were wading one and a half feet deep in water. Narcissa headed for the door of a girl's bathroom, and once inside, cried, "_Myrtle?_ I'm looking for the ghost of Myrtle! Myrtle, please – I am the mother of Draco Malfoy. _Please!_ You've got to help my son!"

Lucius was beyond belief. "What the hell –"

"Trust me, darling," she muttered before repeating the call, so loudly that the echoes thrown back by the tiled walls were almost deafening. She didn't stop shouting, until a particularly huge wave of water erupted out of one of the toilets, followed by the shape of a ghost. Lucius faintly remembered that ghost from his own time in school, and would have doubted his wife's sanity, if he hadn't known her better.

"Draco?" the ghost shrieked, wide-eyed. "What about Draco?"

"We are his parents, Myrtle. I know you are a friend of Draco, he told me about you. He told me he trusts you, that he can rely on you –" Narcissa spoke in her most persuasive voice, and Lucius pressed her hand in silent admiration. "Our son is in grave peril, we need to find him _at once_, or he might be lost. _Please_, help us. If you are his friend, Myrtle, you _must_ help us to save him."

"I _am_ his friend! I'd do _anything_ for him!"

"Where is he? Where can we find him?"

"He used to like hiding in the Room of Requirement," the ghost began, looking pensive. "But it burnt down tonight –"

"Please, Myrtle, be quick! We don't have the _time_!"

"I'm thinking! Last thing I saw of him was nearby the Room of Requirement – he knows that I can command water – he begged me to extinguish the flames, because there was that friend of his, unconscious, he couldn't really move him and he didn't have a wand –"

"Oh god," Lucius moaned and squeezed his eyes shut.

"I couldn't extinguish the fire – 'twas no normal fire, I think – but when I came back, he was gone and so was his friend –"

"_Oh god!_"

"But the fire didn't get that far! I couldn't stop it, but I could slow it down! It didn't get that far!"

"And he cannot have got far either, then," Narcissa murmured. "Myrtle! Where is that room you spoke of?"

"I'll show you! Come! Come!"

The upper parts of the staircases were wrecked; they couldn't get further up than to the fourth floor. Narcissa cursed under her breath that she had never bothered to learn the incantation that Severus had mastered so brilliantly – the one that enabled the magician to fly without additional devices, and sent the ghost forth for a start, to see whether Draco was somewhere in the vicinity. She cast the banister a grave look, then whipped her wand; a long rope lashed out and caught hold of a stony beam. She whirled her arms around him and he did vice versa, and in the next second, Narcissa spoke the spell that lifted them up. "If we die here tonight, Lucius," she whispered, trembling, not daring to look down, "I want you to know that I wouldn't want to miss a single second I spent with you."

He tightened his grip on her some more yet, knowing how much it unsettled her to fly, or leave solid ground by any other means; he held her so tightly that he was almost suffocating her. "We will make this, Cissa. You and Draco and I, we'll _make_ it! I promise!"

They swung over and landed on their feet; Myrtle was already waiting there for them. "He's over there! Just around the corner!"

His parents didn't falter; they followed the excited ghost, skidded around the corner, and there he was indeed, crouching on the floor over a sprawled body. Narcissa's heart was bursting with relief, and it took her a moment to grasp that it was Gregory Goyle on the floor there, looking more dead than alive. Draco looked up only swiftly when hearing his parents approach, gasping, 'Mum!', then he bowed down again and – _kissed_ Gregory…? What an odd sense of timing – but then his mother realised that he tried to give artificial respiration to the motionless boy.

She hurled herself at him and hugged him with all her might. "Draco," she gasped, dizzy with joy, and kissed his sooty forehead. "Draco, come! We must get away!"

But Draco didn't let go of Gregory. Deeply red in the face, he bowed down once more and pressed his lips onto the other's boy's mouth. When he straightened up again, he panted, "I cannot leave him! I carried him all the way here, I won't leave him!"

"But we must get away!" his father shouted.

Draco bent over again to continue the rescue breathing, but Narcissa said, "Don't, sweetheart. I've got a wand still; let me give it a try! – _Odemus Ennervate!_"

Gregory darted up, gasping for breath and coughing then. In the same instance, Draco's shoulders slackened; he sank down and strained to catch his breath again himself. Narcissa grabbed him by the neck and gestured at Lucius to take care of the other boy. They managed to put the boys onto their own feet again, and as quickly as they could, all four of them, led by Moaning Myrtle, made their way back to the staircase.

The way down proved even more difficult than the way up. Now there were four of them, and one of them a six feet ten boy that weighed as much as Draco and Narcissa put together, easily. Narcissa inclined her head and calculated their best chances.

"We shouldn't leave via the Entrance Hall, Cissa," Lucius muttered. "You don't know what's going on down there, we might just as well be running into –"

"I'll check that for you!" Myrtle cried eagerly, beaming, and in the next second, she swooped down.

"Got yourself a fan, sonny?" Lucius remarked under his breath and shot Draco a faint smile.

Draco opened his mouth for a sharp reply – that, were Myrtle alive still, his father's pals would have hunted her down and killed her, because her parents had been Muggles – but he was too bloody exhausted, and _this_ hardly was the proper moment to start quarrelling, so he shut up and merely shrugged. Myrtle returned with the utmost excited air.

"The coast is clear," she said in a carrying stage whisper, and wringing her hands, added, "You have to see it! Harry Potter and the Creepy One!"

Narcissa and Lucius exchanged a glance. This moment would decide _everything_. If Potter succeeded – _if_ he succeeded… Otherwise they were as good as dead. "How's he supposed to do that?" Lucius whispered. "_No one_ can take on the Dark Lord!"

"_Two_ _times_ already, Potter survived a direct Killing Curse, love. How many times did he survive other attacks? He _is_ the Chosen One," Narcissa said with unveiled triumph in her voice, remembering Severus' assertions. Oh yes, he _was_ the Chosen One, and he would send that piece of rotten filth to hell!

She wielded her wand and created some ropes, connecting this floor to the next one. Next thing, she conjured some massive, iron hooks, and one after the other, they glided down the ropes, Gregory being the last, and Narcissa was attentive to catch him with her wand if the rope would tear. They hastened down the stairs that still were intact, and when they arrived in the ground floor, no one even noticed them; all eyes were glued to the two combatants circling each other in the middle.

"So what will stop you dying now when I strike?" the Dark Lord spat at his opponent.

Lucius and Draco just stared at him, fear etched into their features, but Narcissa had never been as impressed by the man as either of them. Her gaze hovered across the room and was caught by the figure of a woman in black Death Eater robes sprawled on the floor – there were only two witches in the Death Eater ranks – and only one of them had long, black hair…

Her eyes glued to the corpse, she swayed, and rather instinctively, Lucius and Draco beside her grabbed her arms and steadied her, thinking she was simply aggravated by the nerve-wrecking confrontation between Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter.

"You think _you_ know more Magic than I do? Than _I_, than Lord Voldemort, who has performed magic that Dumbledore never dreamt of?" the Dark Lord just asked, lurking.

"Oh, he dreamt of it, but he knew more than you, knew enough not to do what you've done."

"You mean he was weak! Too weak to dare! Too weak to take what might have been his, what will be mine!"

"No, he was cleverer than you – a better wizard, a better man."

The smugness of this brat in the face of lethal danger impressed Lucius deeply. He goggled at Potter, wondering whether he was keen on another suicidal trip only to prove that no matter how often the Dark Lord tried killing him, he'd stand up again anyway… Sensing Narcissa's aggravation, he tightened his grip on her.

"Don't worry, mon ange," he whispered, "No matter what comes out of this, we'll be able to flee in the commotion –"

"Bella… She's dead…" Father and son swiftly drew their eyes away from the mesmerising spectacle and looked at Narcissa who was even paler than usually. She looked confused, dismayed, and beckoned at the body on the floor, not far away from Lord Voldemort's feet in this moment. "I can't believe she's _dead_."

Perhaps they would have said something – perhaps they would have felt something – but what Potter said next was enough to stun _everyone_ in the Hall, including every single member of the Malfoy family.

"Yes, Dumbledore's dead, but _you_ didn't have him killed. He chose his own manner of dying, chose it months before he died, arranged the whole thing with the man you thought was your servant."

Narcissa giggled; she could not have helped herself, and could she have seen the jaws of her son and husband drop to their chests, she'd have laughed out even louder and harder. Oh, Savvy! _Well done_, Savvy! Of course, Potter was a fool for revealing his helpers before he could be sure that he'd overcome his enemy – so that was where Severus was, he had helped Potter preparing for this! Her relief with that piece of information overrode her irritation about seeing Bella dead, and if she had had a moment to spare on the thought, she'd have seen just how much more her friend – the only real friend she had ever made – meant to her, not only compared to Bella, with whom, mind you, her relationship had been more than problematic, but in general. Maybe she had managed to look into the eyes of Voldemort, the supposedly best Legilimens in the world, and dish up the queen bee of big, fat lies tonight – but Severus, _her friend_ _Severus_, had managed to lie to that bastard for _years_! Ha!

"Severus Snape wasn't yours. Snape was Dumbledore's. Dumbledore's from the moment you started hunting down my mother. And you never realised it, because of the thing you can't understand. You never saw Snape cast a Patronus, did you, Riddle? Snape's Patronus was a doe –"

_Was?_ Narcissa narrowed her eyes, but shrugged it off as a simple blunder. Potter's speech was too captivating to ponder on grammatical errors.

"… Because he loved her –"

Narcissa murmured, "_Has_ loved, boy! What do they teach you in school?"

"For nearly all his life, from the time when they were children. You should have realised. He asked you to spare her life, didn't he?"

"He desired her, that was all, but when she had gone, he agreed that there were other women, and of purer blood, worthier of him!"

Lucius raised his brows in genuine astonishment. He had never really pondered the question, even though he had known that as a young man, Severus had been in love with little Lily Evans – and had never shown much inclination for any other since. Strangely enough, Lucius had always assumed that this reserve was due to his friend having a bit of a crush on Narcissa – how _could_ a man _not_ fall for her, after all? Lucius had indeed thought that Severus' lack of interest in witches was rooted in the fact that the one epitome of feminine perfection was married to someone else, and he had given the man credit for being so decent, honourable and reserved in that regard. He brushed an absent-minded kiss on Narcissa's temple, noticing her broad grin. Yes, well, why wasn't he surprised that his wife had penetrated Severus' mind on the matter approximately twenty years earlier than he. He could just have asked her.

"Dumbledore was already dying when Snape finished him!"

Draco squeezed his eyes shut for a second, trying to dispel the grisly memory, and taking comfort in the idea that the old Headmaster and the Professor should have arranged things like this. Despite his gratefulness and true admiration, this one point hadn't been sitting well with the boy – the quickness and apparent ease of that Killing Curse had shaken him in his foundations, all the more as he had seen more murders since then, and defied to believe that the Professor was just the same.

The Dark Lord was clearly outraged by the idea though, and yelped, "It matters not! It matters not whether Snape was mine or Dumbledore's, or what petty obstacles they tried to put in my path! I crushed them as I crushed your mother, Snape's supposed great _love_! Oh, but it all makes sense, Potter, and in ways that you do not understand! Dumbledore was trying to keep the Elder Wand from me He intended that Snape should be the true master of the wand! But I got there ahead of you, little boy! I reached the wand before you could get your hands on it! I understood the truth before you caught up! I _killed_ Snape three hours ago –"

'Killed Snape three hours ago…' This was the last Narcissa Malfoy heard before her vision blackened and her legs gave way. In an instinctive move, her son and husband tightened their hold of her arms, just in time to prevent her from sacking to her knees. They exchanged a swift, shocked glance. He was _dead_? Severus Snape? _DEAD?_ With his free hand, Lucius rummaged through Narcissa's pocket, snatching her wand and pointing it at her to perform _Enervate_, making her regain her consciousness.

"No," she moaned quietly. It was a heartbreaking sound and Draco strengthened his grip. "_No!_"

"That wand still isn't working properly for you, because you murdered the wrong person. Severus Snape was never the true master of the Elder Wand. He never defeated Dumbledore."

"He killed –"

"Aren't you listening? Snape never beat Dumbledore! Dumbledore's death was planned between them; Dumbledore intended to die undefeated, the wand's last true master! If all had gone as planned, the wand's power would have died with him, because it had never been won from him."

He could not have said why – maybe it was the shock and grief over Professor Snape's death – but Draco's mouth turned dry. The Dark Lord said something about taking Dumbledore's wand out of his grave, but Potter kept on shaking his head with a supreme sneer.

"You still don't get it, Riddle, do you? Possessing the wand isn't enough. Holding it, using it – doesn't make it really yours. Didn't you listen to Ollivander? The wand chooses the wizard – the Elder Wand recognised a new master before Dumbledore died, someone who never even laid a hand on it. The new master removed the wand from Dumbledore against his will, never realising exactly what he had done, or that the world's most dangerous wand had given him his allegiance –"

Draco kept on staring, breathless, and slightly astonished when finding his parents push him back, and stepping closer together themselves, shoving him out of sight.

"The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy."

_What?_ Oh, _Merlin_ – Potter, Harry Potter, the boy embodying the last hope of the many, had lost it after all! _That_ was his plan? _What_ sort of plan was _that_ nonsense? Okay, so he might think the Dark Lord would take a moment to kill Draco first – and Draco had no intention to quietly correspond with that detour! But surely – _hopefully_ – he had _something_ better up his sleeve, right? _Right?_

"But what does it matter? Even if you are right, Potter, it makes no difference to you and me…" the Dark Lord retorted, sounding a little less complacent now. "You no longer have the Phoenix wand – we duel on skill alone. – And after I have killed you, I can attend to Draco Malfoy!"

Oh, sure! Draco had just _waited_ until they'd come to _that_ little detail! He had just survived a gigantic cursed fire, the attacks of a hungry Acromantula and half a dozen Death Eaters intending to kill him for good measure – and the goddamned _Chosen One_ meant to deliver him on a silver plate?

"You've missed your chance – I got there first. I overpowered Draco weeks ago. I took his wand from him."

'TRUE!' Draco would have liked to shout, but as things were, he thought it better to duck his head. He couldn't hear what Potter said next, because he spoke so quietly, and he couldn't see the combatants to read their lips. His mother had reached out behind her, grabbing Draco's hand and pressing it; he could feel her trembling, and pressed her hand in turn.

The two spells were shouted in the same second; Potter used his trademark _Expelliarmus_, the Dark Lord went the full length and chose a Killing Curse straight away, and then, there was a loud noise sounding like an explosion.

In retrospection, Draco would always find something strange and unreal about his memories of this moment. Time seemed to slow down; split seconds grew and expanded to contain minutes, light-years perhaps. The Dark Lord's wand flew through the air in an elegant arc, and that line was mirrored by the wizard's own body, describing the same graceful movement. Draco couldn't compare it to anything he had ever seen; no Quidditch move, no ballet, none of his mother's abstract paintings equalled the beautiful, indescribable wave. If anything, it was like music, like a symphonic orchestra rising to a mighty crescendo that filled man's heart with purest elation that was far beyond words. It wasn't simply hope, nor relief – 'joy' or 'triumph' were feeble expressions that didn't nearly match anything he felt in this one, long-stretched moment.

And even when it was over, reality took its time to catch up with Draco's mind again. He found himself embraced by both of his parents at once, returning the caress with all his left strength. It seemed that he had forgotten to breathe, or perhaps the violence of their embrace knocked the air out of him – in any case, he was so light-headed that his knees gave way when they loosened their hugs at last. He couldn't tell who caught him. In the next moment, Greg had swung his ham-like arms around him, too, and out of the blue, Millicent and Theo appeared, hugging each other, and him, and everybody in the vicinity, not even making an exception for the otherwise so forbidding Mrs Malfoy, who didn't make an attempt to ward them off either.

"It's over!"

Everyone was screaming this; Draco caught himself repeating it over and over, too, though hoarsely. Somewhere in the outskirts of his mind, he registered Greg lifting Millicent off her feet and swirling her around – he mainly noticed so much because Millicent made a mighty weapon, whose swinging feet knocked over a witch nearby.

Draco turned around in bafflement, taking in the scores of celebrating people, and lingering on his parents at last. Lucius and Narcissa simply stood there, tightly enwrapped, their lips glued together in a passionate kiss, and the sheer indecency of this sight finally kicked their son back to life. He shuddered and turned away, and let himself be driven by the masses of people pushing to and fro. He came across Professor Slughorn, who patted his arm; why, even Professor McGonagall forgot herself and brushed a kiss on his forehead, utterly oblivious who he was, apparently.

"You knew about Professor Snape, boy?" she asked with a hard-to-read expression, and he stared back blankly.

"Ma'am?"

"I should have had faith in him," she muttered absent-mindedly, not really addressing him, and he didn't take the cue either. What should he have said, anyway? He once had wavered in his faith in the Professor, too, just as unjustifiably. He understood the amount of remorse the old Deputy Headmistress must be feeling. The mention of the Professor, however, brought the memory of him back. So the Professor was dead. Potter had said it, the Dark Lord had confirmed it. Draco didn't grasp what exactly Professor Snape's role in all this had been, but he could say one thing for sure – he had always, under all circumstances, been his parents' fierce friend, and Draco's guardian. He had died the death that should have been destined for Draco, too. That thought was inconceivable, and he decided that he would think about it later. He didn't have the capacities to deal with it now.


	126. Start To Pay

Draco flatly refuses to escape

* * *

**- 4.1. -**

Start To Pay

* * *

_Time will say nothing but I told you so_

_Time only knows the price we have to pay;_

_If I could tell you I would let you know._

_There are no fortunes to be told, although,_

_Because I love you more than I can say,_

_If I could tell you I would let you know._

_W.H. AUDEN  
_

_

* * *

_

It was over. Draco found it hard to wrap his mind around this fact. It was _over_. The piece of filth was dead. He _was_ dead, right? Not just half-dead, or un-dead, or whatever had been wrong then when the curse thrown at Potter had re-bounced, yes?

"We caught Dolohov!" someone shouted, and was welcomed with loud applause.

"And Selwyn we got, too!"

More cheers. His parents appeared suddenly hectic, and ushered him to hurry up following them to some secret passage. He let them push him away, but after a few metres, he suddenly stopped. He felt his mother's hand closing around his wrist and looking around, he saw her worried face. "Come on, darling," she said quietly. "We need to get out of here."

He didn't understand. "What?"

"We've got to flee, Draco!"

Draco cast a long, fearful look over his shoulder at the body on the floor. "So – you mean… He isn't really dead?"

"I think he is – that's why we have to flee in the first place!"

Draco looked at her, still feeling this dream-like state, and tried to process her meaning, but he didn't get there. "But where do you want to go?"

"We've got time to think about that later, Draco. Now come!"

Softly, he shook his head, increasingly vigorous. "No. No, I won't run away. He's dead. I don't have to run away any longer. Hmm-mm, no."

His mother snapped, "Stop talking nonsense, darling! We haven't got much time!"

"You go home, then. I'll stay."

"But it's only a matter of _minutes_ until they'll arrest you!"

"I don't care," he said and, surprised, realised that he fully meant it.

Lucius and Narcissa exchanged a glance. "He's got no real reason to flee," his father agreed hesitantly. "And neither have you, blossom. I suggest you _both_ stay."

"I won't go anywhere without you!" she retorted, scandalised, and added with a fiery glance at her son, "Or you! You'll _both_ get a grip and follow me. _Now!_"

"No," Draco said simply, tried to smile at her, but failed miserably.

"They'll put your father back in prison, Draco," Narcissa hissed, and he thought he finally grasped what she was about.

"Oh! Yeah, probably… You go, then, Dad."

"We will go _together_. Or not at all!"

"I won't run away, Mum" Draco repeated dully. "But Dad should, sure, yeah."

"And so should you! You've got the damned branding on your arm as well!"

Less responsive than curious, hit by a sudden idea so to say, Draco rolled up his left sleeve and stared at the Dark Mark. His stomach did a little back-flip. The Mark was still there. Shouldn't it be gone? Now that the wretched worm was dead, shouldn't his filth have vanished with him?

His father gently took his arm and tried to pull him along. "Come, Draco. We need to leave now."

"We only need to leave if he isn't truly dead."

"He is," Lucius muttered and pointed at Draco's left wrist. "It felt differently, then. If he wasn't truly dead, you would be mad with pain in your arm now."

Draco nodded, but seeing that his mother took his other arm and they both tried to lead him away, he struggled with them. "No! I won't go!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Draco!" Narcissa cried. "I understand you're confused, but that shouldn't kill off your sense for self-preservation! You are a Death Eater! You must escape!"

"I am not confused," he said, although he was, and utterly so. "I simply don't want to run away, that's all."

"But _why_?"

He couldn't explain it to her. He couldn't explain it to himself, either. A variety of reasons, feelings, engulfed him, and the only thing he could say for sure was this – he wouldn't run away. The Dark Lord was dead. And Draco Malfoy would never run away again. A few hours ago, he had been sure that he wouldn't survive this night… Had thought that the Apocalypse itself would swallow him, that it was Judgement Day at last, time to pay for everything one had done. One look around sufficed to show that, perhaps not the Apocalypse itself, but something coming quite close, had crushed the mighty old castle. And now… Now Judgement would be done, and _needed_ to be done, too, or all this – all this would have been in vain.

Narcissa swung her arm around his waist and tried to lead him away, waking him up and making him angry. He pushed her arm away and swivelled around to face his parents. "No! I won't go! I – I… I'll turn myself in!"

His mother gaped at him. "Are you _mad_?"

He earnestly contemplated that question. He'd go to Azkaban… He didn't want to go to Azkaban, but… Somehow, he could not have explained why this was so – _somehow_ Azkaban appeared not half as bad as it should have. Azkaban was nothing, compared to…

"I'm not _mad_!" he replied, returning her inquisitive gaze sternly, and getting increasingly louder. "Or, on a second thought, perhaps I am, yeah! Tonight, I've Confunded my best friends, and one of them is _dead_ now! He died in a fire he cast himself and could not escape from, likely enough because of the curse I put on him! I've seen people being murdered. I've seen twelve-year-old children being Cruciated. And not only did I _see_ all this – _I_ tortured people myself! I tortured them so that _you_ would be left alone! I tortured them because the scum of the earth was breathing down my neck, and hey! Guess why! Because they were living in our _house_, because my own father was the face of the _New Order_!"

Lucius was silent, looking defeated. "Darling –" Narcissa whispered and reached out to stroke over her son's cheek, but he shrank back from her.

"How could you do this? I mean, _how_?" He made a wide gesture around, indicating at the people who dragged along corpses and tended to the injured. "How on earth could you become so big, Dad, in the First War, and survive it, and carry on as if _nothing_ had happened at all? Frankly, I don't get it! I'm haunted by nightmares every single night, I see them, I _hear_ them shrieking with agony! How is it possible that you could live all these years in perfect peace? I really want to know this, because I want it, too! I want to know how I can get it out of my head again!"

"Look, Draco, it's not – I…"

"We deserve to be made paying, Dad. We can never make up for what we did."

"And you think going to Azkaban will make anyone alive again?" Narcissa was impatiently glaring at him now. "You think some show trials will change anything for the better?"

"_Trials!_" He spat the word. "What's the worst that could happen, eh? That they lock us all up for the rest of our lives? Mum, there cannot be any _justice_ for all this! Even if we all wane away in Azkaban for the next sixty or eighty years – we'll _have_ lives to waste, while countless little children lost theirs only to reward the werewolves, or the Dementors, or the vampires, because they so eagerly supported the Dark Lord's cause!"

"You think it's more just to take a life for a life instead?"

"No! You didn't listen! I _said_ that there cannot be _any_ real justice, because there are things that can _not_ be repaired, no matter how! You've been there, too! You've seen it, too! Remember the Lovegood girl, shut up in the dungeons for _months_? How do you want to pay her back for this? Remember the Granger girl? Right down in the Crystal Parlour? How she thrashed in agony when my own aunt – your own bloody sister, Mum! – tortured her? How _you_ told me to just bloody resign to seeing her being murdered, for nothing, _nothing_! Remember Neville Longbottom? Because you wouldn't have recognised him after all the Carrows put him through! Remember Uncle Ted, Mum?"

Narcissa's eyes glistened dangerously and she squeezed them shut. "I remember him very well, Draco."

"_I_ remember well how I once blamed Dad for not going to Azkaban for the Dark Lord's cause, proud like Aunt Bella. What an idiot I was! For he _should_ have gone there, but cowed and shameful, for the atrocities he must have committed!"

"It was war," Lucius said feebly.

"A war that _you_ got started," Draco snapped back, and seeing his mum open her mouth for a reprimand, he shot around. "And that _you_ cared nothing about!"

"That's not true! I was scared out of my wits for your and your father's sake!"

"Yes, that's right, you did care for him and me – but for nobody else!"

Narcissa's anyhow pale cheeks turned snow white, and her husband cried, "Leave your mother out of this!"

Draco inhaled, as if he meant to say something else, but then he merely deflated again and muttered tonelessly, "Do what you will, but I won't run away any longer."

"He is right, Cissa," Lucius said slowly, baffling his son visibly; he took her hand, pressed it in animation and kissed it. "He is right." He glanced at Draco with an expression as if he had never seen him before, a little smile curling his lips, his cold grey eyes eloquent with something like fear – Draco couldn't say what it was exactly. He, too, thought he had never really looked at his father before. "The time has come to account for everything we've done. I won't leave you, Draco. I'll never leave you alone again."

"But you'll leave me then," Narcissa said tonelessly, her eyes glued to the floor. "You'll _both_ leave me then."

"Cissa –"

"No! You cannot leave me again! You mustn't!"

He lifted her hands to his face and kissed them. "I'll never _leave_ you, my love." He threw their son another surreptitious glance, and added hoarsely, "But it's time to start taking responsibility, I believe."

"I wish you would! You're responsible for _me_, for Draco! What are we supposed to do when –"

"You managed beautifully, blossom, when I was away. You'll manage again, and better, now that he is dead."

Narcissa merely stared at him, tears welling in her eyes, and Draco said, "You mistook me, Dad. _You_ should better flee, indeed, and take my mother with you."

"It's all right, Draco. I should have taken better care of you, but I won't leave you alone again. I will stand beside you when you face the Wizengamot." He made a gesture, indicating at the frenzied crowd around them. Wherever one looked, there were family reunions, wizards crying over dead relatives, witches seeing after injured friends. "It can't become worse than it was, an hour ago still."

Narcissa had silently started to cry, pressing her face against her husband's chest and clinging to him like dear life, and if anything tonight could have swayed Draco's determination, it was the sight of his mother in despair. He looked at his father helplessly, waiting for a sign, a reproach, but Lucius looked back with the same strange little smile. Professor Sprout rushed past them, on the way to god-knew-where, and Lucius stopped her, pushing a wand into her hand.

"You might want to return it to the family," he said quietly.

She gave a little start, staring alternately at the wand, and the wizard. "The family?"

"I picked this wand up from the floor. I assume that the owner must be dead, or at least gravely injured, or they wouldn't have let go of their wand."

Professor Sprout goggled at him, her mouth ajar. Automatically, she pocketed the wand and nodded. "What – what are you… Ehm… _Doing_ here, still?"

He shrugged vaguely. "Waiting?" he said, glancing at his son.

"Waiting for what?" she asked suspiciously.

"My son and I are both Death Eaters. I believe sooner or later, someone will want some answers from us."

Professor Sprout took an instinctive step backwards. "Yes, well – wait, for all I care, I – I…"

"Severus," came Narcissa's voice, muffled against Lucius' robes. "Where is he?"

The elderly teacher looked suddenly sad. "I – I don't know… I think he – for all I know he is –"

"Dead," Lucius finished for her, his voice barely audible, and for the first time, he actually _understood_ the full meaning, and it wasn't the only epiphany he had in this moment. He, too, had heard Potter, but he had not comprehended the boy's full meaning – too anxious he had been in that moment, hoping against hope that this child might succeed with whatever it was that he was doing. But now, the message finally sunk in. Severus was no more.

Curiously, he didn't see the grown-up Headmaster before him in this minute, the tall, bony man in the billowy black robes, with the disillusioned expression and those black eyes that had looked as if they had seen all earthly hurt and misery. Just now, processing the fact that he was dead, Lucius saw a small, scrawny boy before him, in patched-up, greying school robes, his face a blend of timidity and hopefulness. He saw flashes of Severus talking to Narcissa, looking up to her with glowing eyes; he saw the boy looking up to himself, too, full of gratefulness and admiration.

How had it come to this? How – why… What had happened to them all? He tightened his grip on his crying wife, his gaze still fixed on his son, seeing himself there. How much Draco looked like him at that age. There he had been, Lucius Malfoy, eighteen years old, exuberantly cheerful, and the world had been his oyster. Out of all his talents – why had he chosen to excel in that particular one? He wished he could remember what it had been that had made him choose the Dark Arts over all other. He could have become a Quidditch pro – he had been invited by four different teams to come to their try-outs after his Hogwarts graduation. He had not gone to any. Why hadn't he? He had forgotten.

He saw Narcissa – she had not changed much since then, only her face had become more beautiful yet; every year it had become a little more beautiful, her eyes a little deeper still and her smile a little more knowing. She had been loyal to him through war and terror; no matter what he had done, she had stayed with him. If only he could understand why. He had never understood it. What had he put this woman through! If for nothing else, if not for the simple lives of all these people, that he had not known, nor cared for – he ought to have been more considerate for her sake. For his son's sake, who stood there now before him, his own perfect likeness in height and stature and features, but his face a death mask, frightened, exhausted, resigned and flaring with a kind of self-loathing that hurt his father more than anything he had ever seen.

Narcissa's was weeping, her misery literally and tangibly pressing against his chest – his heart itself. Draco's misery was written in the boy's face, and as his father looked at him there, he was reminded of that other face that had worn this kind of expression for half of his life. How old had Severus become? Thirty-nine? He had looked much older. Just like Draco looked much older than his eighteen years as he stood there. He and Severus could hardly be more different in looks, and still, this morning Draco resembled his father much less than his old teacher and guardian angel. The same defeated hopelessness, but also the same defiant strength. Severus had not once wavered, Lucius understood this now. Funny that he had never thought about it more. He had _known_ how much that girl had meant to him, back then. He had _sensed_ that Severus had an agenda of his own during all this. To Lucius' credit – he had never doubted his friend's loyalty to himself and his family. But he had never truly wondered how Severus felt about any of this either. No, the man had not wavered, not in his devotion to a long-dead witch, nor in his determination to make up for her death. And Draco wouldn't waver either, he could tell by his face.

He had doomed Severus, Lucius thought vaguely, a lump in his throat. Somehow, and absolutely unwitting, he had doomed that little kid. Back then, he had thought he had done him a favour. He had truly believed he had done Severus good with his patronage. Truth was that he had condemned him. But it wasn't too late yet to save Draco, was it? No, no, it must not be. He had seen far too much, not only for a boy his age, but for a lifetime. Still, he was strong, like his mother. He would get over this if he got a chance. His father would do anything in his power that _this_ boy would get this chance.

None of them fled. Lucius didn't let go of Narcissa, who slowly ceased crying, putting on her familiar, resolute air again, that seemed to say 'We shall overcome'. They settled on some bench in the Great Hall, tightly clinging together, and Lucius was acutely aware of the fact that this was very probably the last time that he would sit together with his family like this – so close, so private. The idea made him sad beyond expression, but on the other hand… His family aside, he was too exhausted to feel much about the fact that these were his last minutes in freedom.

No, no, that wasn't true, was it? Tonight, he had regained his freedom. _Real_ freedom that had nothing to do with prison cells and fetters and the like. The Dark Lord was dead. And he, Lucius, and his two loved ones, were free again at last, and for good this time. Going back to Azkaban was nothing compared to the anguish he had gone through, fearing for the lives of his son and wife. He caught himself smiling, genuinely smiling. The overwhelming relief connected to this notion washed away all tension, all impulse really. His entire sense of self-preservation had been aimed towards the Dark Lord for so long now… He couldn't bring himself to redirect it, not on this night, which had, unnoticed, turned into day already.

There was exactly one more thing to do before the Aurors would come. – Draco strolled over to the Granger girl, weary, but steady, and asked, "Do you… Can you perhaps tell me where Professor Snape is?"

She looked surprised, as if she had never seen him before, and replied hoarsely, "He – he is dead, you know?"

"I – I heard – _him_ – say so… You see, I – we – my parents and I – we would like to retrieve the Professor's body."

She tilted her head and contemplated him for a minute. "That's good, yes… I don't think anyone thought of it yet. But –" She bit her lip. "You and your parents were very fond of him, right?"

"None of us would be here – alive, I mean – if it weren't for him," he said with conviction, and saying it, felt the sudden urge to cry. Unwilling to have Granger of all people seeing him weep, he pressed his eyes shut and turned his head away.

"Because… Maybe it's better – maybe someone else should go, then. He – it's a very cruel sight," Granger murmured very quietly, and Draco didn't manage to suppress a shudder.

"I owe him everything," he croaked nevertheless. "_Everything_. I owe him – I owe him bearing witness to his end, too. Please, Granger. Where is he?"

So they walked to the Shrieking Shack, around them a glorious morning rising. Neither Draco nor Lucius were willing to let go of Narcissa's arms; they practically frog-marched her, as she kept on muttering, 'He's dead – he's dead – he's dead' and Draco wasn't sure if she meant the Dark Lord, or Professor Snape, so quiet she was, and so stony her expression.

Granger hadn't exaggerated; it was a horrible sight altogether. The Professor lay on his back, in a huge puddle of blood that was beginning to turn crusty; his eyes wide, his face void of any colour, and his throat… His throat was torn apart, so viciously that Draco wondered, nauseated, if the head was still connected to the body at all.

Narcissa dropped to her knees, regardless of all the blood. "Savvy," she wailed. "Savvy! Severus! Oh lord – oh Severus!"

Draco cast his father a glance, seeing this one helpless and pained. They both gingerly patted Narcissa's shoulders, not knowing what else to do. She had lost her oldest, her only friend. Draco had seen one of his oldest friends die tonight, too – still he thought he could imagine only a fraction of his mother's anguish. She had been sad when helping to clear away Aunt Bella and Dory's bodies – but these clearly hadn't meant nearly as much to her as the dead Professor on the floor there.

They let her cry; none of them spoke until Narcissa, some twenty minutes later, had rallied herself far enough to get to her feet again. Her robes and hands were sticky with blood, and she turned around to her husband.

"Mon amour, would you… I don't think I –"

He took her wand from her. "Of course, angel. _Levicorpus!_"

The corpse hovered in the air, Lucius conducted it with his right, while his left stabilised his wife. Draco had taken her other arm and they slowly made their way back to the castle. Mounting the stairs, they encountered Professor McGonagall, who gave a start and a shriek, her gaze alternating between her dead colleague and the Malfoys.

"He… Oh, Severus – I – I didn't know," she croaked, almost tenderly stroking over his shoulder. "You… But of course, you…" She straightened up and gazed at Narcissa. "Do you need help? Can I…?"

Narcissa swallowed and swapped her eyes. "Please, Ma'am – where can we take him? He – he deserves a proper place."

"Yes, yes – follow me…"

The next hours passed in a daze; Draco was deadly tired, struggling with an onslaught of emotion that he had never imagined to engulf him all at once. He was unspeakably relieved – the Dark Lord was _dead_, the war was over, at last, when he had already lost his last morsels of hope… He was also sad beyond words – Vince, Dory, Professor Snape – he could hardly grasp that they should be gone forever. He had seen Aunt Andy, carrying a tiny baby in her arms, with blue hair, and he had grasped instantly that this was Dory's kid – the thought had nearly choked him. And then…

Someone tugged on his robes, and turning around, he looked into the round, chubby face of little Linny Crabbe. Her eyes were wide, fearful, she asked him if he had seen her brother, and Draco squeezed his eyes shut. She – she didn't know… And _he_ could impossibly be the one to tell her! He – he –

His eyes still closed, he murmured, "Where are your parents, Linny?"

"I don't know," she cried miserably. "Everybody is gone!"

Pushing away the thought that Mr Crabbe had fled without saying goodbye to his daughter, Draco opened his eyes and his mouth, willing himself to speak it, but he found he had no voice to do so. Instead, he croaked, and saw with unspeakable relief that his father had got up and bowed down to be on eye-level with the girl. "Belinda?" he said with unfamiliar gentleness. "That's your name, isn't it?"

"Yes, Sir… You saw my brother? Or my dad?"

Narcissa exchanged a look with her son, then reached out and took the girl by the shoulders. "Listen, Belinda. Your brother, he… He's gone."

"Gone?" Linny's eyes grew even wider. "You think he's with Mum and Dad?"

"I surely don't hope so," Lucius mumbled, eyeing the child uneasily. If Marlon and Miranda Crabbe were with their son, they'd be dead. And the girl would be an orphan.

"What d'you mean by that?"

Draco could no longer contain the tears. He silently started weeping, pressing his hands to his face and his eyes shut. He heard his mother talk to Linny, heard her explain in a soft, commiserating voice, heard Linny starting to wail, heard his father trying to soothe her, without success. Vince was dead. No, Linny – he would not come back.

Following a sudden impulse, he wiped his eyes and got up. "Come, Linny. I'll help you find your mum. Come on." She was shaken so hard by the sobbing that she could barely sit straight, so he lifted her up – _Merlin_, every pound of her a true Crabbe! Still, he found a position in which he thought he wouldn't drop her – or break his back, and compared to Greg, she was almost a light-weight. She kept on crying with undamped acuteness, but her sheer weight, and the amount of _her_ despair made Draco feel a little lighter. He had seen one of his two oldest friends die tonight, yes – but little Linny had lost her only brother, and if she was particularly unlucky, she hadn't only lost a brother. Suddenly, Draco fully appreciated his happy position, seeing Linny's grief. _He_ still had his parents. He had lost an aunt tonight that he had come to hate, and a cousin that he had not spoken to in ten years or more. He had lost a friend and a venerated guardian – but what was that, compared to a brother?

He encountered Professor McGonagall again, and putting Linny back to her feet for a moment, patting her back and relieving his muscles, he asked quietly, "Professor, do you happen to know the whereabouts of Mr, or Mrs Crabbe?"

She cast the moaning girl a swift glance. "What's wrong with her? Is she injured?"

"She's just learnt that her brother is dead, Madam."

"Mr Crabbe – _Vincent Crabbe_ – is dead…?"

"Yes, Professor. I – I… I _saw_ – I…" He swallowed and felt the tears well up again. "He cast the Fiendfyre in the seventh floor, and couldn't escape from it then –"

Little Linny gave a shrill shriek, startling Draco, Professor McGonagall and everyone in the vicinity. She pressed her hands to her ears, shouting 'no, no, no!' on top of her voice, spinning around and running away before Draco could have stopped her.


	127. Arrested

Since both her husband and son turned themselves in, Narcissa has to deal with the consequences

* * *

**- 4.2. -**

Arrested

* * *

_how did you get so big?_

_how did you get so strong?_

_how did you get so hard?_

_how did it get so long?_

_what you gave to me_

_my perfect ring of scars_

_you know i can see _

_what you really are_

_NINE INCH NAILS_

_

* * *

_

She dreaded to return to the house. She hardly dared thinking of it. Suddenly, the vastness of Malfoy Manor scared her – now that it was empty, it scared her so much more than when that bunch of scoundrels had still resided there. Now that she was once more without her two loved ones, it no longer felt like 'home'.

Severus' body had been taken care of – astonishingly benevolent care, even. All of a sudden, everybody had been quite wild to pay respect to the man at whose feet they'd have loved to spit twenty-four hours ago. Well, Narcissa probably shouldn't blame them; they had not known. But on the other hand – from Draco, she knew to which length Severus had gone, what ridiculous lies he had dished up, only to protect the students from worse. How could Minerva McGonagall have looked at him and _not_ sensed that a truly devoted Death Eater wouldn't have acted this way? But Narcissa must reserve her indignation for another day; this morning she was just too exhausted and hollow to gather the necessary anger.

She had not been surprised to have been the only person caring about what happened with Bella's body. It was to be expected, given Bella's track records, and Narcissa couldn't bring herself to begrudge the other people's repulsion. She was disgusted with many, many things Bella had done in the course of her life, too. When they had been children still, Bella had already been malicious, brutal at times, and her youngest sister had occasionally been at the receiving end of that inclination. But she had soon learnt to defend herself well enough – perhaps Narcissa's precocity had in parts been due to the necessity to stand up to her older sisters, both of whom had not been above hexing the much smaller girl. She had never truly thought about it until much later – she had been married already when realising that Bella's old knack for violence had grown into a cruel streak of downright sadism. Lucius had only once mentioned an incident of that sort; he had been irritated by Bella's behaviour then, how, in the midst of a fight with some Aurors, she had stopped to rip out every single fingernail of one of her victims and made the man swallow them, before killing him at last. Seeing his wife's wide-eyed shock with that revelation, he had never made any remark on that head again, but Narcissa had heard other Death Eaters talking, in passing – and she had, for years, not managed to square these accounts with her own perception of her oldest sister.

And then, Voldemort had disappeared – and Bella had lost it completely. She had literally _begged_ Lucius to help her finding 'the master', an entreaty that he had naturally turned down. He had by no means been keen on returning to be a servant, had believed just too happily that the old warlock was dead anyway, and had been smart enough to understand that he couldn't _afford_ to raise suspicion, after escaping imprisonment for hair's breadth. So Bella had set out on her own, together with her husband, and some easily susceptible boy. Narcissa suspected that Rabastan – who was a good deal cleverer than his older brother – had only followed her because she had something up her sleeve to blackmail him with, but alas! The result had been the infamous assault on the Longbottom family. Much had been said and written about this back then, and Narcissa hadn't managed to close her eyes to this side of Bellatrix any longer. She had been repelled – nay, _disgusted_ – with what Bella had done. It had been beyond her grasp how Bella could have done this, how she could have _thought_ of such means of torture even, how she had not been above mistreating the little boy even. A boy just as old as little Draco, just as vulnerable, just as helpless. God knows what she might have done if she had not been interrupted by the arrival of the Hit Wizard Squad called to the scene by cautious neighbours… Bella had been seized, sentenced, and buried in Azkaban, and Narcissa had refused to do as much as write to her sister in the following fourteen years. This woman – that could impossibly be the same woman that she knew as her sister. _Impossible_.

And then, she had returned – Lucius had been among those who had helped breaking into Azkaban, so one could say that Narcissa had been prepared for Bella's return. These fourteen years had been enough to repress the memory of the last thing she had heard of her sister, and just think of the 'good' times, the 'good' recollections. And it had worked, for some time. Of course, it had been impossible to ignore Bella's insane demeanour, the mad air, the fanatic rants and megalomaniac fantasies. But Narcissa had reasoned that such long incarceration with Dementors constantly preying on the inmates, had finally taken its toll. That Bella's admiration for her master and dedication to his cause had become sheer fanaticism and devotion of religious proportions, Narcissa had ascribed to the fact that Voldemort and his return must have embodied Bella's only hope in all these years. And it hadn't all been madness and hate, exclusively. There had been other sides to Bella, too.

Bella had been the one to try making her feel comfortable in Hogwarts when Narcissa had come there. Bella had been the one to drag Narcissa to that New Year's Eve party where she had come to encounter Lucius again. Bella had covered Lucius' back in combat, not only because he was a fellow Death Eater, but all the more because she had known what would happen with her little sister if something should have happened to him. In the last years, Bella had held her hand over him and his family again. It had been her who had successfully opposed to have her sister's forefinger – or ear – cut off, knowing what Narcissa's love to play the piano, her love for music in general, meant to her. Yes, it had been Bella, too, who had introduced Draco to the Dark Order – but in her own, twisted ways, she had felt responsible for her nephew nevertheless. And only some hours ago, it had been Bella's Shield Charm that had saved Lucius from feeling the full amount of his master's wrath; she might have saved his life even…

Narcissa couldn't say how she felt about any of this. There was dismay and sadness – but there was also relief. There was understanding for Molly Weasley – who had been the one to finish Bella, unbelievable as it must appear – because Narcissa knew that she'd have fought to death against anybody, even her own sister, if it had been _her_ son's life at stake there. No, _someday_ she might form an opinion on this – but for now, she was just tired, and anxious about Lucius and Draco, and filled with hollow grief for Severus. She _couldn't_ think about it now.

It was no mere displacement activity on her part, however, that she looked after her living sister for a start. In the celebrating crowd that morning, she had spotted Andy, holding a baby in her arms, hardly four weeks old. It didn't need much penetration of mind to grasp who this child was, and it broke Narcissa's heart to look at the tiny boy. Wearily, she approached these two, and whispered, "I'm so sorry, Andy!"

Her sister gave no answer, but simply slang her free arm around Narcissa's neck and pressed her face against her shoulder. Narcissa hugged her tightly, making sure the baby didn't wake up, or was squeezed between the two witches.

"I've got to bury my own child, Cissy," Andy muttered at last, choking. "I had to bury her father, and now I've got to do the same with my little girl!"

Narcissa couldn't help it but cry, too. There was nothing to say, was there? What words of solace could one give to a bereaved mother? She knew that, should something have happened to Draco, she wouldn't have survived the pain; she knew that no words could ever have comforted _her_, had she been in Andromeda's place this morning. She felt dreadful enough, without thinking of her dead niece or the orphaned infant. Severus was dead. Her only real friend – just dead. Murdered 'for nothing', as Draco so rightly put it. She felt as if she was burying Lucius and Draco, too, burying them alive in the bowels of Azkaban prison. Still, there was something left to hope for, and that made all the difference to Andy's situation, didn't it? It did.

She helped Andromeda to see after the corpses of her daughter and son-in-law. Nymphadora had been a very pretty girl – in death, her face had transformed one last time, heightening the resemblance to her mother, that she seemed to have tried concealing in life. In her clothes, her awful hairdo – short, spiky purple strands, her green-painted nails, she had visibly tried to get away as far as she could from her stuffy ancestry, and enhanced being her artistic Muggle-born father's child.

"The last time I saw her looking like this was when she was twelve," Andy breathed and stroke over Nymphadora's cold cheek. "She always did these thing with her nose, and her lips. She was never content with the way she looked, even though she was so pretty…"

"Oh, that's just like it is, Andy. Show me a teenager who's content with how they look. Remember how you tried dying your hair blonde, then? How Bella cut hers so short and gave Maman such a shock when she came home for the holidays?"

For a second, Andromeda smiled nostalgically, before turning back to deepest sadness. "She did this, you know?"

As a matter of fact, Narcissa did. She had heard Bella boasting that she had 'pruned the rotten tree'. In that moment, Narcissa had hardly paid attention – too great had her own misgivings been, for Draco's sake. Now she felt guilty that she hadn't immediately thought of Andy, and the grief _she_ must feel. She hadn't thought of Nymphadora as a living, breathing being that had been pushed from life to death, had not thought of her as Andy's little girl. Now that she saw the young woman's body, still a little chubby from pregnancy, she could not endure the sight, and quickly looked away.

Next to the young, dead mother was the little boy's father, looking oddly peaceful. Startled, Narcissa recognised the pallid, scarred face. She _knew_ this man, didn't she? Of course! Why had she never thought about this? She had heard the name, Remus Lupin, quite often – usually in one of Bella's rants, and back then, in some of Draco's scandalised letters, reporting how badly and overtly that teacher had favoured Harry Potter. Back then, she had still kept in mind that it was little wonder, because Remus Lupin had been so chummy with Potter's father in school, too. But in the course of time, she had completely forgotten all about it. Lately, it had only been 'the werewolf Lupin', whom the unhappy girl had married and thus forfeited her own future. Now that she saw him, she recognised the melancholic features, much altered since his youth, but nonetheless unmistakable. How she had despised the man as a boy. And how sorry she felt now, rocking his sleeping child in her arms while Andy crouched over Nymphadora's body!

The baby sighed and gurgled in his sleep; Narcissa was reminded of holding Draco like this, even though there was no visual resemblance between those two. This boy was much darker, his hair changed from turquoise to bilious green to bright periwinkle blue, and he had neither the Malfoys', nor the Blacks' very distinct features, but a merry, round face.

"What's his name, Andy?"

Andromeda looked up. "His name is – is –" She swallowed hard and looked at her dead child again. "They called him Ted."

Narcissa had a lump in her throat, too. "That's – that's good."

"Remus wanted to name him Theodore. Gift of –"

"God," Narcissa softly finished her sister's sentence, seeing her nod gravely.

"Yes, gift of God. But then, Ted was murdered, and they said that the boy would have been called 'Teddy' anyway, so that they could go for Ted straightaway."

Narcissa brushed a kiss on the sleeping baby's forehead, that was utterly oblivious that it was never going to see his parents again. "So you are little Teddy, hm? What a pretty boy you are, little Teddy. You'll be your Nana's joy. You'll make her and your parents very proud."

There was nothing else they could do for the deceased couple, and Andromeda scrambled to her feet again. "What are you going to do now?"

"I don't know… Sooner or later, I'll have to go home, I suppose, though I'd much rather not… But I'll have to gather some things for Draco and Lucius – and I need to find some Law Wizard for them. Our old one won't do anymore. – Blimey, as happy as I ought to be, never having to deal with that obnoxious man again – as a Law Wizard, The Eel was priceless."

"I might be able to help you there, Cissy."

Narcissa arched a brow. "Why would you? You hate Lucius."

"But I love you. And I have not forgotten how you enabled me to bury _my_ husband. I'll help you when they're burying yours now." Narcissa swallowed and closed her eyes, feeling Andromeda press her arm reassuringly. "Ted had a very good Law Wizard, who saw after our affairs. He's not specialised in criminal defence – but he's bound to know someone, I am sure. And if you – if you want, I could accompany you. I'm not keen on going home, either…"

So that was what they did. They went to Malfoy Manor together, making a wide berth for the part of the house that had yesterday been inhabited by the Death Eaters still, and collected some clothes and other things for the prisoners. They left the child in Elsy's good care. Andromeda had no qualms in this regard; she had seen this elf guard over her younger sister as a baby, and knew that Elsy would always throw herself between a spell and her charge if she had to. Then, they went to the Ministry, where they weren't admitted to see either Draco, or Lucius, so they went straight ahead to see Prospero Tufty, the Law Wizard, whom they disturbed in the middle of a party, celebrating the demise of Voldemort and his regime. Fortunately, one of the guests, though pretty drunk, _was_ specialised in criminal defence.

"Rick Jenkins, LW, Ma'am," he said, slurred, and made a low bow to Andromeda. "I venerate your husband's works. Ready at your service!"

"_This_ is your client, Ricky," Mr Tufty said and Jenkins turned away from Andromeda.

Facing Narcissa, he gave a little start. She surveyed him critically, trying to gauge if this man was up to the job. He was young – in his early thirties, perhaps, shorter than her, with closely cropped black hair and coffee-brown skin that emphasised a set of very even, white teeth and dark, intelligent eyes. He had loosened his tie; it was hanging around his shoulders like a shawl. She'd have preferred to see someone twice his age – someone _experienced_ – because deluded as it might be, she still hoped that something might be done for Lucius and Draco to prevent them from incarceration, but if anything convinced her to even give him a try, it was probably this tie, and how he wore it there.

For a start – this man would wear a tie when leaving the house, even if he went for a celebration party. She thought this was an account of a man who wouldn't lose his head, no matter what happened, but who would also adapt to circumstances. The tie itself was made of blue silk, with a very subtle pattern of tiny bronze-coloured scales, and she could see a bronze tie pin with the small, engraved inscription 'No Pasaran!'. She smiled with that realisation.

He curiously eyed her, too. "Oh! _Oh!_ I see –"

Narcissa gave him a feeble smile and addressed the host once more. "Please, maybe we can find one of your colleagues who isn't scared of me?"

"Scared?" Rick Jenkins cried and shook his head. "_Awed_, Madam! What is it I can do for you?"

"This is about my husband, Sir –"

"A divorce?" he piped, sounding facetiously hopeful, and his friend nudged him with his elbow.

"No, Sir, no divorce. My husband and my son were arrested this morning. Both of them were Death Eaters. I suppose you have heard of my husband – Lucius Malfoy."

He raised his brows. "And you are quite sure you don't want a divorce, Madam?"

"_Quite_ sure indeed, Mr Jenkins!" She raised her brows in disapproval. "Now – _can_ you, or can you _not_, help me?"

Mr Jenkins twisted his face, shook himself, and looked a little more sober when talking to Narcissa again. "I cannot perform miracles, Mrs Malfoy, let's get that clear right from the start. I know your husband was so far represented by Elias Yaxley – I am not like that."

"I'm glad to hear it! All I care to know is whether you think yourself capable of handling such a case."

He exchanged a long glance with Andromeda, who nodded surreptitiously. "Well, Madam," he said to Narcissa at last, "I will be honest with you. I had no sympathy for He Who Must Not Be Named and his henchmen. So far, I had not even taken it into consideration that I should work for one of them. However, I was a great admirer of your late brother-in-law, and since Mrs Tonks here appears to vouchsafe for you…"

"I do, Mr Jenkins," Andromeda said with emphasis.

"I can handle such a case, to answer your question, Mrs Malfoy."

"Consider yourself engaged, then, Mr Jenkins." Narcissa stretched out her hand and he shook it with surprising strength for such a short, and drunk, man.

"Be so good and fetch me a glass of water, will you, Prospero, old mate?" Jenkins said, suddenly business-like. "And some coffee might be good, too. I believe I have a suit to prepare."

Less than an hour later, Mr Jenkins had taken a quick shower, devoured two litres of coffee and a wholesome English breakfast. Andromeda had been called away in the meantime; one of the Manor's elves had come to fetch her because the baby had woken up, and she had instructed them to call for her in such a case. Narcissa had thanked her and begged her to stay in the house until she would return herself; Andromeda had promised she would, and then, Mr Jenkins was restored enough and ready, taking his new client back to the Ministry of Magic.

"While we're talking about it," she said just before entering the Ministry. "In our house, there are the corpses of five or six Death Eaters."

"WHAT? And you're telling me _now_?"

"The D-…" She checked herself. Silly superstition! He was _dead_, and his spells had died with him! "Voldemort killed them yesterday afternoon. I quite forgot about them since then, but I thought you might want to know. And I'd appreciate if they were removed from the house, too."

He stared at her, slightly incredulous, shook his head and led her inside. Narcissa had not seen the Ministry since the Battle there, and shuddered. The new architecture was cold and forbidding, and the central statue was positively revolting. "Who's responsible for _this_ grossness?" she asked her companion under her breath.

"I do not know, Madam, but I dare say he's to be found among _your_ acquaintances rather than my own," he retorted snidely.

"I do not _have_ a large acquaintance, Mr Jenkins, outside of my own family. In fact, the only man I considered as a friend was murdered tonight." She shuddered once more and closed her eyes for a moment, desperately trying to forget the sight of Severus' blood-stained body.

"As your legal counsellor I advise you to refrain from such expressions, Mrs Malfoy," the Law Wizard said coldly. "The defenders of Hogwarts acted in self-defence and it will not look good if –"

"My friend wasn't killed by _them_, though, Mr Jenkins," Narcissa retorted just as chilly.

She felt him watching her in surprise, but didn't deign to look back. She cared little for the man's good opinion, and was too desperate in this moment to see her son and husband. In the course of the next twenty minutes, she won the impression that she had chanced to meet a worthy substitute for The Eel and his talents, however bristling he might be otherwise. Rick Jenkins obtained permission for her to see her two men immediately, and for the first time since they had met earlier this afternoon, Narcissa was able to give him a genuine smile.

"Thank you so much, Mr Jenkins! I –"

"Yes, yes, this is my job, after all. Now hurry up, Madam, because I'm afraid your time will be very limited. You don't want to waste it here with useless chit-chat."

She was led into a windowless room, and a few minutes later, Lucius was brought in, his hands shackled in his back. He wryly smiled at her, and she trembled with the memories when she had last seen him in such a state. This time, however, nobody objected when she jumped up to embrace her husband, and the guards tactfully withdrew, too.

"My love," she breathed, brushing a kiss on his cheek. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, petal. I'm always fine when you're around."

"Lucius! I mean it!"

"So do I, honey. I _am_ all right, much better than I deserve, I guess. The only thing troubling me is my worries for you. I am so sorry, Cissa, I –"

"No, no, it's okay. _I_ am okay. Never mind my little meltdown this morning. I reckon it was all a bit much. I _know_ you're doing the – well, I guess they call it the _right_ thing. And what is more, I believe I found us a skilful Law Wizard. It's a Mr Jenkins. You know him?"

He frowned. "I heard of him, yes. But – you see me amazed. So far, I had thought that Mr Jenkins wouldn't possibly… I am sure your choice was prudent as you always are, chérie, it's just –"

"Let me put it this way – he didn't embrace the job very warmly. _But_ – Andy persuaded him to accept; it seems he feels comfortable enough working for a relation of her husband."

"That's great." He sighed and gave her a loving glance. "I'm very sorry to trouble you so much, my angel. But it is better like this, believe me, even if it grieves me to think of you being on your own. I trust you'll be soon enough reunited with our son, though."

She chuckled mirthlessly. "I wish I could be as optimistic as you. He wears the cursed Mark, he cast Unforgivables, he –"

"From what I heard about him, Mr Jenkins is well worth his money, blossom. He'll make it clear that Draco did not really have _much_ of a choice in the paramount of things he's done. He was a minor still when joining up. After that he had no choice but to obey orders. And I'm going to take the rest of the blame. He'd never have faltered if I had not failed."

She bit her lip. "_I_ ought to have been more firm. Then, as much as this morning!"

"_You_ did everything you could, and more, my angel. And I must say I am glad that you did not prevail today."

"You're glad? Being _here_? Like _that?_" She beckoned at his tied hands.

"These shackles are nothing, compared to the threats hanging above our heads for so long now, Narcissa. I've got worse shackles on my feet than these. My conduct is what brought me here, but what's worse – it's what brought Draco here, too. You remember when he was born? Remember the vows we took? Remember how fearful I was that he would grow up and look at me like I looked at old Abraxas? I thought I had given our son everything to prevent that from happening. Turns out I did not."

"Lucius! Stop it! You have given Draco everything, all your love, all your attention; everything, in short, that Abraxas was so totally without!"

"I've given him all that, and everything that money could buy on top, my love, in addition to a whole set of questionable principles."

"Principles!" she cried and hit her hand on the table. "What else but principles brought him here, you think? Our son is a _good _boy – he is _so_ good, he's being really silly about it!"

"But those aren't the principles that _I_ taught him, are they? _My_ own son would have thought of himself first."

"If that's the case, I would very much prefer he'd have stuck to _your_ principles then! And speaking of them – if your principles were as _questionable_ as you call them – how come _you_ didn't flee, either?"

"Because I still hope that, in time, my son will want to look into my eyes again, and not be repulsed by it."

"That isn't true! It's _not_ _true_! What nonsense you are talking, Lucius! Draco _loves_ you! You should have seen him, his worries, when you were away!"

"But that was before he knew what being a Death Eater was all about, love. It was before he saw torture, and murder, before he knew what it's like doing that, and understanding that his father never flinched doing it. And I never flinched, did I? I can't say I enjoyed it like Bella – but I didn't mind much either. I am proud that my son did mind. I am happy that he takes after his mother in these things."

Narcissa chewed on her bottom lip and tried biting down the tears, but she lost that battle, all the more when she heard her husband's gentle voice, "Come here, my angel. I would love to embrace you, but I can't. Be so good and hug me instead."

That's what she did, fiercely, breathlessly, and pressing her face against his shoulder to prevent him from seeing more of her tears. He kissed her hair and made soothing noises until she had rallied herself again.

"It'll come all right somehow, blossom."

"No, it won't, and you know it, and you cannot talk me into believing it either!"

There was a rapping on the door, and in the next moment, the guards returned, announcing the end of the visit, and that Mr Malfoy's Law Wizard wanted to consult with him now. Narcissa pressed him close once more and left, not bothering this time to hide the silent tears. In the adjoining room, Draco was waiting for her, shackled like his father, just as pale as him, and looking just as guilty.

"I'm so sorry, Mum," he greeted her and clumsily got up from his chair, which was a bit difficult due to the handcuffs in his back. She embraced him, too.

"Nothing to be sorry about, darling."

He smirked. "You should look into a mirror – then you'd see why I'm sorry."

"Oh, that…" She braved a feigned smile. "You see, I just talked to your father, and – and… Well, it's not easy for me to see either of you in such a situation like this."

"That's what I'm sorry about in the first place. He should have left with you, it would have been for the better."

She contemplated telling him the truth, but she didn't want to aggravate his remorse, so she murmured, "Oh, he's not made for a living on the flight, is he? Neither am I, that's for certain."

"You needn't pretend, Mum. I know why he came."

"Do you?"

"He did it because of me, ain't that right?"

She cleared her throat. "Well, yes –"

"He needn't have, though. I won't get better through that trial only because he's standing next to me."

"_That_ wasn't his chief reason!"

"So what _was_ his reason?"

She swallowed, rubbed the bridge of her nose and forced herself to say it, after all – "He believes you – you were – uhm… _Cross_ with him, you see? He thinks you thought ill of him because of – all that."

She expected him to contradict that assumption at once, but he didn't, and the impending silence hurt her more poignantly than the sight of her shackled husband and son had. After a minute, he muttered, "Yes, well…"

"Draco!"

"But Mum, I… I cannot – I can't say, even for your sake, that I – that I _approved_ of the things dad d- well, that he must have done, in order to rise so high in the Death Eaters' ranks. That I'd even condone them – that I could bear to think what he's done –"

"It wasn't all – it wasn't all about murder, Draco!" she cried heatedly. "I know for a fact that the only person that Severus – that Professor Snape _ever_ killed was Albus Dumbledore, for example!"

"Are you trying to sell to me that my father never murdered anybody, Mum?" There was mild scorn in his gaze, but even more – well, compassion, perhaps.

"You've seen how it was like! You think he had a _choice_?"

"_You_ seriously believe he had none, Mum? He needn't have joined up. Did you of all people think that was a good idea, then? A good choice? I'm astonished you even let him –"

"I didn't _let him_. I had no – your father and I were on no speaking term when he…" She took a deep breath. "He was _young_ and did a foolish thing – and _you_ know very well that after receiving the darned Mark, you had no more choices either!"

Draco smiled woefully and shook his head. "Oh, I know. But, Mum – do you think the Dark Lord –"

"Voldemort! He's dead, signa suo nomine!"

"You think Lord Vol-" He swallowed hard and she could see he was forcing himself to say it out loud. "_Voldemort_ – you think he had been about to make _me_ his right hand man, Mum? Because I dearly hope that I gave him no reason to contemplate _my_ elevation in rank. I believe that Dad had no chance to get out of that again. But you cannot tell me that he had been forced to get so bloody far as he did. That he managed by his own deliberation, and I cannot… I can't understand _how_. I've racked my brains, Mum, I've had lots of time to think about this, and I cannot square it in my head. To think what my own father must have done to become so big…"

He looked straight into her eyes and shook his head, and she couldn't bear it, averting her face. "Draco," she muttered weakly, desperate to say something and failing to come up with anything at all. "Draco…"

She still stared at the edge of the table before her, and when he spoke again, his voice was warm, even compassionate. "Don't aggravate yourself, Mum, please. I fancied his deeds for too long to cast the first stone now. For a long time, I was determined to become _just_ like him."

She managed a faint chuckle. "Your father told me, scarcely five minutes ago, how proud he is of you, for being _not_ like him."

"And _I_ would be proud if only I had figured _that_ out a bit sooner. That I'm not like that, I mean. Seems a little late _now_." He checked himself and gave her a brave smile. "I'll pay my debts, Mum. I believe I'll feel better afterwards."

"I sincerely doubt _that_, mon trésor," she groaned, and thought that it had been a mistake to never take Draco to Azkaban to see his father there. She had thought it too much for him, apart from the fact that he probably wouldn't have come in the first place. She had been admitted only twice on total, and both times, Draco had been in school, devoting all his time to his little 'project'.

"What else should I have done, you think? Run away? I'm _tired_. Now that the piece of shit is gone, I want to get my life back!"

"Sitting in Azkaban isn't much of a life, darling."

"No, I suppose it isn't. But being haunted by all these memories isn't, either. Perhaps I can sleep a full night through in Azkaban, after all."

The lump in her throat that wouldn't go away the whole day now, almost choked her. She got up and walked around the table, cupping her little boy's face and kissing the top of his head. "I'm so sorry, mon trésor! I –"

"You needn't be, Mum. I am sorely aware that you tried to keep me out of this, and I remember ranting at you not to treat me like a child when I was at my most childish. At least now, I can _try_ acting like a grown-up and take responsibility for what _I_ have done."

She stayed through Draco's consultation with Mr Jenkins, and hearing the previous night's events recounted made her remember something – a promise she had given. More than a promise – a pledge. 'Should something happen to me' he had said… Trying hard to recall every bit he had said that night, she kissed her son goodbye and headed for a dingy little Muggle playground that she faintly remembered of old. It was already dark, but she still found it without difficulties. When Savvy had still been under-aged and not permitted to Apparate, she had sometimes fetched him from here, for he had been embarrassed to have her come to his father's house. There was the swing – over there the seesaw, even more rickety than it had used to be – and here was the little elm tree he had mentioned…

"Andromeda?" she called out when entering Malfoy Manor later that night, fearing that her sister had already left again. "Andy, are you still here?"

Elsy appeared by her side and spoke very quietly, "The baby is asleep, My Lady. Miss Andy is waiting for you in the Crystal Parlour."

"In the Crystal Parlour? Why ever did you take her _there_?"

"Because all guests – I thought –"

Narcissa took a deep breath. "This is not your fault, Elsy. You could not know. But I'm telling you now, and I want you to _remember_ – you'll lead nobody else into that room, or into any other that – that was occupied – _contaminated_, I should say, by our latest _guests_." She gave that word a very sharp spin. "Further, I want you and the other elves to throw everything out of these rooms. Furniture, carpets, wallpapers, _anything_. Out with it. Burn it, give it to the rags and bones man, call a priest and have an exorcism performed – I don't care. Everything so I needn't see the remains of that scum in my house anymore!"

Elsy nodded with big eyes, and as a first measure, hit herself over the head with her bare hands. "Oh, stop this rubbish," her mistress snarled impatiently. "That's not helping anybody!"

The elf looked vaguely dissenting, but obeyed, naturally, and scurried away. Narcissa dragged her sister out of the Crystal Parlour and took her to the Music Chamber instead, pushing a glass of gin into her hand and pouring one for herself, too. She drained it with one big sip and freshened up her glass.

"Here's to Ted, Andy," she muttered and drank. "Here's to your daughter, here's to her husband, and _here_ –" She threw the costly crystal into the hearth and lifted the entire bottle. "Here's to my friend Severus, who never wanted to drink to anything else than to the Noble Dead!"

"I like that… To the Noble Dead," Andromeda whispered and sipped her drink while watching Narcissa drink half of what was left in the bottle.

"You said that Harry Potter was little Teddy's godfather, yes?" Narcissa muttered pensively, at last.

"Yes…?"

"So you know the boy?"

"Can't say I do. I met him only once, and very briefly, too. He – he mistook me for Bella, I think."

"Well… I dare say that mistake has been corrected by now, and can impossibly happen again, as things are… I would you do me a favour, Andy. I know you have countless other obligations to think of at present, but I – I gave my word to a friend – to Severus, you see – that I would deliver a certain object to Harry Potter in case he should be dead. I would deliver the parcel myself, but I don't think Harry Potter wants to see _me_ of all people."

"Sure, Cissy… I'll do it, no problem."

Narcissa sank down on the ottoman opposite of her sister, looking exhausted all of a sudden. "Thank you, Andy. Thank you… I gave him my word, you know…"

Andromeda got up and sat down next to her, gingerly reaching out and seizing her close. They pressed their faces against each other's shoulders, both crying bitterly.

* * *

_No pasaran! – _"They shall not pass!"; famous slogan in Spanish Civil War of the fighters against Fascism, used as well in the Battle of Cable Street against Mosley's Black Shirt Fascists


	128. The Backup Plan

Harry receives Severus' parting gift

* * *

**- 4.3. -**

The Backup Plan

* * *

_Memoria est thesaurus omnium rerum et custos._

_CICERO – De oratore_

_

* * *

_

Right after breakfast that morning, Andromeda Tonks had come to the Burrow to see Harry, carrying a letter and a little package wrapped in silk paper. By her face, it was evident that she'd been crying a lot lately. Still, her expression when talking to him was composed and matter-of-fact. He didn't know what to make of his most unexpected visitor then, sitting across from her at the table, and staring at the note in his hand now, he still doesn't know what to make of it all.

Madam Tonks had been shown in, and after an exchange of the usual – and awkward – commonplaces, the how-do-you-do's and what all else, she got straight to the point. "I have a commission, Mr Potter –"

"Please, call me Harry!"

She smiled. "I have a commission, Harry. As you might have gathered, my sister was friendly with Severus Snape –" He stared at her, aghast, thinking she was speaking of Bellatrix Lestrange – the murderess of her daughter. She calmly went on, "And a long time ago, _he_ asked her that, in case of his death, she would see to it that you should get this."

She presented the parcel to him and put it on the kitchen table. He kept on staring, alternating between the package and the witch delivering it, wondering why on earth she would forward _anything_ coming from Bellatrix Lestrange, Voldemort's most devoted follower and murderess of Tonks, when Mrs Weasley asked with a little sniff, "How is Narcissa?"

"Not very well. Well, who is these days? She bade me to forward her sympathy regarding your son's death, Molly."

"Give her my thanks," Mrs Weasley replied, sniffing a little louder.

"I will."

Harry saw the light, at last, and pointed at the parcel. "So this is – this is from Mrs Malfoy, then…? Narcissa Malfoy?"

Madam Tonks frowned. "Yes, of course. Who did you – _oh_." Her face darkened, and she scowled at him. "You thought I'd forward you a present from – my _other_ sister, did you?"

"No! No, I was wondering about exactly that… – Why would you – I mean…" He took a deep breath. "But to tell you the truth, I'm surprised about anything you do for either of your sisters."

She adapted a defiant air. "You don't know my youngest sister, Mr Potter, and I wish you would not speak of matters that you have no idea of!"

Her resemblance to Bellatrix Lestrange was uncanny at that moment, and he took an instinctive step back. "I'm sorry! I didn't –"

She interrupted him coolly, "She gave her friend, Snape, her word, and believing that you didn't want to see her personally, she entreated me to come in her stead. That is all. Please excuse me now; I've got to get back. We have a number of funerals to prepare." She nodded at Ron and George in silence and gave Mrs Weasley a faint smile. "Good day, Molly. Please, say hello to Arthur and let us know when Frederick's burial is to take place."

"Yes, of course. And you'll send an owl with the details about Nymphadora's and Professor Snape's…?"

She nodded her consent, left, and Ron burst out, "What was _that_?"

His mother swabbed her eyes with a tea towel. "What do you mean?"

"Everything! She – she – Tonks was in the Order and everything, and now she hangs out with _Narcissa Malfoy_?"

Mrs Weasley was distraught and a little confused, apparently. "Why, yes. They're sisters, you know?"

"Yes, I know! And Bellatrix Lestrange was her other sister, and she murdered Tonks, and –"

"I don't know how close Madam Tonks and Narcissa Malfoy were in the last years, but as far as I can tell, they never lost contact completely," Mrs Weasley murmured, still rubbing her eyes. "But your father says that Madam Tonks presently lives with Narcissa Mal-"

"WHAT?"

"Oh, I don't know, Ron. Ask him yourself! I really cannot think about these things at present…"

It turned out to be true; Andromeda Tonks, along with her orphaned grandson, is staying with her younger sister these days. According to Mr Weasley, it was Narcissa Malfoy who salvaged Ted Tonks's body after Bellatrix Lestrange murdered him, and it appears that she tried to warn and protect her brother-in-law before that, too. Harry was rarely more astonished; the idea that Malfoy's mum – Lucius Malfoy's own _wife_, sister of Bellatrix Lestrange! – should have done a good thing in her life… That's downright odd, isn't it! Just as odd as the fact that, apparently, Mrs Malfoy insisted on being allowed to arrange Severus Snape's funeral, as Mr Weasley told them over dinner the same evening.

He doesn't quite understand any of this and doesn't know what to make of it. Neither has he yet touched the little parcel. The only thing he could bring himself to do so far was read the letter. '_Dear Mr Potter_," it said in an elegant hand. '_It is incumbent on me to fulfil a pledge I once gave to my friend, Severus Snape. I enclose a box he bade me to pass on to you in case he couldn't do so himself. I did not look inside; I cannot tell you what you might find. Should you be displeased with the contents, or should you not wish to keep them, I would like to ask you if you might send them back to me. As I said above – Severus Snape was my valued friend, and I should like to have a keepsake of his, if you don't care for his gift yourself. – Narcissa Malfoy_'

He's read the note a couple of times since, but he still can't make any sense of it. Ron glances over his shoulder and reads it, too, snorting now, "I smell a rat!"

"I think you'll find that's your own feet," says his sister.

"No, I would think it's _your_ feet, if anything!"

Ginny cocks a brow. "Feeble, Won-Won. Very feeble indeed. Not your best come-back."

"Don't you call me Won-Won!" he thunders. "What if Hermione hears you!"

"Well, she's not here, is she?"

"Hey! _Hey!_ Can I have your attention for a minute?" Harry interrupts them impatiently. Ron and Ginny fall silent and look duly bashful. He raises the parcel once more. "You think I should open it?"

"No!" Ron almost shouts. "Are you mad? This comes from _Narcissa_ _Malfoy_!"

"If she had wanted to see me dead, Ron, she could have had her will after my first confrontation with Voldemort."

Ginny inserts, "Plus – she'd have covered her tracks a little more subtly than by simply sending her sister."

"Still, I think you should at least wait until Hermione's back!"

"What for?"

"I don't know… But I'm sure she wouldn't want you to do anything rash."

After a short discussion, they do decide to wait – Hermione has been in the thick of it all with them, she'd be rightfully disappointed if they left her out now, and also, it cannot be that long before she returns. At least that is what Ron hopes for. She left early this morning in order to find her parents and bring them back. Yet – after waiting another three days, she still has not returned and has merely sent a swift owl informing them that it'll take longer still. She'd left early that morning, before Madam Tonks's visit, in order to find her parents and bring them back. Yet – three days later, she still has not returned and has merely sent a swift owl informing them that it'll take longer still.

They've been to a number of funerals in the meantime. Foremost Fred's, Colin Creevey's, and of course, Tonks and Lupin's, where they saw Madam Tonks again – as well as Narcissa Malfoy – on whose arm Tonks's mum was leaning all the time. They didn't have a chance to talk; it would have seemed strangely inappropriate. Mrs Malfoy also carried the baby around, but their most suspiciously inquisitive observations could not yield any other conclusion than that Narcissa Malfoy, of all people, took nothing but the most diligent care of her great-nephew, whose own father was a werewolf, after all.

"She's doing it _again_," Ron rants afterwards, slamming his hand on the kitchen table. "Ingratiating herself with the winning side, pretending she never had anything to do with You Know Who! I can't believe that Tonks's own mum is falling for this shit!"

"Narcissa never was a Death Eater," his father observes calmly.

"So what! All the rest of her family was!"

Arthur Weasley sighs. "Yes, yes… And now they'll pay for that. Lucius Malfoy's Law Wizard handed in a full confession today. I haven't had a chance to read it yet, but from what I saw and heard, it's complete. He even confessed to twenty-year-old crimes we never would have charged him with – that we didn't even _know_ anything of, nor could have known."

"I fully suspect he claims that he had been Imperiused," Ron scoffs.

"Not at all. Not at all… I don't know what he means by it, though. Incidentally, Draco Malfoy handed in his testimony yesterday, too. Did I tell you? And he, too, doesn't appear to have held anything back, or to have tried casting himself in a better light. In fact, both of them offered their full collaboration. There aren't many – if any – other Death Eaters that we have arrested so far who've done that."

"Draco isn't of the same mould as his old man," Harry says thoughtfully. "I know that he didn't – well…"

Ron arches his brows. "What…?"

"He's a right old git, but he isn't – Dumbledore said, then, on the night of his death… He said Draco's heart had never been in it, and I think he was right."

Ron huffs, "Draco Malfoy nearly got us killed just three days ago!"

"No, Ron. He didn't, I don't think so. He was playing for time. I bet you anything that he would never have turned us in."

Ron is clearly not convinced, but his mood instantly improves when Hermione finally returns. It turns out that the Memory Charm she put on her parents didn't go exactly as planned. When she found them in Australia, they didn't recognise her – well, so far the plan still worked out. After she tried reversing the spell, they _still_ didn't recognise her, and of course, strictly refused to follow her to England. After a while, they became so suspicious about this strange young woman, they called the police. It took Hermione several days before she finally made up her mind to submit them to the Imperius Curse and drag them straight to Saint Mungo's. That's where they're at now, and some professional Healers have taken over.

She tells her friends all this, expecting sympathy, and is rather disappointed to see that all of them just shrug. "Oh, don't worry, it'll be fine. You'll see. The Healers in Saint Mungo's can sort out anyone."

'Like Neville's parents?' she would like to ask, but doesn't. It seems to be the wrong moment; they're all very excited about some parcel that Harry got from Snape, via the rather unlikely detours through Mrs Malfoy and Tonks's mum. Ron says they've waited for her arrival to open it, and now a rather flattered Hermione watches Harry remove the box's silk paper wrapping. Inside, there is a small crystal flask and a folded note, in a slanted hand that Harry instantly identifies as Dumbledore's.

'_My dear Harry, if you are reading this, I have been killed, hopefully by the hand of Severus Snape…_'

The long and the short of it is that Dumbledore implores Harry to trust him one last time, make use of a Pensieve (he mentions several possibilities of getting to one, apparently aware that it might be difficult for Harry to walk into Hogwarts and the Headmaster's Office), and grant Professor Snape a chance to justify himself. He insists – not unexpectedly, seeing the course of events _now_ – that Snape has been his most capable and faithful man, which reminds Harry of something he said himself about Snape that morning. 'Dumbledore's man…' Yes, Snape _was_ Dumbledore's, but had the old Headmaster truly believed that a note like this one would have sufficed to convince Harry? It could just as well have been faked!

"He really thought I was a bit thick in the head, didn't he?"

Hermione has read the note, too. "I'm sure he thought no such thing, Harry. He just –"

"Hermione, he _knew_ he'd die sooner or later. I grant you that he might not have expected it _on that very night_, but… On second thought, he _should_ have expected it! The curse on the ring had almost killed him already; did he truly think he could obtain the locket with less difficulty?"

"But he didn't have much time –"

"He had a whole year! You know, _some_ mention would have sufficed!"

"But he thought Voldemort might be penetrating your mind, Harry!"

"He could have told _you_, then! Or McGonagall! Or Kingsley! Or his brother! Anybody! Did he think I'd _ever_ put my faith in _Snape,_ of all people? Even if I had _not_ seen him cast the Killing Curse, Dumbledore knew me well enough to grasp that I'd never have listened to anything Snape would have told me! Did he think I'd change my mind because of _this_ letter?"

Well, apparently, he had, and they head off for the school, parts of which are still burning. The whole place is teeming with volunteers trying to get the curses and fires and spiders under control – because the death of Voldemort has had no effect on _some_ of his troops. Neither the Acromantula nor the Dementors and giants have been slowed much, even though McGonagall has managed to re-cast most of the protective spells on the castle and its boundaries. She looks very worn-out when they encounter her at the gates and doesn't even seem surprised when they tell her what they've come for.

"Yes, that's like him," she sighs. "Severus was the type for having a backup plan… I should have known, I should have –"

"I think he took great care to cover his tracks, Professor," Hermione says soothingly. "_Nobody_ –"

The old teacher shakes her head. "I called this man my _friend_, Miss Granger, for many years. But when I think about it, I never took the trouble to get to know him for real. _He_ might have taken care to cover his tracks, but… In the last year – at least here, in this school, he wasn't overly subtle about it. If I had stopped for just a minute to think about it… Strangely enough, I _did_ wonder about it, too – I scorned him and said that I would have imagined You Know – _Voldemort's_ right hand to be a little more…" She snorts with self-deprecating laughter. "I scorned him for being so soft. His punishments were jokes. His explanations, his excuses for the students' behaviour… I scorned him for being so deluded and silly. After knowing him for so long – I was his teacher once, even! – I was just too willing to forget all I knew about him. What sort of friend would do that?"

They're silent, not even Ron making a remark, until Ginny breaks the silence at last. "Everything ready for the burial?"

"I think so." McGonagall nods slowly and points in the general direction of the small graveyard, where Dumbledore is buried, too. "I'll see you there, then?"

They all nod, dismayed and quiet. For a start though, they've agreed to pay Hagrid a short visit. They've had no chance to talk to him since the morning after the battle, and they walk over to the edge of the Forbidden Forest quietly, only commenting now and then about the repairs, and how it seems unlikely – nay, impossible – that the castle can ever be fixed properly again. Not even Hagrid's hut looks like it used to, and it takes Harry a moment – and some remarks from Hermione – to recollect how it burnt down on the night of Dumbledore's death. It surely needed complete rebuilding anyhow and will need more after the big battle. All windows were smashed and have been mended with makeshift planks and pieces of cloth. Hagrid himself looks like he's in need of some fixing, too – his eyes are swollen and blood-shot, and his huge hands are trembling when he welcomes them, leading them into the only room that's not entirely damaged – his bedroom.

"It's good of yeh to come," he says absent-mindedly and ushers them the bed.

"What's wrong, Hagrid? Did something happen?"

Okay, so the question was not exactly smart. _The Battle_ happened. Even though Hagrid and Grawp sustained few injuries during the battle and none that were serious, the gentle half-giant is _shaken_ by the events. Loads of people he knew and cared for are dead – Remus, Tonks, Professor Vector, Fred, Colin Creevey, half a dozen of the school hippogriffs, and – yes – Severus Snape, for whom Hagrid seems to have harboured quite a lot of respect, too, before the night of Dumbledore's death.

He uses his tablecloth-sized handkerchief and blows his nose. "Now I know! _Now!_ I was so stupid!"

Hermione puts her comparably little hand on Hagrid's huge one. "You couldn't have known. He fooled everyone! He fooled even Professor McGonagall, and surely, you wouldn't call _her_ stupid."

"He came here. I should 'ave known! He was all by himself, and said, _come and follow meh quietly, Hagrid. I'll take ye to the Dark Lord, and tomorrow morning, they'll come for yer giant brother, too_. And I – I knew that _he_ knew that I'm not so easy to curse, 'cause of meh mother's blood, and still, I din't think about it! I lashed out at 'im, and he defended himself with magic and threw a Stunner at meh, and then I fled, and I took Grawpy with meh and thought how lucky I had been, but – but –" A mighty sob shakes him. "He gave meh the chance to flee, meh and Grawpy – before _they'd_ 'ave come for me. And I called 'im a murderer – and a coward – and…"

Harry shuts his eyes, recalling a very similar moment, when _he_, too, could have understood – and didn't. On the night of Dumbledore's death, when he had pursued Snape, enraged, throwing curse after curse at the man. How easily Snape blocked each and every one of them – without seriously striking back. If he had truly been such a devoted Death Eater – wouldn't he have seized his chance and taken Harry? Taken him straight to Voldemort? Of course, on that night, Harry had been much too shocked, upset, out of himself to entertain any such thoughts. But in the ten months since then…

"Let's go up to the Headmaster's office," he murmurs. "We'll come again later, Hagrid… After the funeral…"

"Are you all right?" Ginny quietly asks on their way, and he merely shrugs.

"No… Not really."

The entrance to Dumbledore's office has not yet been repaired – well, there _are _more pressing tasks at hand – and to prevent them from being disturbed, Hermione performs a couple of charms on the stairs leading up. Ron marvels at her.

"How do you _know_ this stuff?"

"Blocking charms were a part of the curriculum for the OWLs, Ron," she replies with a frown.

"Were they?" He smiles at her, admiringly. "And I thought you were just being your prodigious self!"

"Merlin, Ron, give it a rest," Ginny groans and rolls her eyes. "Blimey!"

Harry has hardly listened, his eyes fixed on Dumbledore's portrait in silence and bewilderment. He had wanted to ask so many things, but now his head seems empty; the only thing he can say with some certainty is that the way the old Headmaster returns his glances makes him slightly angry.

"I received your letter, Sir," he announces coolly.

"Ah, yes… I wondered… How did you get it, might I ask?"

"From what I understand, Professor Snape bade a friend to pass it on."

Dumbledore ignores the sullen tone and smiles. "Ah, Narcissa Malfoy you mean? Naturally… I thought it might be her."

"Did you?"

"Oh, I did indeed. Severus Snape was a prudent man, and she was the best – the only real option. She had the best chance of survival, in addition to her capacities as an Occlumens."

"Well, I'm glad that your calculations worked out," Harry says through gritted teeth, so quietly that not even Ron, who is next to him, hears the remark. He cannot explain to himself why he is so annoyed all of a sudden; he has made his peace with Dumbledore and his risky plans. Or at least he thought so, because finding that flask, containing, no doubt, the same memories that Snape gave to him before his death – finding these has stirred something, something he has no name for.

Why should he even bother to look through them again? He knows everything he needs to know, right? Perhaps it is because today at dusk they'll bury Severus Snape, and something tells Harry that he needs to atone for _some_ of the things he's said and thought about the dead man. He went to great lengths to ensure that Harry should get these memories, Mrs Malfoy fulfilled her promise, and Madam Tonks set out to deliver them… The least he can do now is take a look.

Snape had enclosed, as a sort of postscript, some instructions, demanding that Harry ought to go through the memories in one sitting, which hinted that he had given some consideration as to how he might be able to persuade Harry of his trustworthiness, and the young man is genuinely curious about how his former teacher believed he could accomplish that. He follows the instructions meticulously. He's never followed _any_ of Snape's instructions so carefully before. The first memory is of a conversation between him and Dumbledore, discussing the very question – Snape asking Dumbledore repeatedly how he can believe that _Harry Potter_ could have faith in _him_ of all people, and the man in the portrait smiling serenely and insisting that Snape will find a way, clever man that he is. And for the first time, possibly, Harry finds himself thinking the same thing as Snape, who scowls at the old man and snarls, 'For somebody who always preached incessantly about the importance of distinguishing between what is _right_ and what is _easy_, you're picking the _very_ easy and convenient way, Dumbledore!'

The second memory is about the deal that Dumbledore and Snape made – Dumbledore trying to persuade him that he's got to kill him eventually and Snape trying to resist; it is followed by the scene in which Snape casts his Patronus, and the following memory shows sixteen-year-old Lily Evans glorying in the Defence Against the Dark Arts class, conjuring a doe-shaped Patronus that looks _exactly_ like Snape's. Then comes a sequence of various childhood memories: Snape and Harry's mum as children, being the best of friends, before coming to Hogwarts, how they're sitting together underneath a Christmas tree that strangely resembles Aunt Petunia's fashion of Christmas decoration. Then there comes some argument between them in the Hogwarts library, followed by – astonishingly – a memory of Draco's parents getting married, and Snape and Lily Evans being guests at the wedding, arguing once more – this time about some of the present guests – but also dancing with each other and seemingly enjoying themselves. Harry faintly notices Sirius in the background arguing with his mother the whole time, and while it makes him smile to see his godfather like this, since Snape took little notice of the other student that day, Harry sees equally little of him, and frankly, in this moment, he is preoccupied with very different matters.

Seeing his mother as a young girl – how old might she be there? Fourteen? Fifteen? – in pretty teal robes that make her hair shine all the more, smiling at her _friend_, joking around with him, joking around with _Mrs Malfoy_… Snape looks markedly different, too. His robes are inferior to those of pretty much everyone else; he seems to have borrowed them from someone taller and broader than himself. They're old-fashioned, but not old-fashioned in the same way as those of the father of the bride or any of the other rather stuffy ancestors. Snape's robes are plain and simply _unfashionable_, but one hardly notices that, because his face – happy, radiant with joy really – distracts one from even looking at his clothes.

The memory after this is the final argument between Snape and Lily Evans, in the corridor leading to Gryffindor Tower. Since Harry has already witnessed this exchange, he seizes the chance to take a closer look at the two combatants, noticing the tangible hurt underneath his mother's ostensible coolness and, all the more – Snape's despair. It is so obvious that a hundred things must be on the tip of his tongue there, but he can't bring himself to voice any of them… What would have been if he had spoken them aloud? What would have happened if Snape had professed his love for Lily there? Would she have forgiven him? Would she have looked at him in – in – _another_ fashion than that of an old, good friend…?

Well, Harry will never know, and for now, he hasn't got much leisure to ponder, either, because once more, the scenery changes to some other, swift recollections. Snape receiving the Dark Mark and glowing with pride – Snape overhearing the prophecy – Snape beaming triumphantly when forwarding the contents to Voldemort, who looks a little different, too, more human still, perhaps – Snape recoiling when Voldemort announces that he has figured out whom the prophecy applies to – and then comes the fateful night in which Snape goes to see Dumbledore to beg his help. None of these memories is very long, and, all of a sudden, Harry finds himself in almost total blackness and needs a moment to orient himself. He observes what seem to be the outskirts of a small, rural village – fields stretch to his left as far as the eye can see in the darkness, while a little forest nestles on the right and a narrow country lane lies before him. He doesn't have a clue where he is. Only the full moon lights up the scenery – but looking around, nobody's there. He gazes around, unsure what to do and straining to listen if there is at least any sound to detect – maybe someone's lying somewhere around here? Injured? Lurking in the forest, perhaps?

He hears a soft rustling, coming from… _That_ direction. He squints hard and follows the weak sound, still incapable of making out anything at all. Maybe it's just a mouse? But there – for a second, he's seen – _something_ – something black, coming out of thin air and then vanishing again just like it's appeared. He picks up the pace – and there it is again – this time, Harry thinks he's recognised a pair of shoes – moving – walking very quickly – but they're gone again. It dawns on him that he's seeing Snape, hidden underneath an Invisibility Cloak.

He rushes after the soft rustling, glad that now and then, he is able to catch a glimpse of those shoes. They come past a steeple, and suddenly Harry knows where they are – that is the chapel in the graveyard where his parents are buried! They're in Godric's Hollow! There is no monument in the town square just yet – which would mean… Could this be – oh lord. Seeing the bare trees, it must be late autumn… Harry's got a lump in his throat, all the more since he's suddenly realising that Snape isn't the only one lurking around here – in the distance, he spots a tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak next to a decidedly smaller figure in the same attire. Is this – Voldemort? Who is this next to him? Can that be Wormtail? And why the heck is Snape following them under an Invisibility Cloak, at such a long distance?

The two strangers (he's almost sure it's Voldemort and Wormtail, but he's too far away to discern them for certain) are almost there – Harry catches his breath, seeing the house of his parents how it was before – _that_ – night; he tries to get a better view, but his sight is blurred, as if this was a mirage, and the closer he gets, the less distinct the image becomes. What the –

There is a loud yell, but Harry cannot locate the source, although he's only sixty feet away from the white, wavering thing that he believes to be his parents' house. By now, it rather resembles a patch of fog, though – the only thing making him believe that it _must_ be their house is the neighbourhood, which he recognises. There are other sounds – curses, screams, a thundering noise… Out of nowhere, Snape's hands and considerably younger face appear, all floating in mid-air. He's frantically pacing around the white mist, his hands out-stretched, fumbling for something. Harry catches a glimpse of Snape's expression and winces in return – there is nothing but sheer panic in that face.

"Come on, Lily – undo the goddamned spell – I can help you, but you've got to _undo the damned spell!_"

Harry is rooted to the spot. He can't believe this. He can hear the shrill voice of his mother; the loud noises have ceased, and now Harry can hear pretty much everything. He can hear Snape muttering in a muffled voice over and over again that his mother ought to undo the Fidelius Charm; he can hear a giggle, high-pitched, icy – his mother's desperate pleas, and Snape's equally desperate pleas – then Voldemort hisses the Killing Curse and she's dead, and he can only hear a baby's – no, his own – wailing. Harry's heart misses a beat – this is the moment of his mother's death – he faintly registers a muffled sob coming from Snape, who bangs his fists against the misty surface without making another sound.

"No!" he croaks. "No! Lily! _Lily!_"

"Avada Kedavra!"

A gigantic explosion suddenly shakes the house – this must be the rebounding Killing Curse, destroying the one who cast it; some moments later but just as suddenly, the white mist disappears with a loud slurp, and the house is visible. Faintly, Harry notices a rat scurrying away in the distance, and it takes him a moment to grasp that it must have been Wormtail… Snape hasn't hesitated though, has possibly not even seen the animal; he lunges for the front door – well, the empty frame where there must have been a door. Overcoming his astonishment, Harry follows him, noticing the shape of a tall man with spectacles lying on the floor – his dad! – but, like Snape, he doesn't wait to take a closer look and heads for the stairs instead.

Though Harry does his best to keep up, he finds it difficult to follow Snape, who has already reached the first floor corridor, ignoring the masses of debris that start crashing down, sheltered only by the Invisibility Cloak. Snape heads for the room that Harry suspects to be his old children's room, though he's unlikely to get there, because parts of the house around him are tumbling down. The noises are deafening; walls fall apart, the floor crumbles – fire is hissing out of the room – solid bricks and tiles fall straight through Harry – he can hear Snape; the voice is contorted and hoarse, shouting indiscernibly. Harry knows nothing can happen to him, so he takes the last few steps to the room that is alight with fire by now, and what he sees there catches him off-guard.

The first thing he registers is his mother's dead body, lying on the floor. Snape is crouching over her – a small child in his arms – the room around him ablaze and collapsing – the child is screaming; Snape's holding him with his left arm and pulling on the lifeless body with his right.

"You can't stay here, Lily," Snape sobs, and to Harry's complete shock, he can see tears streaming down Snape's sallow cheeks, which are lighted by the fire. He uses his wand; fountains of water shoot out but are not enough to extinguish the fire. He showers himself, the coughing child, and the dead woman, still trying to drag her out. Then a wooden beam comes crashing down. Snape jumps back, but he doesn't manage to pull Lily Potter's body away in time. The beam hits her squarely, she's buried by the debris from the crashing ceiling, and Snape finally relinquishes his grip. He presses the child to his chest, casting a shield charm, and tries to escape from the inferno. Shocked – moved – helpless, Harry follows him; for him, it's easy, but Snape and the child – Harry cannot comprehend that this is truly _he_, Harry himself! – have much more difficulty getting out. The stairs are burning, and in a last desperate attempt, Snape blows away the remnants of a wall and jumps out.

Harry follows him, mesmerised. – Still pressing the child close, Snape lets himself fall on his back, giving a yelp of pain. He scrambles away from the house, finally putting the child on the ground. Harry stares at both of them. The toddler has a gaping wound on the forehead which is bleeding terribly – the little face is unrecognisable due to the blood. And then he sees something that he's seen Snape do before – he's moving his wand over the wound, muttering incantations in a sing-song voice, over and over again. He uses the Invisibility Cloak to wipe the boy's face clean, and when he finds that the wound has stopped bleeding, he stops the song to cast a Patronus. It's the graceful doe that Harry has seen before, sprinting away.

Harry's legs are wobbly and he lets himself fall down on the ground, next to Snape, next to his own mini-me. The child is panting, sobbing, its face contorted with exhaustion. And – Snape looks just the same. He's shaken by sobs, he's burying his face in his hands – not fifty feet away, the house is still burning, throwing a bright and eerie light on the crying man and crying baby. Snape seems to regain some self-control after a while, using his wand to cast some disguising charm and a song, a sort of lullaby. He strokes over the head of the child, whispering, "Be still – be still…"

Neighbours are starting to approach the scene; they cannot see them due to the spells, and Snape in turn completely ignores their attempts to extinguish the fire. He still tends to the infant, who slowly calms down; perhaps he's just too exhausted, perhaps it's the song, but at any rate, he does actually fall asleep. Snape's whole posture slackens. He shakes his head. "Where are you people when you're needed! Damn it! Damn you! And most of all damn _you_, Black, scum of the earth, you filthy traitor!" He glances over to the still-burning house. "_Expecto Patronum!_"

Another silvery doe appears out of the tip of Snape's wand. He brandishes his wand a couple of times over Harry and then gets to his feet. The Patronus takes his place, one hoof on each side of Baby-Harry's face. Snape looks down at him, with a – Harry blinks and tries to get a better view – with an expression he's never seen on his former teacher before, not in life, not in Snape's other memories. He looks very young now, and even though his face is twisted with grief, he's almost handsome despite his uneven features, gazing strangely at the child.

"She died for you, you know?" he whispers, and in the next moment he has Disapparated on the spot, and Harry finds himself in another memory – the one showing that fateful conversation when Dumbledore disclosed that Harry would have to sacrifice his life in order to defeat Voldemort. This version is longer than what Harry has seen previously, though; there comes the moment again when Snape casts his Patronus and says, 'Always!', but it doesn't stop here this time.

"I'm not going to do it, Dumbledore. Just forget about it! _Forget it!_ I'm _not_ going to kill you, and I won't – I'll be damned if I condemn her child and send him to die!"

"You have given me your _word_, Severus –"

"Yeah? Yeah! I gave you my word a hundred times! My word that I would protect him! My word that Lily's child would live as long as I had a say in the matter! My word that I would always, always honour her memory and her sacrifice –"

"And your word that you would do whatever it takes to honour that sacrifice."

"Yes, precisely! Lily didn't die to deliver the world from evil! She died for her _child_, Dumbledore! You know as well as I do that the magic wouldn't even have _worked_ if she had had any other motives than protecting her little boy! If _you_ want to betray her, I probably cannot stop you, but if you truly think that I am going to help you, you've never been more mistaken!"

Dumbledore looks old and tired as he's sitting there, while Snape seems to grow more livid with every word he spits at the Headmaster. There are deeply red blotches on his gaunt cheeks, and his eyes never looked more vivid in all the years that Harry knew him. It is a heart-wrenching sight to see him like this – defending a boy that he loathed.

"This is _important_, Severus," Dumbledore tries anew, but Snape doesn't let him.

"Important to _you_! You're being awfully cavalier with the lives of other people, Dumbledore! _You_ might have resigned to _your_ own death, bless you, but we are talking about a boy of sixteen years! Who's spent his ten years before coming to Hogwarts in perfect misery! He's hardly _started _to live, and now you expect him to die for _The Greater Good_, damn it!"

"Harry would understand –"

"Oh, I'm sure he would, if _you_ demanded it of him! He'd do anything you say! _You_ were sorted to the wrong House, Dumbledore, because, by Salazar's beard, you'd have made a _terrific_ Slytherin! I'll hand it to you, you've been deliciously cunning in raising your little sacrificial lamb! You've fed him _just_ the right bits, haven't you, and moulded him to obey to your every word, so that he'd even march to his own death if only _you_ said it was the right thing to do! You've taken an orphan, starved for a bit of affection and attention, and you've acted all benign and generous, until he's become your little puppet on a string! But perhaps you are mistaken, Dumbledore, perhaps – just perhaps – the boy's got a head on his shoulders to think for himself! And what are you going to do _then_!"

"That is why I hope that _you_ are going to be the one talking to him, Severus," Dumbledore says flatly and gives the other man a long, sad glance. "This way, he'll hear what _I_ say – the man he's used to trusting – and he'll hear what _you_ say –"

"The man he's used to mistrusting!" Snape cries and, despite himself, shows a little smile, before shaking his head again. "Brilliant idea, Dumbledore. He'll not listen to a word that _I_ say, and you shall have your will!"

"Severus…"

"_If_ I do it – and I'm not saying that I will! – but _if_ I should _ever_ do this, I'll have the boy choose for himself!"

Dumbledore nods. "That is good enough for me, Severus. That's good enough for me."

And this is, apparently, the last that Severus Snape had to say to Harry, because in the next moment, he finds himself back in Dumbledore's office, dazed and shaken, between his concerned looking friends. He can merely goggle back, blankly.

"What was it?"

His eyes dart up to Dumbledore's portrait, and it takes him a while to find his voice again. "Do you – do you know which memories he left for me?"

"I am as curious as your friends, Harry," Dumbledore replies calmly.

Haltingly, Harry recounts what he's seen, looking at his hands rather than at his friends. An enormous wave of guilt engulfs him. The image of Snape crouching over the toddler is burnt into his retinas, but at the same time, he can hear his own voice heaping curse over insult on Snape's head, all the things he thought and actually said during the course of seven years.

He's suddenly aware how much Snape knew about him, due to the Occlumency lessons. He knew every bit of abuse Harry ever uttered about him. And still, he had never failed to protect Harry, had he? Snape might never have gotten over his hatred for James Potter, might never have forgiven Harry for being James's son – or for the fact that Lily sacrificed her own life on behalf of his – but even in the moments of deepest emotional strain, Snape stuck to his pledge. If it weren't for Severus Snape, the disgruntled, cynical Potions Master, Harry Potter would have died time and time again. Voldemort's curse would have killed him, he would have burnt to crisp in the ruin of the house in Godric's Hollow, he would have broken his neck during that Quidditch match back then, the Death Eaters in the Ministry of Magic would have murdered him alongside his best friends, or they would have taken him to Voldemort on the night of Dumbledore's death. Snape wouldn't allow Voldemort to end Harry's life, and he wouldn't have Dumbledore gamble with it, either. That notion is as touching as it is disturbing.

Ginny and Ron look sceptical when he tells them his thoughts on that subject. Only Hermione bites her lips and visibly strains to refrain from crying. "Don't trouble yourself too much," Ron says. "He was a git to you. You only disliked him because _he_ disliked _you_ in the first place."

"But that's not the point," Harry answers and shakes his head. "I needn't have _liked_ him. But I never respected him either; I never acknowledged anything he's done for me. You –" He motions at Hermione. "You kept on telling me, but I didn't listen."

Hermione makes a vague gesture, half-shrugging, half-shaking her head.

"I tried to impress on you to respect Professor Snape." It's not Hermione's voice – it's Dumbledore's, coming from his portrait, and Harry swivels around to look at him.

"But you never told me _why_!"

"I was bound by a promise," the portrait replies with a sad expression, but Harry won't have it.

"You _promised_ not to tell me that he loved my mother," he snaps angrily. "But the rest? The rest was a very interesting blend of omitting certain details and presenting me with others that – that –" He presses his lips shut. Is it fair to blame Dumbledore for his own thoughts and conclusions? Just… There is no one else to blame, and just for the moment, Harry thinks he deserves to vent his anger and self-accusations. "Can you remember our very first talk about it? When you – in the Infirmary, after I tried to rescue the Philosopher's Stone – you told me that Snape didn't like me because he had been jealous of my father's successes at Quidditch?"

"Should I have told you that he had been jealous because of your mother instead?"

"You could have hinted that it wasn't just Snape's fault, though! When telling me he hated my father for saving his life – could you have made the _tiniest_ mention that he and his friends had set him up to die in the first place?"

"But they didn't, Harry."

"Yes, they did!"

"But they didn't _mean_ for him to die –"

"No disrespect, Sir," Harry says through gritted teeth, willing himself not to shout. "But they were in their fifth year! They were _fifteen_! Old enough to know what it means to send someone into the clutches of a werewolf! Everyone always told me how smart my dad was! Are you seriously telling me he was too dumb to know what that meant?"

"That… That wasn't your father's fault, Harry. _He_ didn't know about the – the set-up, you call it… He only heard of it that night when Severus was already on his way. And he set forth to the rescue immediately."

Harry is silent. That day in the Infirmary six years ago, Dumbledore told him that Snape's and James Potter's animosity was just like Harry's and Draco Malfoy's own little feud. Glaring at the portrait now, he wonders if the old man truly believed that. He and Draco, in their first year… Come on, that was nothing compared to what came later… Or compared to what Snape and James Potter had done to each other.

And isn't it strange that all the years since then, Harry always likened himself to his father in that equation, and Snape to Draco? The role of the git, the one to blame in that scenario – Dumbledore must have known what the little eleven-year-old boy was thinking. Harry's ready to take a lot of the blame on himself, but Dumbledore did his fair share to implant that impression on him, didn't he!

Looking at it now, he sees things differently. Snape was just as neglected as Harry when coming to this school, just as 'starved for affection' as he put it himself… And aged eleven, James Potter had shared an unsettling number of qualities with Draco Malfoy: the cockiness, the sense of self-importance. Snape and Harry were children that _no one_ had cared for, while James Potter and Draco Malfoy were mollycoddled and adored by their parents… In this moment, Harry thinks he understands the real truth behind that remark about Snape's envy for James Potter's Quidditch skills, _because_ Harry was more like Snape than his own father in that respect. He knows how dear, how precious his own Quidditch successes were to himself back then, earning him respect, admiration even, from his fellows. What might have become of Snape, if only he had had the same chance? If _he_ had had a knack for flying instead of curses? And who knows? Even Draco Malfoy might turn out a halfway decent human being, after all, given the sort of transformation that James Potter went through between eleven and twenty-one.

He forces himself to look back at the portrait again, and it returns the little smile that Harry gives him. "I'm not proud of myself," Dumbledore says. "But I'm very proud of most of the students I had under my care."

* * *

_Memoria est_… Memory is the treasure vault and preserver of all things.


	129. The Prince's Rest

The burial of Severus Snape

* * *

**- 4.4. -**

The Prince's Rest

* * *

_Impensa monumenti supervacua est; memoria nostra durabit si vita meruimus._

_PLINY – Epistulae_

_

* * *

_

Once they're all sitting outside among all the people who have come for the former Headmaster's burial, Harry leans over to Ginny, snatches her hand and whispers tenderly, "Promise me one thing, will you?"

"Sure –"

"If there ever comes a time when I'm making a complete idiot of myself – promise me you'll always give me the chance to explain and apologise."

Ginny laughs and squeezes his hand back, pecking him on the cheek. "I can promise you that easily! You do know my family, right? Percy? My dad? _Ron?_"

Ron has heard his name and pipes up, "What?"

She grins sardonically and winks at Hermione, who's sitting next to her brother. "I just confirmed that I have some experience with close family members habitually making fools or downright arses of themselves!"

"Hey!" Ron looks mortified but seems to grasp that she's too right to be contradicted, so he doesn't say anything else.

Harry continues pensively, "There's no portrait of Snape up there… Shouldn't he have a portrait, too?" Hermione opens her mouth to answer, but Harry continues, "And why shouldn't he have been buried at Hogwarts, anyway?"

"Because he defected from his position before his death," Hermione sighs. "That's why he hasn't got a portrait in the Headmaster's office, either. Though I really cannot see how it's supposed to be 'defection' when you're chased out by four people aiming to kill you."

"They thought he was Dumbledore's murderer and that he wanted to have me killed as well," Harry habitually defends Professor McGonagall. Nevertheless, it still doesn't seem fair.

"I know that and it's not what I mean. But – look, the school should have known –"

"Huh?"

"The magic. You know – the Headmaster's office opened for him, because it was aware of the true situation. Similarly, it should feature his portrait now. It feels wrong that it isn't there, to me."

"But surely that can be remedied, can't it?" Harry asks and looks around at her.

"What do you mean?"

"They can easily hang up a portrait of him still, can't they?"

"Portraits – magical portraits – are a very complex thing, Harry. Usually, they have to be created when the inhabitant is still alive. A bit of the person's spirit needs to be infused, or it's just an ordinary portrait like the Muggles do. I'm not sure how it is about Headmaster's portraits – they might work differently, I don't know."

He looks thoughtful. Hermione leans back, pressing Ron's hand and trying very hard not to think too much about all this. It hurts her to think that Harry surely isn't the only one who was unfair to Snape. She might have defended him many times – but in the end, she had condemned him with every breath, too, hadn't she!

It's good that he'll be interred in these grounds though, after all. She hadn't been there herself, but she'd heard from the Weasleys and Harry that Mrs Malfoy made quite a Walk to Canossa to achieve this. Harry is right. Snape should get a portrait, just as his grave rightfully belongs here at Hogwarts. But one can't be made, can it? Not even Mrs Malfoy falling to her knees in front of Professor McGonagall and Kingsley Shacklebolt can help in that regard, for all Hermione knows.

She's interrupted in her musings by Ron. "After insisting so strongly that she wanted to be allowed to take care of everything, old Narcissa turns out to be a miser after all?" he scoffs. "All her declarations – _my old friend, my old friend_ – and one would think she'd donate a mausoleum at least. And then all she comes up with is that boring old thing of a tombstone?"

Hermione groans and lifts her eyes to the sky. "All personal aversions aside, can't you at least let it rest during the funeral?"

"I'm just saying!"

"If I should wager a guess, that's Italian marble," she points out, gesturing at the tombstone, which is white with a soft greenish tinge, reflecting the overcast sky above them. "The embossment is probably real jade. Those –" She points at an intricate ornament above the name. "Those are almost definitely real emeralds. There are four triangles, in case you haven't noticed, amounting to the number twelve, which alludes to Snape's affinity for Potions as well as Arithmancy."

Noticing Ron's bewildered face, she sighs and goes on, "Three is regarded as a sacred number. It's the first odd prime number, just like the first unique prime number, representing the trinity of childhood, prime, and old age; as well as heaven, earth, and underworld; or the non-existence before birth, actual life, and the after-life; or air, water, and earth; or the psychological division of Ego, Super-Ego, and Id. Three graces, three fates, three Norns, three Furies. It –"

"Yes, I got it, I got it!"

"Four," she continues regardless, still scowling at him, "is the first number that is not a prime but contains all of the smaller primes. Four seasons, four points of compass, four dimensions of time and space, four elements, four fundamental forces, four founders of Hogwarts. Three plus four is seven – I needn't run that one past you, do I? Three times four is twelve – as in Twelve Properties of Dragon Blood, the number of months in a year, twelve Basic Laws of Magic. Three symbolises life in Chinese scripture, while four stands for death –"

"You don't have to run through your entire Arithmancy class now!"

"All I meant to say was that this tombstone shows some real consideration, as well as _taste_ – and I also doubt that Snape would have been very comfortable with a _mausoleum_, not to mention the fact that it possibly would not have been allowed on Hogwarts grounds, anyhow!"

"You needn't be that testy, you know?"

"And you needn't scorn something you haven't got the faintest idea about, _at a funeral!_"

"And _both of you_ could just _shut up_, at a _funeral_!" Harry inserts angrily and casts them a severe glance worthy of the man they're about to bury. They all fall silent, feeling guilty.

"Is it true that she offered to have him buried in the Malfoys' family vault, if he wasn't allowed a burial at Hogwarts?" Hermione finally asks out of genuine curiosity. She'd missed all the latest news during her absence but thinks she heard Mr Weasley utter something like this over breakfast this morning.

"I think so, yeah."

Ron sniggers spitefully. "I wonder how Malfoy's ancestors would have taken to that – having a half-blood buried among them?"

"I think they might appreciate the fact that this particular half-blood secured the continued existence of their dynasty," Hermione retorts curtly, and then, more softly, "It's nice to think that he did have some real friends, isn't it?"

Ron casts her a sceptical look. "I'd rather be dead, too, than have Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy as my buddies!"

To Hermione's disapproval, even Harry clearly has to keep himself from smirking, and so does Ginny, who puts her tongue in her cheek and gazes intently at the tombstone, absent-mindedly patting Harry's hand, which is resting on her arm. They're sitting fairly near the front of the assembling crowd, since they had arrived earlier than most. Hermione turns around to have a look.

Some parts of the castle behind them are still smouldering. Apparently, it had taken a dozen people three days to finally extinguish the Fiendfyre that Crabbe cast. Blimey, the boy learnt _one_ complicated spell in his life – but that one, he learnt really properly, didn't he! Here in the little graveyard, a few hundred feet away, one can still smell the stink of burning books and wood and what all else the fire destroyed. She wrinkles her nose when thinking that it's burnt human flesh, too, that she's smelling there.

Many people have come. Not as many as had come for Dumbledore's funeral the year before, no, which seems kind of unfair. Yes, Dumbledore _was_ a great wizard, the greatest of their time, possibly. But Severus Snape had turned out to be a real hero in his own right – shouldn't every witch and wizard in England have come for his funeral? Only then does she realise that many of those who'd been in attendance at the old Headmaster's funeral are likely to have died themselves in the past months. There would have been more deaths – and many, many children among them, had it not been for the man who's going to be laid to rest in that tomb over there.

She swallows hard at that notion. Everyone has settled in by now, and Professor McGonagall pushes a man in a Muggle wheelchair to the front. It takes Hermione a moment to grasp who this man – with unkempt, grey hair; piercing, unfriendly eyes; and a prominent, hooked nose ruling a sallow, emaciated face with a toothless mouth, wearing a morning gown in blue terry cloth and an utterly confused expression – is. She can see that she's not the only one who's baffled – next to her, Ron's jaw has dropped to his chest and next to him, Harry doesn't look a tad less incredulous. _That_ is Tobias Snape, then? Snape's Muggle father? It seems impossible but for that very distinct nose.

Seeing McGonagall clad in anything other than tartan attire is a similarly strange sight, but it loses out ten to nil against Tobias Snape. As she turns around to face the rows of chairs, the crowd falls instantly silent. From somewhere – Hermione can't say where – a song starts to swell, louder and louder. She knows this song – she's heard it before – but it takes her a while to place it. Her parents used to have this on a record, yes! It's a Muggle piece – now what's it called… Anyway, it's a beautiful, beautiful song, sad and solemn, played by strings only. Darn it, the song is so beautiful, Hermione starts to cry even before the funeral has properly begun!

The coffin is brought; carried by six young men. _Five_ young men, Hermione corrects herself. The sixth is a girl. It's Millicent Bulstrode, to be quite precise. Hermione also recognises Draco Malfoy, Gregory Goyle and Theo Nott; the others she knows by sight but not by name. One of them is older, and the last one looks a little younger, fifteen, sixteen perhaps. What's notable about this is that all of them are Slytherins, though they're not wearing the crest on their black school robes. They set the coffin down on the ground before the tomb; then Professor McGonagall walks over to the little pedestal beside the grave and mounts it, loudly and copiously clearing her throat. She's as bleary-eyed as Hermione feels, almost flustered-looking, and she casts the coffin a long, dismayed glance.

"Dear students," she finally begins, "dear friends, dear strangers, we have come here to bury a man that we all believed we knew in one respect or other – only to find that we were wrong. Severus Snape was a student of this school, later a teacher of Arithmancy, Potions, and Defence Against the Dark Arts. Most students past and present will remember him as the Potions Master and Head of Slytherin House, positions both of which he held for fifteen and sixteen years, respectively. Known for his high standards and maintenance of discipline, and praised by his own students to be 'hard, but fair' –"

At this point Ron makes a snorting sound but tries to disguise it as a cough, and outraged, Hermione pulls her hand out of his and gives him a scowl. Professor McGonagall goes on with her laudation, speaking about Snape's many quiet feats – and Hermione eyes Mr Snape again, more curiously still. He listens to the eulogy in frowning, silent disbelief. When McGonagall commends Snape for being one of the most highly-skilled wizards she ever met, he shakes his head with a disapproving glare. When McGonagall, with great animation, praises Snape's achievements and sacrifices in the war against Voldemort, Tobias Snape twists his face and sticks a finger in his ear and wriggles it as if he hadn't heard right. When she says that Hogwarts was his real home, his father actually starts to laugh and nods fiercely.

"It pains me to think how scarce the ones who didn't waver in their trust in him were," McGonagall says and swallows hard. She falters, clearly trying to control herself, and then goes on, quieter, "I know that Albus Dumbledore never wavered in his trust for a minute once Severus had joined our ranks, and I sincerely – sincerely – wish I could claim the same. Vilified by many, Severus didn't waver once in pursuing his path, lonely and determined. He returned to this school to fulfil a promise he had given, and he did all he could to protect and save the ones in his care."

Neville, who's sitting a few places further down the row, makes a noise half-way between a sigh and a sob, and he isn't the only one. McGonagall in dabs the corner of her eye with a tissue. "Many of us would not be here today if it hadn't been for Severus Snape's caution and care –" Hermione can see Neville nodding softly.

"And even if he was Headmaster for only eight months total, he shall be remembered as one of our greatest," McGonagall concludes at last. She conjures a white rose out of thin air, carefully places it on the coffin, and steps down with a very agitated air. She's replaced by Narcissa Malfoy – dressed in black like almost everyone, her robes still stand out easily due to their elegant cut and costly materials. Her dark robes also contrast with the paleness of her skin and her blonde hair, most of which is covered by a black veil. With long, slender fingers in black gloves, she unrolls a parchment and throws a swift look at it, then lowers her arms and looks at the black coffin instead. Her expression is one of deepest sadness, and when she starts to speak, her voice is deep and trembling slightly.

"Here shall you rest, my most beloved friend," she says. "It was here that you found your real home, it was here that you found your true destination, where you could exercise those talents dearest to you. I had the pleasure and honour to encounter you in your first year in Hogwarts, and you already stood out – your extraordinary talent and great intelligence, your true goodness of heart, your unwavering loyalty. I wish I had sufficient words to express what you mean to me and what you have done for me. I am sure that I am not the only one who dearly wishes to be able to tell you this. If not for you and your friendship, I would have lost everything; I might never have gotten it to begin with, and I am by no means the only one to owe you everything. You played such a substantial role in so many lives and never claimed acknowledgement for any of the many things you did for us all. I wish I could have repaid you in life for all you have done for me and my family. Now it is too late, but I hope that no matter where you dwell now, you have an inkling of the gratitude and love that not only I, but everyone in whose life you played a part, must feel. Often unaware of many of your merits –"

Harry gives an audible sigh, and Hermione turns to him, for the first time drawing her gaze away from the mesmerising eulogist. He is looking straight ahead, his lips tightly pressed together, while squeezing Ginny's hand.

Mrs Malfoy continues in the same vein, praising Severus Snape's qualities, everything he's done, and his contributions to the undoing of Voldemort. The lump in Hermione's throat grows by the minute, tears stream down her cheeks, but when the name 'Voldemort' is uttered, she wipes her eyes and looks with astonishment at Mrs Malfoy. Not only does the woman dare to speak the name – she utters it with a sort of contempt that is very notable in her otherwise very smooth, controlled speech. It never occurred to Hermione – she's had too many other worries troubling her in the last days – but now that she thinks about it, the Malfoys are bound to be as relieved as everybody else about Voldemort's final downfall, aren't they? She searches the crowd, and indeed – accompanied by a couple of wizards that look like they're from the Ministry (or what's left of it), there sit Draco and Lucius Malfoy. Both deadly pale, both hanging on Mrs Malfoy's words, both having bleary eyes; just now Draco wipes his eyes with his sleeve, and his father silently hands him a handkerchief.

Mrs Malfoy has finished, more or less, and with the words "You always honoured The Noble Dead, my friend, and now that you are one of them, we shall honour you as you deserve to be honoured, too. Your memory will live on in all of us –" She conjures a white rose and tenderly places it on the coffin with McGonagall's. Descending from the little pedestal, she rearranges her veil to conceal her features, and from the jerky movements of her shoulders, Hermione can tell that she's started to sob at last. She held herself remarkably well up there. Her husband rises to his feet but is restrained by his guards, though they eventually allow him to embrace his wife and lead her away. The Ministry wizards and Draco follow them, and then, they're gone.

"I'm glad they let her do this," Harry remarks hoarsely and gets up to join the queue to pay last respects to Severus Snape.

"Yes… Nobody would have been better suited, I suppose…" Hermione agrees.

"I mean, I knew that Malfoy always sucked up to Snape," Ron says, "but I hadn't figured he truly meant it."

Harry makes a pensive face. "How old do you reckon Narcissa Malfoy is?"

"Thirty," Ron says at once, reaping a few incredulous glances from his friends.

"Thirty?"

"She'd have been twelve then when Draco was born!"

"What on earth makes you think she is thirty?"

"She looks thirty!" Ron explains, his cheeks a deep scarlet.

"I think she ought to be thirty-eight, forty perhaps," Hermione says and scowls at Ron once more before turning to Harry. "Why?"

"I was wondering… She spoke of Snape's time in school and that she met him here. Which would mean… You think she was in school with my parents?"

"Possibly."

He nods vaguely, and then they're silent again because the coffin is being lowered into its grave.

* * *

_Impensa monumenti..._ The cost for a tomb is superfluous; we will be remembered if our life has earned remembrance.


	130. Black Sisters

Harry goes to Malfoy Manor

* * *

**- 4.5. -**

Black Sisters

* * *

_For to be poised against fatality, to meet adverse conditions gracefully, is more than simple endurance; it is an act of aggression, a positive triumph._

_THOMAS MANN – Death in Venice_

_

* * *

_

Standing before the ornamental gates of Malfoy Manor, he can't suppress a soft shudder. He peeks through the wrought-iron bars, finding the sight completely altered. There is nothing eerie now; in fact, he's looking at a beautiful garden with old, venerable trees, lavender and lilac in full bloom, flower beds and lush green lawns as far as the eyes can see. The only familiar sight is, strangely, a white peacock strutting about in the distance, which Harry vaguely remembers but would have believed to be a figment of his imagination if he wasn't seeing it now with his own two eyes. The whole scenery is a picture of loveliness, and without even noticing it, Harry touches the gate, pressing his face against it to get a better view. A moment later, there is a soft _plop_, and a tiny house-elf appears on the other side. He's got huge tennis-ball eyes and ears that evoke images of bat wings, is dressed in something like a pillow case made of damask, with stripes in cream and dark blue, and he makes a deep bow.

"What can I do for you, Sir?" the elf chirps, straightening again and eyeing Harry suspiciously.

He wishes he had had the presence of mind to bring Kreacher along. "Erm… I – my name is Harry Potter, and I – uhm… Your mistress? Is Mrs Malfoy your mistress…?"

"That is My Lady, indeed," the elf says with an air of utter complacency.

"I need to talk to –"

"My Lady receives no visitors," he says and stoops once more, before instantly Disapparating.

Harry goggles at the spot where the servant was standing a second ago. He looks for a bell – a knocker – a handle – anything, and touching the gates once more; the elf returns as suddenly as it had disappeared.

"Yes?" he snarls, a tad impatiently. "Anything else…?"

"I was told that Madam Tonks is staying with your mistress. I need to talk to _her_, please!"

The servant eyes him with great dislike, and Harry forms the notion that the servants at Malfoy Manor are every bit as conceited as their masters. If it weren't for the great visual resemblance to Dobby, he wouldn't believe they're of the same breed! "Wait here," the elf orders curtly and disappears once more, returning a few minutes later, and the gates dissolve before Harry's eyes, letting him enter. "Miss Andy agreed to receive you."

"Miss Andy…?"

The elf makes no reply but unceremoniously grabs Harry's hand and Apparates with him. In a moment, they're facing Malfoy Manor, and Harry, still disconcerted by the ever so unpleasant sensation of Apparition, catches his breath. _This_ is Malfoy Manor, then…? It has but little resemblance to the place he remembers, even if his sight was blurred that night. He cannot even gauge the full size of the house; he is standing before a long, steep flight of stairs leading up to a stately entrance, complete with pillars and what's-it-called, those triangular things above – well, never mind now. To his left, there is a wing in a very different style, looking much older; to his right, there is a vast lake glittering in the sunshine.

The elf releases Harry's hand and ascends the stairs, holding himself with great dignity, and only swiftly looks over his shoulder. "Are you coming, Sir?" he gnarls.

Harry hurriedly follows, entering a magnificent entrance hall. It's cool and sombre, impossibly high, with two flights of stairs leading to the upper stories flanking the portrait of a fierce-looking wizard. The wizard, at least, looks familiar enough – very much like Lucius Malfoy, only older, with short, white hair but the same cold sneer.

The elf bows to the portrait and announces nonchalantly, "Harry Potter, Master Abraxas."

Abraxas, Abraxas… Harry's heard that name before, and he remembers faintly that this must be Draco's grandfather then. "Harry Potter, eh?" the portrait repeats mockingly. "Why, what an honour!"

He doesn't sound too 'honoured' though, and his little smile seems far from sincere, too. "Follow me, Sir," the elf snaps over his shoulder, hurrying on again and heading for a corridor to the right. He leads Harry into a grand parlour, jockeys him into an armchair, and then steps back, his arms folded behind him and his expression stony. "My Lady and Miss Andy will come in a minute, Sir."

Harry cannot imagine feeling more stupid than just now, in the presence of the snooty servant, in this room full of noble portraits that keep on watching him, and other large paintings, antique-looking furniture, and loads of golden candle sticks and statues and other ornaments. It's like stepping into an English Heritage catalogue. He looks out of the large French windows, where a lawn softly descends to the lake he's seen before. In the distance, there is something like a park, or a forest perhaps, and the entire sight is simply beyond picturesque. One's got to hand it to the Malfoys – they live in style. Little wonder Draco Malfoy always had that swagger of his!

At last, Narcissa Malfoy enters the room, not making the tiniest noise; it appears she's floating instead of walking. In any case, Harry doesn't notice her appearance before she speaks up. "Mr Potter," she says quietly, startling him. "How do you do?"

He swivels around and jumps up. "Fine, thank you. Er – and you?"

"Thank you, thank you," she replies evasively and gestures for him to sit down again. "My sister will be here in a moment. She's got to take care of her grandson first."

How is he supposed to answer? He looks a bit helpless, trying to smile at the witch but not quite managing. Mrs Malfoy is wearing black, just like she did for the funeral. Her robes would seem out of place everywhere else but in this parlour; she looks as if she were ready for some grand, old-fashioned ball, with her long, wide skirt and the sparkling opal jewellery around her neck and dangling from her ears. On her left hand, she is wearing a ring adorned with gems that look like the family crest. On her right is a ring with a large diamond shaped like a lily. Harry has never seen such jewellery and is still marvelling at it when Mrs Malfoy asks him what he would like to drink.

"Tea? Coffee? Cognac? Anything else, Mr Potter?"

"Tea – would be very – nice," he stammers.

The elf disappears and returns in the next moment, carrying a tray with three cups and a plate with biscuits and the like. In that swift moment, he had also managed to change his apparel; now the stripes are grey and black. It takes a minute for Harry to grasp that this is a different elf altogether, resembling the first one down to a tee – how many house-elves have these people got?

"I – I would like to say thanks, Mrs Malfoy," Harry begins uncertainly, mainly to pass the time until Madam Tonks comes, but also because he believes that some words of thanks are in order. "Where to start… Well, obviously, thank you for – for lying for my sake –"

"In the clearing, you mean? You are _welcome_," she says with relish, and a decidedly malicious smile glides over the otherwise so smooth features. "Indeed, it was my _pleasure_. I had almost given up hope that there would ever come a moment when I would be allowed to have my own little revenge on the man! You really needn't thank me; _I _have to thank _you_. I was desperate to know what had happened to my child."

"You're welcome, too," he replies, nonplussed and slightly unsettled by the vicious glint in her dark blue eyes, which disappears as quickly as it came, and the witch looks impassive again. "Also, I'd like to – you know, the – the parcel you gave me – I… Uhm…"

"You needn't thank me, Mr Potter. It was Severus' express wish that you should get it; I was merely an intermediary."

"Yes, but still, it was – I was very glad to get it, and…"

"Well, _I_ am glad to hear it."

Nothing she says is the least bit impolite; in fact, she is very civil, but her overall expression could not be more detached. Her beautiful features are a mask of impassiveness again; her pose is straight and regal as she settles opposite of him, the slightest hint of a smile curling her lips. Yes, Draco's mum, no doubt about it. The boy grew up between a Death Eater and a refrigerator.

"Erm… Mrs Malfoy – I was wondering – in your eulogy, you mentioned – well, it sounded as if you had been in school with Sn- with Professor Snape –"

"I was so lucky, indeed."

Her manner isn't exactly encouraging, but he proceeds regardless, "And I figured that must mean you were in school with my parents, too –"

The little smile widens a bit, making her look almost friendly for a moment. "That's right. I remember your good mother very well. She was extraordinary in every respect."

"So you knew my father, too?"

There it is again, the little vicious glint in her eyes. "I can't say I _knew_ him, Mr Potter. At any rate, I don't think you want _my_ testimony about him. We were not on friendly terms."

He hesitates and murmurs, "It just sounded as if you had – well, _liked_ my mum…"

"Oh, I did!" she exclaims, suddenly friendly again. "I liked your mother very much. She was a most remarkable young woman. Very smart, very witty. We were in the Potions Club together, you see, and also, we got to see quite a bit of each other because of your mother's friendship with Professor Snape. She even attended my own wedding."

"Yes, I – I know that. You see – the box you sent me – it contained memories of Sn- of Professor Snape, and one of them was about your wedding." He fumbles with the pocket of his jeans and produces a tiny vial, putting it on the table between them. "You – you said you would like to have a – a keepsake, and I thought… Well, I thought you might like to have this one. It's of your wedding, after all –"

She looks the tiniest bit surprised but also pleased. "Thank you so much, Mr Potter! I am delighted! But – can you truly part with this? I suppose it shows your mother as well?"

"It does, but he gave me many others, and I – well, I wanted to give you one, and I thought you might appreciate this one the most."

"I do, Mr Potter. Be sure, I do!"

She practically beams at him now, and he is simply struck by that sight. Mrs Malfoy is an outstandingly beautiful woman even when she's scowling, but now that she smiles for real, she is nothing short of stunning. Suddenly, he can understand Ron's spontaneous guess about her age – she doesn't appear as if she is the mother of an eighteen-year-old, not at all. Which reminds him of the other thing he meant to give to her, and he takes the hawthorn wand out of his back pocket.

He puts it next to the vial on the table between them. "This is Draco's. I thought you might like to have it returned."

The smile disappears instantly. There is a brief flicker of – he can't say what it is – and then she's back to cool and indifferent. "Thank you," she says, sounding strained. "Though I'm afraid he doesn't need it any longer."

"So – how is he? Draco, I mean," he asks to ease the tension.

The coolness is replaced by a sombre mask. "Quite well, I believe," she says quietly.

He feels the urge to speak some words of comfort – something like that at least her son will soon be back, surely – and then he thinks of all the families that will never be united again, even more surely, thanks to the cause that Lucius Malfoy, at least, once championed so much. How is he supposed to feel sympathy for them? He also remembers the night in Malfoy Manor during which Dobby lost his life and Hermione nearly lost hers. He remembers what Hermione said about it – how Draco tried to intervene for her sake, but his parents held him back. _Both_ of them did.

"I'm sure – I'm sure it'll be all right, Mrs Malfoy," he murmurs, only to say something.

"All right? _All right?_" She checks herself. "Excuse me. I am just a tad uneasy with my son facing lifelong imprisonment."

"I heard he turned himself in…"

"Oh, yes, and he persuaded his father to join him. I reckon it is expected of me to proclaim now how proud I am of his choice, but forgive me for thinking that he's made his life's second-worst mistake!"

He doesn't know what to reply to _that_. Luckily, he is spared having to answer because one of the doors swings open and Madam Tonks comes in, accompanied by a young man with blonde hair and a dark tan that enhances his sparkling blue eyes. Both are wearing black; Madam Tonks is clad in robes, too, though not as luxurious as her sister's, while the young man sports black jeans and a T-shirt. Harry wonders where he's seen this man before – oh, sure. At Remus and Tonks's funeral. He was with Madam Tonks there, too.

"Good day, Mr Potter," she greets him, stretching out her hand and shaking his. "Allow me to introduce you to my son, Lennart."

The young man gives him a smile and a wave of his hand. "Hello," he says quietly, but not in an unfriendly manner. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"I – I didn't even know Tonks had a brother –"

"Yes, Nymphadora –"

"Mum," the man cuts her short. "She hated that name in life. Just respect that in death, and let's just call her Dora!" Turning back to Harry, he goes on, more gently and a bit sadly, "I've lived in Spain for the past five years. I saw deplorably little of my sister."

"Oh, I see… And – and how is Teddy?"

Madam Tonks smiles fondly. "Very well, I daresay. Did you come to see him?"

Harry is startled by that question. Is that expected of a godfather? He's got no clue _what _exactly constitutes a godfather's duties. Sirius was in prison for the greatest part of Harry's life – and the only other case he knows is Dudley's godfather – erm – _godmother_, Aunt Marge. And _she_ is an unsuitable role-model for anyone in any respect. Should he have brought a present? And what on earth would be a proper present for a child that's not yet two months old?

"Uh – well, I'd _love_ to see him, of course! Though – well, actually…" He takes a deep breath and rallies himself. "Madam Tonks, we – that is, my friends, Hermione and Ron, and I – were thinking that you may be able to help us. We – now, where to start… You see, as things are, Professor Snape does not have a portrait in the Headmaster's Office in Hogwarts. I asked Professor McGonagall why that is so – she explained – but she also said that she'd be sure to put it up, if only there _was_ one. Now Mr Weasley told us that you are an expert in magical art –"

"No, I'm not. My husband was the painter; I know but little. If you want an expert, ask my sister."

She motions at Narcissa Malfoy, who in turn shakes her head. "That's an exaggeration. I'm an enthusiast, for sure, but far from being an expert. What about you, Lennart?"

The young man shakes his head, too. "I only really know about sculpturing, Aunt Cissy. As far as paintings go, you know ten times more than I do."

Harry tries to curb his astonishment at that bizarre display of harmonious family life and goes on, "Well, perhaps one of you can still help us. What we want to know is: how can we get a portrait of Professor Snape?"

"It's not possible," Madam Tonks says. "For a genuine wizard portrait, the person needs to be painted while still alive. The painter needs the _spirit_ of the portrayed person."

"Yes, everyone tells me that. But what does it _mean_?"

"You need something from that person – and not just some _thing_, but their _essence_ – to infuse it into the painting. And once that person is dead, later, that remnant lets the portrait come to life."

Harry is at a loss as to what she means, and defying her statement that she doesn't know much about it, Narcissa Malfoy elaborates, "A magical portrait shows the imprint of a person's spirit, Mr Potter. You can imagine it like a hoof-print. The act of painting puts down the hoof in the sand, so to speak, and when the portrayed person dies, the hoof – that is, the _spirit_ as a whole is removed and goes on to another plain of existence, but its imprint remains, and bestows liveliness to the painting."

Nope, he _still_ doesn't grasp the concept, but to his surprise, Narcissa Malfoy suddenly half-rises from her seat, looking struck. "Wait… Wait…" she cries, snatching the vial from the small table." You said this was a memory from Severus, didn't you, Mr Potter?" He nods affirmatively, and she waves the vial at her sister. "That's it! That's _it_, Andy! A genuine, original memory! Extracted from him in life! Surely, that would suffice!"

"Even less than that would," the young man says pensively. "At least for a sculpture it would, and I guess the same is true for a painting –"

The two sisters exchange a bright smile, throwing names at each other. "Montague Clogg! – Ebenezer Sartorius! – Damian Hellbore! – George Knight! – Anastasia Bartok!"

They are clearly excited, and Harry assumes that it _is_ possible after all. They seem to have forgotten all about him. "Hellbore is too modern for this purpose! – But Knight always experiments with the colours! – Bartok –"

"Too naïve!" Mrs Malfoy and her nephew cry in unison.

"Old Montague swore to never touch a paint brush again…"

"A million galleons might change his mind!"

"I'm not sure."

Narcissa Malfoy makes a dismissive, impatient gesture. "Offer him two million then! Five! Ten, if he wants them!"

"We _could_ try Sartorius…"

"Sartorius would be brilliant!"

Lennart slaps his thigh. "I know his agent! I can send him an owl straight away!"

"Please, do so, dear!" Mrs Malfoy nods, excited; Lennart gets up and leaves. Only then does she remember Harry, and she restores her dignified, poised air at once. "Please, excuse our exuberance, Mr Potter."

"I take it you _can_ obtain a portrait, then?"

"Thanks to _you_, Mr Potter, thanks to _you_!" She shoots the vial that she's still holding a reverent glance and carefully puts it down again.

"Excuse me, but – I heard the figures – and I – I'm afraid we cannot pay a million galleons – nothing like that…"

She frowns. "Why, of course not. _I_ will pay all necessary expenses, naturally! It's the least I can do for my friend!"


	131. Justice

Lucius takes a stand in court

* * *

**- 4.6. -**

Justice

* * *

_Hoc quod est pater, utere, ut memineris et hominem esse te et hominis patrem._

_PLINY – Epistulae_

* * *

The defendant quietly listened to the verdict – sentenced for life – and showed no perceptible sign of movement or dissent. Instead, he nodded ever so slightly and cast a brief look over his shoulder. Then the Law Wizard next to him got up.

"My client would like to read out a statement, Chairman Skittles."

The privilege was granted; Lucius Malfoy rose to his feet, and his Law Wizard sat back down. Lucius was a very different sight these days from what people were used to. Apparently, the pictures of him in the Daily Prophet during the last year had been heavily touched up. He had always been lean and fit, but nowadays he was rather thin for a man of his height and build, and the erstwhile self-confident pose and gestures had become erratic. His face was narrower, his cheeks more hollow, and threads of silver-grey had started to mingle with the silver-blond hair.

He unrolled a parchment and cast another look over his shoulder, his gaze resting for a moment on his wife and son. They weren't as altered as he, no, but for anyone bothering to look, the changes were visible enough. Madam Malfoy had always been delicate and willowy – now she was rather elfin, so pale that she seemed almost transparent, so slender that it bordered on worrisome. No visible sign of age or concern had edged into her appearance otherwise. She still looked ten years younger than she was, her hair was still as golden as it had always been and her face as immaculately smooth, no wrinkles, no nothing. Her expression had changed considerably, though. The haughty, impassive indifference that had seemed to scorn everything she saw, always, had been replaced by wordless sadness that was conveyed by the expression of her dark blue eyes alone.

Her son's infamous cockiness had likewise vanished. There was _nothing_ cocky or defiant, or even proud, about the young man as he sat there, his arms linked with his mother's. His eyes were wide and fixed on his father; a forlorn little smile played around his lips and he seemed to nod ever so lightly, almost unnoticeably.

Lucius Malfoy turned back to face the Wizengamot, cleared his throat but nonetheless began hoarsely, "I am grateful that you are allowing me to give this statement. You – you have heard my testimony. It was as complete as it was possible for me to give, after the lapse of so much time in some of the cases. It was incomplete in one respect though, which I didn't wish to address before the actual verdict had been made. I want it understood that this amendment is sincere, and was _not_ contrived in order to gain my judges' benevolence."

He smacked his lips, shot his son another fleeting glance, and went on, "I want to apologise to the victims who were affected by my crimes, as well as the crimes committed by the Dark Order that I so willingly served. I want to apologise to them, as well as to their families. I understand, _fully_, what grievances were caused by my deeds and that forgiveness for these is out of the question. I cannot strive for _forgiveness_, but I want it known that I regret my actions sincerely and hope to be capable of recompensing as far as material means can go. Again – I don't mean to give the impression that this offer was driven by any other ulterior motive, or even a sign of generosity. Money doesn't mean anything to me. No matter what _financial_ cost may impend, I daresay our family's fortune will hardly be affected by it. I hope, however, that it might make _a little_ difference to those who have lost their health or loved ones."

He swiftly glanced at the parchment. "I know that public excuses cannot repair any damage. I know that nothing I can say or do can restore what is lost. This plea is a selfish one indeed, which makes me all the more thankful to be permitted to utter it. I am a father, and as a father, I stand here now. I wish I could say that I was standing here because I wanted to give my son a better example than I have given to him in the past. This is not the case. In fact, I am merely following my son's example and wishes –"

Behind him, said son shut his eyes and lowered his head, shaking it softly. His mother looked at him, bit her lips, and squeezed his arm, while her husband on the stand proceeded, "I hope with all my heart that my son can now live in a peaceful world. I wish I had done something to participate in building it up. Thus all that remains for me is to say, once more, that I am sorry beyond that which words can express, and to express my compassion for the families and individuals that suffered from my doings, as well as my omissions. I thank the Wizengamot for their patience and forbearance in hearing me out. Thank you."

He sat back down to await the final dismissal of the court. For a few moments, however, the court room was completely silent. Draco Malfoy turned towards his mother, mouthing a mute 'sorry,' but she shook her head and patted his back. No, despite all her raging and raving, Narcissa Malfoy had made her peace with all this. She _knew_ that it was all for the best. Well, the best that could come out of this mess, at any rate. In truth – how long would they have lasted, she and Lucius, on the flight? Would that have been a truly desirable option in the first place? Yes, the two of them would have been together – and Narcissa couldn't endure thinking how it was going to be from now on. But Lucius lived – he _lived_ – that was more than her sister could say about _her_ beloved husband. They'd be permitted to write to each other, and they'd be able to see each other during visiting times; Mr Jenkins had been quite positive that _this_ wouldn't be much of a problem.

This penance was important for Lucius and Draco. _That_ was what counted, when all was said and done. _Their_ minds were much more troubled than hers. She knew that it would take Draco a long time to forget, _if_ he should manage to forget, ever, what he had seen, what he had been forced to do. And what had kept him going, eh? His love for his parents. They owed it to him to make things easier. Even Lucius would be better off in this one respect. No reasonable argument could make him believe in his son's forgiveness, and if the cold, mossy walls of Azkaban could, so be it. She knew he needed Draco's good will more than anything else, including his freedom and the company of his wife. What was that company worth as long as he beat himself up like this?

Judge Skittles had found his voice again, dismissed the court, and everybody got up and made for the exits. Narcissa and Draco, however, headed for the defendant's chair, where a couple of guards were just now putting the shackles back in place. Seeing mother and son approaching, one of them nudged his colleague, and they removed the spells.

"But just a minute, Mr Malfoy!"

Lucius nodded, opened his arms, and wrapped them around his wife and Draco. "I'm proud of you, Dad," the boy whispered, making his father chuckle under his breath.

"No, Draco. _I_ am proud of _you_. I always was, especially today. Perhaps in time, I'll earn you taking genuine pride in _me_, too." He muzzled his son's hair and kissed Narcissa's forehead. "Forgive me, petal…"

"There's nothing to forgive," she replied, her voice quavering.

"I love you. I'll miss you. I'll miss the both of you like crazy."

And then, he was led away, and Narcissa became aware of a number of flashing lights. No, they hadn't been on their own during that last tender exchange. A whole flock of reporters had been present, maniacally taking photos. Absent-mindedly, Narcissa drew her wand and flicked it. A flash of red light emerged, and in the next second, all the cameras were transformed into big, croaking toads, jumping into the photographers' faces.

"Awesome spell, Mum."

"Thank you, darling." She sighed. "For a moment, I meant to make it hornets. Perhaps they'd have allowed me to join your father in his cell."

* * *

_Hoc quod... _As a father, always keep in mind that you are human and father of a human being.


	132. A New Beginning

After burying the dead, life goes on for the living

* * *

**- Phineas' Narration -**

A New Beginning

* * *

_Try again – fail again – fail better._

_SAMUEL BECKETT_

_

* * *

_

Are we back?

– _I should think so, Phineas._ –

We're a little late, aren't we?

– _But now we're back. I suggest you simply go ahead now, or we'll be even later._ –

Hmpf! Well… To cut a long story short – my dear girl was able to find an artist, who, using some of the memories in Harry Potter's possession, was able to fabricate two portraits of young Severus Snape. One, you can see over there. At least its frame. The other hangs in Malfoy Manor – in my dear girl's Music Chamber. Young Snape is still a little put out that the whole world has heard about his soft core. So put out, in fact, that he doesn't talk to either of us. He doesn't even _show up_. Can you believe the nerve of this man! My girl makes all these arrangements, solely for him to get a painting – and then he deigns staying out of it!

– _Oh, but he is only embarrassed, Phineas. Just imagine – all his life, he kept his very best a secret, and now everybody knows about it. _–

What's his problem? If they didn't know, they'd still think him to be You Know Who's most darling follower! A war criminal! A torturer and murderer!

– _Curiously, I believe Severus is the sort of man feeling more comfortable with people thinking the worst of him than the other way round. He never demanded acknowledgement, or thankfulness – _

That he didn't expressly _demand_ it doesn't say he wouldn't have been delighted with it nonetheless, Dumbledore! Really, you're taking things as convenient as pleases you best! The man _was_ a hero, he single-handedly restored the name of Slytherin House, and _I_ demand that he is duly praised!

– _For a start it might help if you stopped mocking him._ –

But I only tease him because I'm rather fond of the young lad. You see me teasing old Armando over there? Or the humourless Dilys? Certainly not. However, he isn't here, so I shall go on with the narration without congratulating him. Where was I? Ah… Yes. As you all can imagine, there were a whole lot of funerals, all as touching as Severus Snape's, though most of the tombstones were decidedly cheaper. My dear girl also arranged her sister Bellatrix' funeral – a grave without a name in the Black family burial plot – but was alone with the undertaker then, because her imprisoned brother-in-law didn't receive the special permission to go. Young Draco, although granted that privilege, strictly refused attending his aunt's interment. And speaking of the headstrong boy – he was _not_ sentenced like his mother had feared. Even though tried for casting an Unforgivable, two cases of attempted murder and two bodily injuries caused by negligence, he found a benign jury – and that Harry Potter himself, Miss Lovegood and young Mr Longbottom, spoke in his favour surely helped, too. In the end, he was sentenced to thousand five hundred hours of social work in his free time, to be done in Saint Mungo's, and in the participation in the rebuilding of Hogwarts.

Most other known Death Eaters weren't nearly as lucky. The captured survivors received sentences between ten months (only one got off so easily – Thelonius Nott found a whole bunch of witnesses vouchsafing for him), and life-long. Only a few were able to abscond from justice – Rabastan Lestrange, Elias Yaxley, Fenrir Greyback and a good number of other werewolves got away. Also, it was impossible to seize the Dementors. At least, the new regime had sense enough to dispense with their services in the future.

– I _always said…_ –

Yes, yes, seer in the dark, you were! Stop pestering yourself into the foreground, Dumbledore. You always do that! – As I just said: most Death Eaters were sentenced for life, among them my two idiotic great-grandsons-in-law. My dear pet was inconsolable, but rallied herself for her son's sake. Also, the premises of Azkaban prison went through some serious improvements. The weather didn't get better, so I'm not sure how much the inmates profited from being granted windows, after all. One of the new regulations allowed the prisoners to be visited – once a month usually – but it was assessed in his favour that the Idiot had turned himself in and collaborated with the authorities so much, so the privilege of visit was extended for my dear girl. She went to Azkaban once a week, and was allowed to see him in private for two hours each. I do not imagine that this arrangement truly contended her, but she never complained. She was such a temperate, sensible, patient –

– _I believe we all know how much you dote on her._ –

Pah!

– _But since we're speaking of sensible, patient women:_ My _dear Minerva_ _was asked to become the next Hogwarts Headmistress, but she declined the offer. _Her_ true vocation was to teach, she said. It turned out a little difficult to find someone for the job; all other teachers declined as well, and in the end, a former teacher – Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, was appointed._ –

It is a strenuous position. I think all of us, here, in this office, can testify to the demanding nature of the position. But many, many positions needed to be filled that summer. Those Ministry employees who had too readily cooperated with the New Dark Order were either downgraded or straightaway removed; some, like Dolores Umbridge, were even sent to Azkaban for their actions in the past. The Wizengamot underwent similar procedures. Why, even in Gringotts, some personal changes had to be made.

Another most notable change in Hogwarts, perhaps – a deviation from a thousand years worth of tradition – had to be made due to the fact that the Sorting Hat had been damaged beyond repair. – Looks like young Harry Potter was a little _too_ quick when putting the infamous wand back to your grave, Dumbledore!

– _Shhh!_ –

Oh, but they know about this, anyhow! Seriously, Dumbledore, haven't you read the books, even?

– _I don't think I have to read them. I was_ there _most of the time! _–

Oh, Salazar, not _this_ again! Yes, Dumbledore, you were at the heart of it all. Happy now? Blimey. – Anyway, I think we're speaking of your protégé, Mr Potter – he went back to complete his education and was offered the position as Head Boy, but like his Head of House, declined. Just like Miss Granger declined to become Head Girl; both claimed they wished to be left to their peace, and concentrate on their studies. With the same argument, Mr Potter refused to get back to his old position as the Captain of the Gryffindor House Team, the young Miss Weasley replaced him in this regard.

– _Phineas, perhaps we should explain some more about the Sorting Hat._ –

Well, there's not that much to explain, is there? It was so damaged that the sorting could no longer be executed this way. The reinstated board of school governors decided to go by the family affiliations of the respective students instead, and if in doubt – in cases when the parents had belonged to different houses, for example, or with Muggle-born students – they conducted interviews to see where a child might fit best. The Muggle-born students were usually visited by teachers anyhow, to explain matters to their parents, so it didn't seem a big deal. The burnt rags that had once been the Sorting Hat were given to Artemis College for scientific purposes, and not heard of again for another decade or so.

For those of you who care – I don't, personally, but the Muggles among you might after all – Harry Potter was reunited with his surviving Muggle family. I was told that the reunion wasn't too cordial. Well, what do you expect, really. Mr and Mrs Vernon Dursley returned to their house – only to find it burnt to the ground in the meantime, which confirmed all of Mr Dursley's worst prejudices about wizardkind. His wife at least had the presence of mind to remark that they could have been trapped inside that fire, if they had not listened to their son Dudley's sage advice to do as Harry Potter told them. – Remind me, Dumbledore – _why_ did you think it was a good idea to have the child raised by these people?

– _I had no idea how they treated him until Severus told me!_ –

Ah, yes, I see… But in all these years, you never once bothered to check? Pay a visit? _Ask_ the boy? No?

– _Get on with your narration, Phineas!_ –

Oh, forgive my impertinence, but I'm enjoying this just too much – Dumbledore's fallibility proven at last! Ah, it is too good to be true!


	133. Repentance

Draco tries to be a better person to make up for what he's done

* * *

_**- 4.7. -**_

Repentance

* * *

_Tomorrow night is nothing but one long, sleepless wrestle with yesterday's omissions and regrets._

_WILLIAM FAULKNER_

_

* * *

_

When Draco returned home from the hospital, his mother and aunt waited for him, one smiling brightly and falsely, the other smiling, too, but much more subdued.

"Come here, honey," Narcissa said and patted the seat next to her on the sofa. She beckoned at Nobby to mix him a drink, and Draco slouched down beside her. "You look tired, mon trésor."

"I _am_ tired," he said, and added quickly, "But that's fine, Mum, you really needn't worry. I find I can fall asleep so much easier when I'm really exhausted at night."

This was true, but not entirely. He usually fell asleep at once, almost in the same moment when lying down, exhausted from the day's work, but he woke up again several times during the night, haunted by the same nightmares as ever, just seeing the heads of the patients in Saint Mungo's on the victims' shoulders instead.

He sipped his drink and Nobby asked the young master what he would like to have for dinner. Draco just shrugged – he didn't care, he seriously didn't. For the greater part of the day, he had carried around dinner trays, for the patients in Saint Mungo's. Seeing the awful stuff that the patients had to eat – some of them were really _ill_, shouldn't they be eating good food? – he found the delicacies served in Malfoy Manor for a simple dinner almost decadent. When that thought had first occurred to him, he had tried to ask Nobby for a bowl of broth instead of the three-course menu including mussels and quails, reaping deep mistrust and dolour in the servants' quarter, and had decided that this brand of self-flagellation wouldn't do.

His mother seemed to guess at his thoughts. "How was your day, my darling?"

"Fine. Everything as usual. We managed to complete some of the staircases in the main building. Oh, and Anthony Goldstein's arm is fully mended, so he was finally allowed to leave the hospital."

"Sounds great," Narcissa said with fake enthusiasm. She didn't care for either staircases or healed patients, but it appeared to matter a great deal to her son, and in this respect, she cared a lot. Draco on the other hand knew how his mother had spent the afternoon – she had visited his father in Azkaban – so he asked her how it had been, not quite daring to meet her gaze. "He is fine, darling, don't trouble yourself," she replied with a little smile, but he still wouldn't look.

"Did you say hello for me?"

"I did, yes, and he wishes me to return that hello."

"Does he really?"

Narcissa put an arm around her son's shoulder and seized him close. "_Of course_ he does, sweetheart. Unlike _you_, your father has no grudges whatsoever wi-"

"I don't have a _grudge_ with him, Mum. Tell him that! You've got to tell him that, please!"

Narcissa bit her lip, on the verge of saying 'Why don't you tell him yourself?' But that remark appeared tactless; Draco would speak to his father when he was ready, and it was no use to push him. He accompanied her to visit Lucius every second Thursday, for one hour each time, but both father and son employed almost artistic means to avoid mentioning any of the crucial points. She couldn't begin to imagine how they managed to pass sixty minutes while trying to circumnavigate any sensitive issue, but they did. Lucius was scared of the confrontation, she knew, and clearly, so was Draco. Oh, well, it would pass. Perhaps Draco needed to start feeling better about himself before daring to inspect his father's – and his own – past.

At least the first assumption regarding Lucius' past was right, though not the latter – but since Draco felt as little urge to be candid with his mother as he was with his dad, she couldn't know either. Because Draco _did_ face his past. Each afternoon in the hospital inevitably reminded him of his deeds and beliefs. He attended to victims of the Great Battle, he attended to victims of the Cruciatus Curse who still suffered from various, lingering effects, he attended to purebloods and half-bloods and Muggle-born people – he even had some real Muggles under his care, and he had come to see with his own two eyes that there was no whatsoever difference among all these. Well, the Muggles _were_ different, of course, in so far that they couldn't do magic – but other than that, they were as normal as everybody else.

He _had_ known that, to a certain degree, even when he had been a young aspiring Death Eater himself still. He wasn't stupid and he had enjoyed an excellent education; _of course_ he had known that a person's blood status, or their capacity for magic, didn't make any other difference. That knowledge hadn't kept him from looking down on them though. He had to admit that he had looked down on _everybody_, even the other purebloods, for the simple reason that he was Draco _Malfoy_. Nobody had a purer pedigree than he. The first official mention of his father's dynasty, then spelled Maleficius still, was in a Roman document from the year 71 AD – the stone tablet testifying to that fact was kept in a costly crystal cabinet in Malfoy Manor, to be shown to guests that one wished to be impressed. The same cabinet contained a parchment signed in 1067 by William the Conqueror, bestowing a great stretch of land to a deserving advisor called Malefoi. His mother's family could be traced back to the year 668 AD at least, spawning no less than seven Ministers for Magic, two Hogwarts Headmasters, and twenty-three family members to receive Orders of Merlin. He had been pleased as punch about this, and just now, he wondered _why_ this had always seemed so goddamned important to him.

_Everybody_ must have had _some_ ancestors living 71 AD – was it really that _special_ only because one had a stone tablet confirming that simple truth of life? Sure, having nothing but wizards and witches in one's ancestry was pretty extraordinary, too, but… Oh, for heaven's sake, the best witch in his year in school was Muggle-born, without a single magical relative; it obviously didn't matter how many wizards one had to show for on the family tree. It was true that Granger was the only Muggle-born in the top ten of their year – but the reason for this had little to do with magical power in itself. It was merely an almost natural side-effect of the advantage that children from magical families grew up with – they'd see magic since their infancy, they'd learn their first spells long before school, and in the holidays, they could do as much magic as they liked, because the Ministry of Magic could never find them out. Granger seemed to have made up for this lack of being exposed to magic by studying hard like a maniac – and he knew perfectly well how much he had mocked her for that. He hadn't had the greatness to be capable of admitting that someone like her could outshine him so badly – someone who had never seen proper magic being done before coming to Hogwarts herself.

Oh, how _proud_ had he been of his grand, old family name! How superior had he felt, towards everyone else! He shrank away with embarrassment when thinking about it now – the _swagger_! He – _Draco Appolonius Alboin David Artemis Immanuel Cygnus Abraxas Phaeton Malfoy_, youngest scion of his famous family, rich beyond measure, son of his irresistibly powerful, high-and-mighty Death Eater father and his mother, who was as sagacious as she was beautiful – he had truly believed the world _must_ be at his command. How could a single person be so _utterly_ deluded? Seriously – how clever could he reasonably claim to be, after buying into this total nonsense?

Not only wasn't he nearly as special and superior as he had fancied himself to be – he had also sunk to the lowest possible low. Drooling like Pavlov's dog (_no_, his good education hadn't been _entirely_ wasted!) to become a Death Eater and fall to his knees before his _master_. He might have been thinking too highly of himself in some respects, but he had debased himself _completely_ when desiring to become that man's servant, all other implications of that commitment aside! And speaking of those 'implications' – oh god, he hardly endured thinking of what he had once been so eager to do.

Seeing his dad's 'example', he had truly believed that becoming a Death Eater was not only a proper aim, but also fairly simple – not as far as magical strength was concerned, obviously, but regarding the mindset that was required. What had Dumbledore said? 'Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe' – or had he said 'as the naïve'? No, no, he had spoken of 'the innocent' – Draco remembered each word the old man had uttered in the night of his death. Just that he, Draco, could not think of himself as 'innocent'. Stupid, naïve, absolutely moronic – _that_ was more like it. But as appalled as he was with his father, he felt he couldn't simply blame it all on Lucius; that was too simple.

Yes, Lucius' political convictions had been monstrous in many ways and he had been most irresponsible to teach these to his son. Now if Draco had been an eight year old lad eager to follow his father's suit, using his felt tips to draw a Dark Mark on his forearm, he might be able to contend himself with that excuse. Being twice as old and the subject of years and years of formidable teaching and learning he found it impossible to cop out that easily. He wasn't the only pureblood with a Death Eater father, but had Theo Nott fallen for all this rubbish? Had Greg, so much more simple-minded and blunt than his friend, been bent on becoming a Death Eater as soon as possible? Hadn't purebloods like Longbottom or that total idiot Weasley actively opposed the Dark Lord?

And could he blame Lucius for teaching his son his own convictions? What else was a father supposed to pass on to his son than what he believed in himself? 'Überzeugungen sind gefährlichere Feinde der Wahrheit als Lügen,' Narcissa Malfoy used to say, and too right she was. Though Draco wasn't sure that her own approach to the topic was much to be preferred either – because she had no convictions at all, and that wouldn't do, clearly. Her relativism which did not recognize anything as definitive and had as its highest and only finality in oneself and one's own desires, fuelled by the notion that there were no absolute truths to guide one's life anyhow – no, _her_ way had not worked out either. Why had his mum set such great store by some matters – that her son would employ an elaborate vocabulary, that he'd read all the right books, that he'd learn to play the piano to the best of his abilities – and had been so utterly careless about others? One day, he'd have to ask her that, but for the time being, he preferred to stall. He had the distinct impression that this might be something he'd rather not know about his beloved mum. Once he knew, like with his father's deeds, there'd be no going back.

But this was exactly the point, wasn't it? Between a father teaching him questionable principles, and a mother not believing in any principle at all, there was no excuse for buying into only the wrong ones. Oh, how had he clamoured to be treated like an adult by his parents, foremost his mum. Consequently, he wanted to face the consequences of his thoughts, beliefs, actions, like the adult he had craved to be. Blaming it all on his dad was cheap. And he was fairly sure that true repentance didn't work with finding another culprit, either. Lucius had done his share – but all the rest had been Draco's own doing, and he'd pay for it himself.

He remembered his grandmother and her prayers, and while he had never quite grasped what it had actually been that she had believed in, he envied her faith now. Nana had believed in repentance and forgiveness. She had believed that everybody deserved a second chance, no matter what they had done, if only they truly regretted their deeds. Draco still wasn't religious; he thought he'd never be – being his mother's son, the basic premise of some deity just didn't work for him. But he liked some of the ideas nevertheless. He liked the idea of being forgiven eventually. His regret was genuine. And it wasn't a god's forgiveness he craved – he'd be satisfied enough if he'd manage to forgive himself one day.

Confiteor vobis quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo, opere et omissione – mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. He had looked up the words that he had heard Nana utter so often, finding a deep, hidden beauty in the ancient formula and whispering it under his breath whenever he thought he couldn't take it any more, the shame, the guilt, the horror.

How often had he heard in the past year that he was 'too soft'? Strangely, Draco didn't consider himself, now more than ever, as 'too soft'. To the contrary – he had come to believe that _his_ attitude in this regard was the normal one, and that those people who had scolded him were the truly abnormal! One wasn't _too soft_ for shrinking away from murder and torture! He often wondered what it was that he had been thinking before seeing it with his own two eyes. Like with Thestrals – Draco had known what they were, he had read descriptions of them and had known that they pulled the carriages that transported Hogwarts students up to the school. And then, at his first school day after the New Order had been installed, he had come to actually _see_ them, and that sight had wiped out his memories of what he had fancied them to look like before. Murder, it had turned out, was just the same. Murder sounded and looked very different when one only read about it. How he could have believed himself capable of – nay, _keen on_ – doing it was incomprehensible to him now.

The work in Saint Mungo's gave him the feeling as if he was doing something useful to atone for his past blunders, misconceptions and failures. Even if it weren't the same people, he thought he could make up for the hurt he had given to some people by helping other people heal. And his morning work – in the re-building of his school – allowed him to exhaust himself so much that sleeping got more easy, and also – it felt like re-building a whole, almost lost, world, restoring not only rooms and walls and what else, but a kind of order, and peace of mind.

To achieve this, there were other things to do as well. Draco had finally seen the error of his ways in many regards, and was determined to set things right, now that he could. He understood that he was lucky with his sentence, luckier than he might deserve, and he truly wished to seize the chance he was given. He tried being extra-nice to Dean Thomas, for example, Muggle-born and one of the volunteers committed to the rebuilding of their school. Thomas had been deeply mistrustful at first, and sniped at Draco that he really needn't suck up to him _now_, and this one had swallowed his pride and listened to Thomas' exasperated speech, nodding, and finally said –

"I don't expect you to forgive me, but I want you to know that I am sorry nevertheless."

"Kiss my butt, Malfoy. _Seriously_ – I couldn't care less how _sorry_ you are now!"

Despite that angry retort, Thomas had started softening up, and by the end of two weeks working side by side while rebuilding parts of Hufflepuff House, he had actually begun to make an occasional joke here and there, and given Draco a genuine smile sometimes. Another two weeks later, they'd even sit together for coffee breaks.

Draco had done more apologising, whenever he had had the chance. He had apologised to Justin Finch-Flatley, for example, he had apologised to Luna Lovegood, he had begged Madam Rosmerta's forgiveness, he had paid a visit to the Longbottoms and apologised to his object of six years of mockery. Of all the people he had said 'sorry' to, the latter three had been the most astonishing cases. Luna Lovegood had been her usual dotty self, smiling serenely and puzzled what he was even talking about.

"Everything, Luna," he had awkwardly specified, "Every stupid remark I ever made, and _especially_ for the time you were incarcerated in our house –"

"But you were very nice to me during my stay there. I really enjoyed our games of chess."

"But –"

Well, he hadn't known what else to say. Talking to somebody like her was just warped; apparently, the thing _she_ resented him most for was his insistence that no such thing as a Crumple-Horned Snorkack existed. Well, he had no problems to excuse for _that_ bit, and Luna Lovegood was more than ready to forgive him, and had supplied him with no less than four books on the subject. Torn between the wish to make up by any possible means, and his natural common sense, he had demanded poor Iggy to read them in his master's stead, and tell him what they dealt with then. When the elf had returned to report on his lecture, he had sported several bruises and some of his toes had been taped, and with the most apologetic air, the servant had begged forgiveness for skipping several chapters and the entire second part of one of the books. Oh well. It had to suffice.

Madam Rosmerta had scowled at him, hardly allowing him to speak, and showering him with all sorts of cusses and upbraided him until his head was spinning. Well, he wouldn't blame her; he had exploited her most shamefully and used her to nearly kill some students and her old friend Dumbledore. The Wizengamot might have reprieved him, but the victim of the only Unforgivable he had ever cast voluntarily would not let him off the hook. He understood – he really did. He wouldn't have forgiven himself either if he had been walking in her shoes. Still, he felt better after talking to her and hearing her bitter accusations.

His visit to the Longbottoms had been the toughest (of those that he had dared so far). Draco knew perfectly well how badly he had treated Longbottom. Even as children, before going to Hogwarts, he had already taunted Longbottom when they had accidentally met somewhere – which hadn't happened that often, but nevertheless. Longbottom had been short and chubby, clumsy beyond expression, and incredibly diffident. What was more – he had had that grandmother who had, though unwittingly, humiliated him all the time anyway. No self-respecting eight-year-old would have missed the chance to make fun of this boy, by telling him he was a Squib, and that his best chances of _ever_ being accepted to Hogwarts would be by becoming a lowly Hufflepuff. But what might be pardonable in an eight-year-old had grown into downright bullying in their later acquaintance. With relish, Draco had tested new hexes on the Gryffindor, had gloated and goaded and scorned him at every possible opportunity, and laughed his head off when watching Vince and Greg taking it out on him.

Draco thought that _he_ wouldn't have the greatness of mind to even _listen_ to these excuses now, but Neville Longbottom was more magnanimous than Draco Malfoy, so much was clear. He had looked a little frightened at first and kept on staring at Draco's hands, as if suspecting that his guest would whip out his wand soon and curse him. Still, he had listened, with increasing bewilderment, and at some point interrupted Draco –

"It's okay, Malfoy. We're square."

"No, we're not! I –"

Longbottom had shrugged. "Let me put it this way – since our time in the Infirmary – since _then_ we're square as far as I am concerned."

Draco had been silent for a while, goggling incredulously, and had finally sighed, "Either you're a bit daft, Longbottom, for letting this chance to get even pass, _or_ you are truly cunning and just wait for the opportune moment to pay back big time."

He had smiled when saying this, and Longbottom had laughed out loud. "I guess you have to figure out yourself which one I am!"

* * *

_Überzeugungen_… Convictions are more dangerous enemies of truth than downright lies. (Friedrich Nietzsche)

'… relativism which does not recognise anything…' Inspired by a quote from Pope Benedict XVI.

_Confiteor_… I confess to you that I have sinned through my own fault in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and in what I have failed to do. (part of the Roman Rite, the general confession of sin recited in mass)


	134. Saint Mungo's

Hermione is eaten up by guilt for having submitted her parents to a Memory Charm

* * *

**_- 4.8. -_**

Saint Mungo's

* * *

_Better by far you should forget and smile than that you should remember and be sad._

_CHRISTINA ROSSETTI_

* * *

Every day, Hermione visits her parents. At first, it was downright terrible – when they didn't recognise her the slightest bit. She was crushed with sadness, and even more guilt. _She_ did this to them; she should have asked someone more competent with such a complex spell that could so easily backfire – and _did_ backfire. She took everything away from them, their memories, their lives. Yes, she did it for their own good, to protect them. But when she looked into her mum's blank expression in those days, who kept on asking her 'Who _are_ you, Miss?' it still broke her heart.

It got a little better since then. Two weeks ago, they remembered they're dentists. Ten days ago, they vaguely recollected to have seen Hermione _somewhere_. Last week, Ben Granger whispered, 'You're my child, then?' She's plucked up courage since, and manages to refrain from crying in their room at least. She still cries when leaving though, and she's not ashamed of it. Why should she be! She only wishes she had some backup, that Ron, or Harry, or Ginny, would accompany her sometimes, but they're too busy. As it is, she's got Neville, who often comes to see his own parents, though not every day like her.

Tonight, she barely manages to step out of the room before she can no longer suppress the tears. Her father asked her why she has done this to them – not reproachful in his manner, not at all, rather curious and bemused – but it was a terrible blow still. In the hallway she leans against the wall, slowly slouching down to the floor and sobbing heavily. She's buried her face in her hands, when she hears someone talking, and it takes her a minute to grasp that they mean her.

"Are you all right?"

Slowly looking up and somehow expecting to see Neville, she gives a start when recognising the person. It's the oddest sight indeed. In the sickly light-green robes of the hospital nurses-in-training, there stands Draco Malfoy of all people, gazing down at her with a concerned, though very insecure expression.

"What the –"

She cannot but stare at him, all the more when he silently offers her a handkerchief, lifts his shoulders and murmurs, "Sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You didn't recognise me, then?" she scoffs, forgetting all her upset for a minute.

"Of course I _recognised_ you. You're hard to mistake."

He makes a vague gesture with his hand, and Hermione knows he means her hair. Utterly affronted, she scrambles up to her feet; she'd hate to face _Draco Malfoy_ while crawling on the floor. As it is, she's still forced to look up to him because he's a good deal taller, but it's not quite as humiliating.

"What are you doing here," she barks, angrily snatching the handkerchief from him and blowing her nose.

"Social service," he replies. "I got two hundred and forty hours already. Only one thousand two hundred and sixty more to go."

"I wouldn't complain if I were you!"

"I'm not complaining," he says simply and lifts his shoulders once more. "Not at all."

"But it sounded like you were! _You_ have no place to complain!"

"I'm sorry. I just saw you here and you seemed to be unwell. Seems I was mistaken. Goodbye."

He turns on his heels and leaves, and infuriated, she glares after him until he's out of sight, and a bit longer still. Ph! Mocking her hair! Doesn't he have _any_ better thing to do? And these ridiculous robes! And the fake friendliness! Ph! Is that how he means to ingratiate himself with the winning side now?

She cleans her face with the handkerchief, straightens her robes and leaves, and she's halfway to The Burrow again when she's calmed down far enough to comprehend that for a change, it wasn't _him_ being the arse, was it…? God, this was unnecessary. Why did she have to snipe at him like that, he didn't do anything wrong. Well, not _now_, though he's done enough for a lifetime worth of sniping at him, in general.

"You wouldn't guess whom I've seen in Saint Mungo's," she says when entering the kitchen, finding Ginny helping Mrs Weasley with the dinner, and Ron reading a Quidditch magazine. No, they don't guess, and she growls, "_Draco Malfoy!_"

"Oh, yeah. He's serving his sentence there, isn't he?" Ginny says, unconcerned.

"So it would seem!"

"I think he's dividing his time between Hogwarts and Saint Mungo's. I saw him in the castle this morning."

Mrs Weasley interrupts them brightly, "How are your parents, dear?"

The gloom returns with a vengeance, and evasively, Hermione answers, "Fine, as the case may be."

"That's good. Say hello for me, will you, dear?"

Hermione nods, not having the nerve to explain that her parents hardly know who _she_ is. They wouldn't have the slightest clue about Mrs Weasley, or even Ron. Well, how could they, they've talked to the both of them exactly twice, one time in Florish and Blotts and one time on Platform 9 ¾, and that's been years ago. And the other way round… She doubts that Ron knows the first names of either her parents.

On the next day, she and Neville go together again. His presence is truly comforting – it's soothing and disturbing at the same time for her, seeing him deal with his permanently ill parents. On the one hand, there is such tenderness – even though Mr and Mrs Longbottom do not _know_ that he is their son, they react very warmly to him still. Each time he comes, he brings a handful of candies and chewing gum for his mum, which she grabs keenly and eats in an impish, secretive way, as if the nurses mustn't see her. For his dad, he sometimes fetches a bit of bubbly foil, which Mr Longbottom lets pop with the serenest expression, or at other times, he conjures a yoyo, or a small bouncy ball that his father plays with then. No matter what it is, Mr Longbottom calls them 'Flummy' and beams.

In theory, she knows that her parents aren't nearly that bad off, but nevertheless… Neville has somehow learnt to deal with the fact that his own parents do not really recognise him. She dreads to be forced learning the same. It's been the same wand after all that drove Mr and Mrs Longbottom here, and… She is mad with herself because of this – she still had Bellatrix Lestrange's wand when going to Australia. That thing never worked too well for her, and she keeps on thinking that the spell that should have reversed the Memory Charm, would have worked better if only she had used a proper wand for it… As it happens, that damned wand has destroyed Neville's parents as well as her own.

"They'll come all right again," Neville keeps on telling her with the sincerest air.

"But what if they don't?"

She bites her lip, embarrassed to bother him of all people with such a question, but he gives no sign of being offended. "They _will_, I'm sure. It just takes time, you know?"

"How do _you_ come by like this?"

"I can't remember a time when it was different," he says quietly and shrugs. "I guess that's much easier. But you really shouldn't be so pessimistic. Perhaps not tomorrow, or next week, but on the long run, your mum and dad will be as they always were. It's just a Memory Charm, after all."

They stop before the door to the dorm where Ben and Nicky Granger are accommodated; Neville hesitates. "Do you want me to come with you?"

"Yeah, that'd be nice. Thanks, Neville."

"You're welcome. But I'll leave at once when you'd rather be alone with 'em."

He always says this, and she could hug him for his consideration. Without Neville… She wouldn't know what to do. They gently knock and enter; Hermione stops dead in the door frame and Neville bumps into her. There is Draco Malfoy, standing between the beds of Mr Granger and another patient, and just about to shake up Mr Granger's cushion. He looks startled, too, throws a glance at his watch and murmurs, "You're early – hey there, Longbottom!"

"Hi," Neville says brightly, not the least bit surprised, and Hermione marvels even more at _him_ than at the unexpected 'nurse'.

Malfoy is equally quick in getting a grip. He turns back to Mr Granger and says, "Is there anything else you need, sir?"

"No, no, everything's splendid," Ben Granger retorts with a genuine smile. "You go and look after the _really_ ill people, Mr Malfoy."

Hermione's jaw drops as Malfoy addresses the other patients, "Mrs Granger? Mr Tottles? Miss Summerby? Chance to call last orders."

An elderly lady – Miss Summerby, clearly – asks for more cake. Malfoy jokes with her, promises to ask the Head Nurse about it, gives Neville another smile and Hermione a nod, and leaves. "What was _this_?" Hermione cries as soon as he's closed the door behind himself.

"That was Mr Malfoy," her father says casually. "He said you knew each other from school – or did I get that wrong?"

"No, that's – that's true, but – what's he doing here?"

"He's helping the nurses. Got a judgement of some hundred hours of charitable work, you see, Honoria?"

"It's _Hermione_," she snaps, feeling more repelled than ever.

Her father shakes his head. "I cannot believe we should have given our child such a name. _Hermione_," he pronounces experimentally. "What _were_ we thinking?"

"_Hermione_ was your godmother, Dad" Hermione explains, vexed. That her dad knows the name of _Mr Malfoy_, but keeps on calling her 'Honoria', 'Henrietta' or 'Hilary' is just too insufferable to be born with! Not that she hasn't begrudged her own name many times – she has, and in primary school, she dreamt of being a simple 'Judy', or 'Kate', or 'Anne' – but that her father doesn't recall nor like it is on a wholly different page!

"I am sorry, dear," he genially says now, and both her parents smile at her, and greet Neville as well (they at least have the grace to occasionally call him 'Neil', 'Niall' or 'Nelson'!).

They talk a bit, but then Hermione comes back to the point, for she cannot digest it. "So Malfoy is your _nurse_? You know him?" _Him?_ But not their own child?

"Oh, yes, he comes every afternoon," Mrs Granger answers. "He fetches our tea, and takes us to see the doctors and everything. A very diligent young man."

"_Diligent?_" Hermione shrieks, but tones her voice down again. "So how come I've not once seen him here?"

Her father shrugs uneasily. "Well… I believe he was a little – hum – scared to meet you. It appears you weren't the best of friends in –"

"Now that's really the most impertinent understatement I've ever heard," she interrupts him viciously.

In this moment, the boy himself returns, balancing a huge tray with six dishes, each adorned with a big piece of lemon cake. "Nurse Brown said it'd be unfair if you alone got more cake, Miss Summerby," he announces nonchalantly and starts distributing the plates, pushing one into each Neville's and Hermione's hands as well before Hermione has summoned her wits again.

"So you told my _Muggle_ parents we hadn't been '_the best of friends_', Malfoy?" she gnarls deadly and gives him her best of scowls. Malfoy looks both astonished and awkward, but her father is quicker.

"_He_ didn't say _that_, Hilary –"

"_Hermione!_"

"Sorry, _Hermione_. I merely – hum – paraphrased."

"And what _did_ he say, _exactly_?" she asks, keeping on glowering at Malfoy.

"I believe I said that you hate the sight of me, and have every right to do so," he says and pointedly looks the other way, taking ridiculously much care to help Miss Summerby sitting up. Hermione has already taken a deep breath for an appropriately acerbic retort, expecting any other answer than the one he's uttered, and remains speechless now, irate, breathing heavily, and not knowing how to vent her outrage.

Malfoy has finished, gives the patients a little smile, avoids looking at Hermione and vanishes rapidly without speaking another word. Since the principal object of her indignation is gone, she swivels around to Neville and stabs her finger against his chest, nearly making him drop his plate for all her fierceness.

"And _you_! You knew this?"

"Erm – yes…?" he murmurs timidly. "I didn't think it would annoy you so much, though…"

"Neville!" She presses her hand in her waist and does her stern McGonagall imitation. "After everything that – that _arse_ – has put you through!"

He shrugs helplessly. "But that was only schoolboy crap –"

"Look into a mirror, Neville! These scars are hardly schoolboy crap!"

"No. No, you got that wrong, Hermione. If – if it weren't for –" He swallows hard. "Look, I won't pretend he and I had ever gotten along very well, but during the last year in Hogwarts, he _really_ – how shall I say? He was okay, you see? He knew about the Room of Requirement, but never gave away how to get in, and he knew about the coins, and didn't tell the Carrows either, and he knew about the graffiti, but instead of snitching on me, he just told me to adjust my handwriting so that they wouldn't recognise it. It was _him_ who told me I had to get away when the Carrows had decided to come after me –"

"_What?_"

Another helpless shrug. "I thought you knew. I said all this during his trial, too."

The trial… Well, Hermione's missed the greatest part of that; she merely knows some stuff she read in the Prophet, and some mentions that Harry's made. She's been too preoccupied with her parents' state to care for what happens with Draco Malfoy, and since he wasn't the only one receiving a sentence of social work instead of imprisonment, she hasn't thought much about the reasons either.

Neville's scars have not faded yet, who knows if they ever will. But if _he_ is capable of keeping the peace with such a jerk like Malfoy, so can she! She meant to return the damned handkerchief anyway. _Return_ might be the wrong term though, because she's got no clue where that bloody thing may be (it got lost in the tons of laundry in The Burrow, never to be seen again), and simply bought another one, because her pride dictates her to return _some_ handkerchief at least. And thinking of the handkerchief now, she comes to realise that she might owe him something else than a piece of cloth. At least for today.

Disgruntled, she starts looking for him, finding him in the nurse's room and beckoning at him to step out for a moment. He looks very uncomfortable, and she can tell he's bracing himself to be dressed down once more. With a wry expression, she pushes the new handkerchief into his hand for a start.

He goggles at it stupidly. "What's this?"

"Your handkerchief. You gave it to me, remember?"

Additional to everything else, he looks bewildered on top now. "This isn't my handkerchief, Granger. That aside, you needn't give that back to me anyway."

She can feel her temper flaring up again and snaps, "You think I contaminated it, yes?"

"What? Good heavens, Granger, you're – paranoid. I just – I didn't even notice that it was missing. I guess I have enough handkerchiefs, and _this_ isn't mine to begin with."

"No, _this_ isn't yours. I lost yours. So I bought a new one. Brand-new, Malfoy. No Mudblood nose ever touched it!"

He groans loudly and raises his hands in a defensive gesture. "Please, Granger, don't – just don't. You must know perfectly well – at least I hope you're aware of it… At any rate, I didn't mean to say _anything_ about not wanting the bloody thing because your parents are Muggles, okay?"

She raises her eyes to the ceiling, wondering why it always seems to be her these days who's so bent on casting the first stone. For _years_, she preached to Harry and Ron not to let themselves be provoked, and now, when Malfoy doesn't even _try_ to provoke her, she just can't let it rest. "I believe an apology is in order," she says with forced calmness.

He looks very uneasy and nods. "Yeah. I just thought you didn't want to hear it."

"Hear it?" she asks, puzzled.

"I don't even know where to start apologising to you," he continues regardless, his gaze glued to a point somewhere in the corner. "I _am_ very, very sorry about – about – about everything. Pretty much everything I ever said to you, and did, and Merlin, that night in Malfoy Manor, I – I – I can't tell you how sorry I am about _that_, and I…"

He wrings his hands, looking very miserable, and bites his lips. Only now, she registers how very pale he is, even for his standards. The oddly green robes only enhance it. That, and the two deeply pink blots on his cheeks. She suddenly remembers 'that night', too – she hasn't thought about it for some time, it's not the kind of memory one fondly revisits. Quite the opposite, in fact. But as the recollections come, she also recalls another thing. She recalls Malfoy practically begging for her torture to end.

"You – you _tried_," she murmurs, trying to sound benevolent, and finding that she actually _feels_ more benevolent than he deserves.

"I _tried_ making you miserable many, many times, Granger, I know, but I swear to god I never – not seriously – meant you to come to _real_ harm. I _know_ what I said. But I didn't know what I was saying when I said it, you know?"

She goggles at him. No. She doesn't know. She wonders if _he_ understands his own last line. "Pardon?"

The pink blots turn scarlet. "All that silly talk – please, I know it sounds feeble, but I – back then, I never contemplated what it really _meant_ – the things I said."

"You mean – that night in Malfoy Manor…?"

"What? No! In _school_! All the '_Drop dead, Mudblood!_' shit – I said it, and I can't make it unsaid, but I want you to know that I didn't – I didn't –"

"You didn't…?"

"I wish I could say I didn't mean it then, but I – look, I really, really never thought about it. If I had – well, obviously, I have no excuse for never thinking about what it all meant, basically, but –" He takes a deep breath and clearly forces himself to look at her. "I just wanted you to – well, feel insulted. I never seriously wanted you to come to _real_ harm."

She laughs, not quite knowing why – possibly because his contrition is such an unfamiliar, and utterly satisfying sight. "Oh, _that_. Well – if it's of any consolation to you – I didn't take you very seriously, either."

He gives a meek little laugh, too. "That _is_ some consolation, I suppose, though it doesn't make it much better, does it? Anyway – I just wanted to tell you that. And that I'll try making sure we don't meet accidentally. You're usually much later, I hadn't reckoned with you so early today, or I'd not –"

"Oh, rubbish," she groans. "At least for _my_ sake, you really needn't bother. I don't mind meeting you." He looks incredulous and she can't blame him, after their last two encounters, so she continues, "I was just having a bad day, and it was rather convenient to take it out on you. Old habits die hard and all that… That's what I meant to say sorry for, anyhow. And my parents, little as they can remember in general, _swear_ you were a good nurse, so I should be sorry if you started shunning their room only to avoid me."

"They'll be all right again, Granger," he says softly and for the first time looks straight at her without squirming. "I heard Healer Smethwyk talking to Healer Boot, that they're making progresses, slowly but steadily. They said that you – that you were worried about this."

"It's all my fault! _I_ did that to them!"

"Yeah… That I heard, too. But – come on. You did it _for_ them, not to them. Better this way, than – I have seen people who weren't as lucky as them. They could be dead now, and _you've_ spared them. You've saved their lives!"

"In the most ill-conceived fashion though," she moans.

"Hey – you're talking to the un-crowned king of ill-conceived measurements to protect one's parents. And let me tell you – you're not playing in the same _league_ of ill-conceiving." At first, he smiles, but then looks curiously earnest. "You know, it's actually _good_ that you weren't more proficient with that Memory Charm –"

"What?"

"I… You see, the better the Memory Charm is, the harder it is to break. I _know_ that for a fact. I – I once had to – to break… Anyway. My point is that you, and your parents, are very lucky that you didn't do the spell more expertly."

"I don't think I… – What the hell do you mean?"

"I – I've seen a Memory Charm you did. On Rowle and Dolohov. And really, you must believe me – it was pretty simple to break, without any damage."

He looks terribly awkward, his gaze glued to her shoes, and it takes her a moment to process his meaning. "Without damage?" she repeats quietly.

He nods. "Yeah. He – _he_ actually laughed, because it was so simple…"

"You were there, then?"

He nods again, his face twisted, and a soft tremor shakes him, before putting on a sad smile, and raising his hand for half a wave. "I need to get going. See you around then, Granger…"

He turns around and leaves, and she calls after him, "How many more hours, Malfoy?"

"One thousand two hundred and fifty, last time I counted!" he replies over his shoulder.


	135. Recalled To Life

It is quite exhausting to lead an ordinary life again

* * *

**_- 4.9. -_**

Recalled To Life

* * *

_A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this._

_CHARLES DICKENS – A Tale Of Two Cities_

* * *

For the first and ultimately last time in his life – surely! – Malfoy has been right. Ben and Nicky Granger do get better, and their release from Saint Mungo's is scheduled for the second week in August. Which puts their daughter in a greater predicament than any of the smug Healers telling her the happy news could have anticipated. Not that she isn't happy beyond expression about their recovery (which is marked, among other things, by them calling her Honoria only one time out of ten). But it also means that they'll need to _go somewhere else_! And in her grand plan last year, she's put their house for sale, to have enough money so they could live in Australia!

Can you tell that Hermione didn't truly believe she'd survive the last year? Only now she realises the same. She could have let the house for rent, but _no_, she was convinced she had to _sell_ it. At least she put most of their stuff in storage – now she only needs to find them a _house_ where to put these chattels in! And since they started to remember most of their old life, they'll see it's not theirs! Oh, sorry – _at present_, they've got neither their own old house nor any other, because Hermione still needs to find them a replacement, and she hasn't got the faintest clue _how_.

Getting rid of their old house was surprisingly easy. Getting a suitable substitute is a whole different problem. Mr Weasley has offered his assistance, but she soon had to realise he's more of a hindrance than help. He asked hundreds of questions, and kept her from getting anything done by marvelling at unmagical photos in newspapers, and trying to dismantle a telephone, instead of letting her use the damned thing. As tactfully as possible, she intimated that she'd continue on her own, which in turn led to a minor argument with Ron who thought she'd been impolite to his dad. Oh, for goodness' sake!

And speaking of him… She had to remove his hand from her knee three times since she's sitting here, reading the letters from half a dozen real estate companies she contacted. How often she had to turn away to keep him from kissing her, she did not count.

"Ron! I need to get this done until next week!"

"That's still ten days, Hermione," he murmurs and tries kissing her once more.

She jerks her head away. "Ten days isn't exactly much time for buying a _house_, Ron!"

"I don't understand the fuss you're making, Hermione. My parents told you that your parents are welcome here for as long as they want to stay."

"And _I_ told _you_ that Healer Boot was pretty unmistakable in his advice, namely that Mum and Dad need to get back into their own surroundings and everything, to alleviate the recovery process! If it wasn't for that, they could just as well stay in Saint Mungo's or move to a hotel!"

"Why send them to a hotel if they can stay here just as well?"

She has no answer ready for that amount of thickness. It's not even 'thickness', probably – he simply hasn't listened to a single word she's said! Well, she's got to leave anyway, because she's got to make some phone calls. For that purpose, she's found herself a rather derelict phone booth in a rural area – the middle of nowhere, actually, but at least the phone works – and no Muggle passing it would be the least bit surprised to see the huge 'OUT OF ORDER' sign she put on the door. Inside, she magically enlarged the premises to fit in a desk and chair. Mr Weasley was _delighted_ when first seeing her makeshift office.

In the kitchen, she now comes across Harry and Ginny who are doing the greens for lunch together. Harry asks how the house hunt is coming along, and while telling him that there are no news worth mentioning, she observes him and Ginny, thinking how happy they appear. And they don't just _look _happy. She knows that they are. Despite everything that's happened, they've got each other, and are happy about it… She feels guilty for being not as content as they are. _She_ hasn't lost a brother, _she_ hasn't died and risen from the dead again, she has finally got together with her big love – and still she isn't as happy as she ought to be. She should be, she knows, and she bashfully turns her eyes away from the happy couple.

"Are you all right, Hermione?" Harry asks when she's halfway out of the door.

"Everything's fine, Harry," she exclaims without turning around. "Just – you know, I'm in a hurry and all… Got to find a blithering house, right?"

She does find it eventually. After surveying a dozen houses that are all either too small, too big, too expensive, or out of the question for some other reason, she has finally found a nice place, right in the neighbourhood of their old house, only one street away in fact. It is a little smaller; but that doesn't matter. It's only the two of them most of the time anyway. When they bought the old one, they thought their daughter would live with them, and not that she'd go to a boarding school for nine months a year. A bit of persuasion and a Confundus Charm later, she's talked the broker into making sure that the house _will_ be available at once. She spends the rest of the day Apparating in and out of the storage facility, grabbing all of the boxes with her parents' old things, and depositing them in the new house, and another day with making the place inhabitable and welcoming.

She also makes a lot of visits. She sees their old neighbours and does some explaining; she sees her mum's best friend Sheila and her dad's bowling buddies, and all their other old friends, and at the end of this day she thinks she can reasonably call herself an expert for the Confundus Charm, but in the end they've all bought her story, and are looking forward to see Ben and Nicky again, 'after their sabbatical'. Phew. It was a long, _looong_ day.

"You are looking tired, dear," Mrs Weasley remarks when Hermione returns to the Burrow.

She sighs and automatically grabs the sieve with the potatoes to peel them. "Yes, I think I am a little tired. But it'll be better, soon… Once they… Once they…"

"You sit down now, dear," Mrs Weasley says and gently takes away the sieve from her. Louder, she cries, "Ron! Come here and help me with dinner!"

Grumbling, Ron comes into the kitchen, greeting Hermione with a kiss, before arguing with his mum that it's 'always him' who's got to help with the chores. Vaguely, Hermione wonders what he's talking about, because Ron only ever helps his mother with the housework when expressly asked for it, and even then, he puts great effort into being as ineffective and clumsy as possible until Mrs Weasley, exasperated, tells him to get out of the kitchen again.

Right now, Mrs Weasley ignores his protests and pushes the potatoes towards him, and a cup of tea into Hermione's hand. "Arthur is sorry that he couldn't come with you today, dear," she says brightly and smiles at Hermione. "But there is so much to do in the Ministry these days…"

She goes on chatting, and Hermione thinks that she's rather glad that Mr Weasley didn't accompany her. He is a real sweetheart, and means so well, but let's face it, he's odd when dealing with Muggles, and all her persuasion with Sheila and Stewart, the Munroes and the Palmers would have been so much more difficult if Mr Weasley had kept on staring at them and asking about their TV sets, their cars, their refrigerators or their mobile phones.

Tonight, all Weasleys are expected for dinner, and Mrs Weasley keeps on checking that clock of hers, that indicates that Mr Weasley and Percy are still in the Ministry (Percy did return to work there – of course he did; he's a born civil servant, isn't he?). George is still in the shop – he's changed the name from 'Weasley's Wizard Wheezes' to 'Gred And Forge's', which moves Hermione a lot. Half of George died that night, with Fred, and the new name – which is basically an old joke between the brothers – reflects on it, in her opinion. Poor George… For him, it's worst. Of course, the whole family is saddened beyond words, but for the left-behind twin… He's holding himself better than expected though. He is no longer exuberant and incessantly cracking jokes, his face has become thinner, and he no longer wears that trademark grin. Other than that, however, he says that Fred wouldn't want him to vane away in mourning, and he has invented some bewitched wool and called it 'Fred's Yarn'. Anything knitted from that wool will tickle the person wearing it, and so much that the person has difficulties to take it off again for laughing so much. Hermione loves the idea, and that Percy has helped him, both with the invention, and some formalities that had to be taken care of, she loves even more. They've lost one son and got back another. That's got to be good, in _some_ way, right?

Charlie is still staying in the Burrow; he won't return to Romania before September, and in this moment, he, Bill and Fleur all come in from the gardens. "All dwarfs taken care of, Mum," he announces and slouches into a chair. "Until next time."

"Why doesn't Dad finally put a banning hex on th-"

The rest of the present siblings cut Bill short, groaning in unison, "Because he finds them _funny_!"

"_Funny_," Fleur echoes quietly, head-shaking, and wiping some mud from her immaculate cheek. The way she looks, some of the dwarfs must have put up a good fight. Mrs Weasley shoots her a strict look for that remark, but seeing how the young woman tenderly cleans Bill's scarred cheeks with a handkerchief, the expression softens again.

"Don't just sit around," Ron grunts. "Help me with this shit!"

"Ronald!" Mrs Weasley exclaims angrily.

"Well, it's true! Why is it always me who –"

"You'd have been welcome helping us with the dwarfs, Ronnikins, instead of sitting around on your lazy bottom reading _Quick Quidditch_," Bill gnarls, and throws back the potato that Ron hurled at him. "Are you overstrained with a bit of vegetable, too?"

Ron rubs his head, where the potato hit him. "Don't you talk so big, Bill! I take care of the damned dwarfs all the time!"

"And I took care of them for years when still living here. You've still got some years before we're even square, dwarf-wise!"

"And _why_ don't you just use the proper spell to peel them?" Ginny, who just comes in together with Harry, asks.

Ron scowls at her, but doesn't say anything. Mrs Weasley does speak up instead, and pretty innocently so, though Hermione suspects that she feigns it. "Because he hasn't learnt that spell yet, Ginny."

Everybody but Ron snigger. "Well, _you_ can do it! Why don't you just do it? Because you prefer over-lording me?"

It's unclear whether he means his mother or sister, but at any rate, the both of them glare back at him, and cowed, he returns to peel the next potato. At this speed, they're going to have dinner at midnight, and Hermione cannot bear it any longer. She takes out her wand, points it at the vegetables and murmurs the incantation. Wonderfully, one potato after the other raises into the air and swirling, divests itself of its skin.

If she believed Ron would be grateful, she'd have been very much mistaken though. He gets to his feet with an angry face, and snarling, "Speaking of _over-lording_, were we," he storms out of the kitchen.

Hermione is on the verge of following him, but is held back by Ginny. "Leave him. He's in a huff."

Seeing Hermione's instant self-accusatory expression, Harry quickly explains, "Malfoy was here –"

"What?"

"To _apologise_," Ginnys says, her voice dripping with disdain.

"I thought that was a kind gesture," Mrs Weasley inserts. Ginny just keeps on scowling.

Harry, on the other hand, doesn't look nearly as hostile. In fact, he looks rather satisfied. "It's true. He showed up shortly after noon, before his St Mungo's shift, and lengthily apologized to all of us –"

"As if _that_ could make Fred alive again!"

"Ginny!"

"Well, it's true, Mum!"

It turns out that Malfoy, like he did with her, bade for forgiveness wearing sackcloth and ashes, receiving mixed reviews. Ron felt actually affronted by the mere visit and so does Ginny. Mrs Weasley was quite touched, as was Fleur (who, astonishingly, happens to be a _very_ distant French cousin of the Blacks, Hermione learns and marvels). Bill and Charlie listened with both interest and reserve, saying afterwards that they'd be willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and see whether he'll suit his actions to his pretty words. Harry is less mistrustful.

"I think he was sincere –"

"Sincere! There's a word never used before in the same sentence with the name of Malfoy!" Ginny scoffs.

Harry ignores the remark and continues, "And from all I hear, he's actually trying to make atonement, and if he does, I won't be the one to cast the first stone."

"Me neither," Hermione mutters, thinking of their little talk in St Mungo's then, and of Malfoy's pure horror that night in Malfoy Manor.

"You're all nutters," Ginny says, but in a far more reconciliatory tone. "If an apple's rotten, no well-meaning will drive the mould out."

"Dumbledore believed in second chances," Harry and Mrs Weasley cry in unison, making all of them chuckle.

Looks like he was right, doesn't it?, Hermione privately wonders. His candidates for these 'second chances' try – or tried – to live up to his trust in them. At least Snape did, faithful until the end. As for Malfoy... She's known that git long enough not to hang her hopes very high in regard to him. He's unlikely to ever become a particularly decent member of human society, but if he'll at least turn out better than his father, Dumbledore's been right. And as a nurse, he's got his qualities; Ben and Nicky Granger will swear any oath to that. He's attentive, considerate and polite, they claim, and yet more unbelievably, he's supposed to be _funny_. Hermione has a very different sense of humour than her parents though, not only where Draco Malfoy is concerned, and judges their assessment as the last signs of brain damage. Polite! Ph! He's always been smart enough to know when the time for sucking-up had come.

On the other hand... His apologies to _her_ sounded genuine. It _was_ genuine, because he isn't that good an actor, or is he? No. From Neville and Luna, from Katie and Dean, she heard the same. He visited them all and did the Walk to Canossa part credibly enough to convince them. And Harry seems strangely reconciliatory as well after today's events. In fact, he seemed so even before this. He has taken it to his head that his relation to Malfoy was somewhat similar to that of his dad and Professor Snape (in this vein, Ginny won't stop making jokes about Malfoy secretly pining for her), and therefore believes that some goodwill was in order. Hermione, usually the emphatic one, isn't sure she can follow his reasoning.

Ron's mood, however, hasn't improved when the family is assembled around the kitchen table after all. His brothers and Ginny are taking turns in making fun of him; Hermione can literally _see_ him fuming, and exchanges some uneasy glances with Harry, who just shrugs in silence.

"Good potatoes, Ron," George remarks, brandishing his fork on which he's speared one. "Oh, sorry. This isn't one of yours, it's Hermione's."

"Clearly distinguishable by the rectangular, respectively curvy shape," Percy chirps. They've been filled in on the argument by Ginny.

Bill grins. "How very gender-clichéd of you two!"

"Tell me, Perce – _is_ there a Ministry-approved standard for peeled potatoes?"

"Funny you should ask, George. There _has_ been some discussion on that point. It turned out, however, that the responsible officials were household-spell-challenged themselves, and the bill was dismissed almost unanimously."

Ron is deeply red in the face, all the more when seeing even Harry and Hermione stifling a grin. The rest of his family doesn't bother to keep themselves from laughing out loud. Percy might have adopted _some_ amount of humour, but he can't keep up that kind of exchange for long, and Ginny and Bill take over from him, which makes the banter more acerbic, until Ron finally jumps up, pushing his chair over, and leaving the room once more. Hermione finishes dinner and follows him upstairs later on, together with Harry and Ginny, but Ron has locked himself up in his room and tells them all to bugger off.

So much for that. They don't see each other again in the next days, because Hermione gets up early in the next morning to fetch her parents from Saint Mungo's after all, and spends the following week more or less exclusively with them. To her greatest relief, they _love_ the new house and claim it's even better than the old one – though she suspects them to be a little hypocritical about this – or perhaps they just don't remember. She's briefed them on the story she dished up their friends, and sits through loads of coffee chit-chatting with them, smiling at the Palmers and the Van Houtens, the Munroes and the Pattersons, and casting an occasional non-verbal _Confundus_ at them when their questions become too inquisitive. Her parents mildly disapprove of that measure, and she cannot blame them. They've been in hospital for three months, due to inappropriate spellwork; it's only natural that they're apprehensive that Hermione might do similar harm to their friends now.

"Don't worry, Mum," she tries soothing them. "I've got a new wand by now, and this particular spell can't do any damage."

"So Sheila won't keep that lisp?"

"No. Possible difficulties in pronunciation are among the common – and transitory – side effects. Really, I _can_ do this spell, and with this wand, it'll all be fine."

It's true. She finally – _finally_ – got a new wand. Her old one couldn't be found again; god knows what those Snatchers did with it. Mr Ollivander has opened his business again, and retrieved most of the wands he kept hidden during the Dark Order regime, and now Hermione has a fabulous new wand – yew with a core of unicorn hair – that works at least as good for her as her old, trusted one. Better even, perhaps. She might be mistaken, but she's got the impression that she can cast mightier spells with it now, even though she hasn't really tried all that much. She really may be wrong, simply overjoyed to finally have got rid of Bellatrix Lestrange's cursed wand. She felt so uncomfortable with it!

She contemplated to send it to Mrs Malfoy – wands are usually given to family members, and Madam Tonks certainly doesn't want it – but Mr Weasley strongly advised against it. A wand absorbs it's master's powers, and evil as that witch surely was, she _was_ extremely powerful, too, so her wand is handed over to the Ministry instead. For all Hermione knows, they intend to do some research with it, whatever _that_ means. And Mrs Malfoy proclaimed that she has no whatsoever interest in obtaining her dead sister's wand, either.

When she comes to the Burrow the next time, it's late August already, and it takes her some time to reconcile Ron. He's in a huff because he feels neglected – which angers Hermione in turn; nobody kept him from visiting her at her parents', right? But in the end, they finally make up. They always did, and in a way, Hermione finds it a comforting notion that nothing much has changed in this respect. She and Ron have always been quarrelling and making up again then. It's like their friendship of old hasn't been affected by the fact that they're a couple now.

And he's being quite sweet, especially given his usual standards. He holds her hand, he kisses her (even though he _might_ improve in technique still, as Ginny never ceases advising him), and even if some of his compliments appear rather – _odd_ – she gives him credit for being so thoughtful. Okay. When she said that it might be a good idea to mend the fence he and Ginny broke when playing Quidditch lately, before Mrs Weasley saw it, and he cried, 'You're a _genius_, Hermione!' – she thought that was a bit weird. When she catches him staring at Fleur, and he says, 'Oh, but I was just thinking how much I prefer _your_ hairdo!' she knows he's downright lying. But he tries, right? What else can she ask for?

She commutes between Richmond Upon Thames and Ottery Saint Catchpole, trying to divide her time evenly between her parents and him, usually sleeping at her parents' place though. Sharing Ginny's room isn't entirely comfortable, and she doesn't want to strain Ginny's patience, or welcome, either. She has the suspect that secretly, her friend _does_ share her room anyway (when Hermione is absent) whenever Harry's there, which is basically all of the time, because restoring Number Twelve Grimmauld Place does take a lot of time, and Harry isn't entirely committed to the task either. She's astonished enough that he's willing to go and live there in the first place, and believes he foremost wants to do Kreacher a favour like that. As it is, they're working on the house now and then, and spend the rest of the time in the Burrow, and it is obvious that at least Kreacher hasn't been happier in the past fifteen years. He is _blissful_, and grudgingly, Hermione cannot deny that the poor old sod would be deadly unhappy if Harry set him free after all (as Hermione kept on demanding at first – how lucky that Kreacher didn't hear her, or their lately sound relationship might have suffered materially).

"What are you thinking?" Ron ask her now and strokes her back.

She can impossibly tell him that she actually thought of Kreacher while her boyfriend is caressing her, so she resorts to lying. "This feels great."

He chuckles smugly. "Yes… That's what I think…"

They continue like this, kissing and stroking, until they're both quite breathless. "You're _sure_ your mum doesn't walk in on us?"

He hums the affirmative and goes on like before. "We'll go back to school in six days," he says at last in a strange voice, and fumbles with her hair.

"Yeah."

"And I thought…" He fumbles some more, which isn't as pleasant as he seems to think. "We've been together for quite some time now, and I think we're ready for the next step…"

The next _step_? Brightest witch of her age or not, it takes Hermione half a minute grasp what he means. "Oh…" she murmurs, and can feel her cheeks reddening.

"I love you, Hermione."

"I love you, too! It's just – just – sorry, but this is a bit sudden, I…"

"You mean you never thought about it?" He pulls her close and his hand glides down to her hip.

Well, that really depends on how you interpret the question… Of course she's thought about sleeping with Ron before. She always thought, for example, that she wouldn't want to be with anybody but him, and that she wants to have her first time with him, her big love. During the months and months on the Horcrux hunt, she sometimes thought that she'd die as a virgin, and wondered if… Well, if she shouldn't just grab Ron and get over with all this, before they were all dead. But apart from this, she didn't… She didn't actually contemplate _doing_ it. It was always more of a 'could do' and 'should do' and 'would do', but the – _technics_ – the real possibility of having sex with him, like _now_… No, she hasn't thought about this.

But then he kisses her and she lets him, and kisses him back, and when he starts fumbling with her T-shirt, she lets her hands glide under his T-shirt, too. She can feel something in his trousers getting hard, and _no_, she isn't _that_ naïve not to know what this is, but that doesn't mean she's entirely prepared for it either. Good Lord… She's _eighteen_. As a matter of fact, she'll be nineteen in less than four weeks. _All_ of her friends have had sex before. She suspects that even Neville has had sex, even if she doesn't want to think about with whom, when, or how. This is _Neville_ after all. Anyway – she's really old and mature enough for all of this, and her awkwardness, her uneasiness are really, _really_ uncalled-for. Ron is her one true love, isn't he? Oh, he bloody sure is! She never really wanted anyone but him. And he loves _her_, that much she's sure of. Nothing speaks against doing it, so why does she always have to make such a big problem out of everything?

They're down to their underwear and Hermione props herself up on her elbows to blow out the candle on the bedside table, when it hits her. "Where are the condoms?"

"Excuse me?"

"I don't take the pill, and off the cuff I don't know the suitable spells either –"

"What?"

"Contraception, Ron!"

"Contraception," he echoes as if he was testing out the completely unheard-of new word. Seeing his bewildered face in this second, Hermione faintly thinks that, if their son is anything to go by, it's a miracle that the Weasleys have no more than seven kids.

"Yes, _contraception_. You _know_." Judging his face, he doesn't, and a little tartly, she continues, "To prevent pregnancy, Ron!"

"_Pregnancy?_"

Of course, _that_ he grasps, staring at her in shock. "I take it you haven't got any condoms, then?" she asks, and if she were honest with herself in this moment, she'd have to see that she's in fact a little bit relieved. This whole sleeping with each other scheme came quite out of the blue for her, and it may be better to sleep it over. And finding out the right spell wouldn't harm either. She doesn't quite trust in condoms, and if there's one thing for sure, it's that she hasn't the least intention to become one of those girls getting knocked up before they've even left school.


	136. The Eighth Year

Draco returns to his only provisorily repaired school to complete his eduction and resume his life, if very differently than before

* * *

**_- 4.10. -_**

The Eighth Year

* * *

_Reflect upon your present blessings — of which every man has many — not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some._

_CHARLES DICKENS – Sketches by Boz_

* * *

Three months, or in other words, 658 hours of charitable work after receiving his sentence, Draco Malfoy was far from done with his work, and Hogwarts far from completion. It was, however, sufficiently repaired for students to return to the school, even if ample of alterations and improvements needed to be made still. There was the sheer number of students, for a start. Most of the previous Seventh Year students were to return for another round – in fact, nearly all students would repeat the year, since there hadn't been much serious studying in the last, term had ended six weeks early, and no finals exams had taken place. That, and the hundred and twenty-six new First Years, needed ample of room for a start. Also, it had to be made sure that there were enough classrooms, and – well, a _lot_ of work had been done. The rest would be repaired during regular schooling.

Because of the limited number of space, the already mended dormitories were magically enlarged and now housed eight to twelve students each, which brought enough changes as it was. The separation of the houses, or respective years, would not be kept this year and Draco marvelled at the piece of paper pinned to the door of his new room.

...

_Robyn Bates_

_Cassius Clagg_

_Justin Finch-Fletchley_

_Gregory Goyle_

_Julian Higgs_

_Ernie Macmillan_

_Draco Malfoy_

_Theodore Nott_

_George Robards_

_Ariel Saunders_

_Zacharias Smith_

_Blaise Zabini_

_...  
_

Oh, good gracious Merlin. He was going to share a room with _Ernie Macmillan_. It was going to be a _long_ year indeed! Not to mention that conceited idiot Smith. And that incredible bore _Ariel Saunders_? And speaking of it – if rooms were redistributed, anyhow – why, _why_ was he _still_ stuck with Zabini, that complete arse?

Greg bumped into him, excused himself and pushed the door open. They were number four and five to arrive. Macmillan and Finch-Fletchley were there already and had taken the dormitory bunk next to the door together. Next to them, their house mate Clagg had climbed into the upper bed, and Draco indiscriminately chose the beds opposite of them. They didn't need to discuss which bed Draco was going to take – the upper one, definitely. He didn't fancy Greg's weight crashing the bed frame one night and come crushing down on him.

"Hullo," Macmillan said in his usual, pompous manner, and broke out into a lengthy explanation as to why he had chosen that particular bunk, followed by a fatiguing detailed report on his summer holidays. Not even his best buddy Finch-Flatley was listening, but then again, he had probably heard that story before. Draco smirked wryly and began unpacking his trunk, only stilling for a minute when Macmillan addressed him and Greg.

"And what were _you_ doing in summer?"

'Buried one of my best friends. Buried my mum's best and only friend and tried consoling her. Buried my cousin and her husband. Went to court and faced possible life-long imprisonment. Watched my father being sent to prison for life, because he thought he were doing me a favour. Carried around bed-pans and tea trays until the sight of lemon cake made me want to throw up. Cleared out debris until my wand hand was lame and I got blisters…' But he didn't say any of this, of course. He wouldn't start confiding in Macmillan of all people. Instead he just shrugged his shoulders and mumbled, "This and that."

"Is it true you worked in Saint Mungo's? Because I'm thinking about becoming a Healer after school, and my dad says I should get some firsthand experience before committing myself, which is probably right, but I already had that apprenticeship with the –"

Draco was saved from further ejaculations by Saunders' and Theo's arrival, and was utterly glad that Theo climbed up to the bed next to Draco's own. "With eighty-five percent of the castle wrecked, I'd have thought I'd finally make it out of the dungeons," he groaned and gave Draco a little wave. "Hey there, Malfoy. Couldn't you folks have hurried up and repaired some of the towers first?"

Draco sniggered. "We did. But they're giving all the rooms there to the younger students, who still need air and light to grow."

"The lack of which never stopped Goyle there from growing," Theo remarked and hung down to grin at Greg in the bed below Draco's.

"Now just imagine how tall he'd be if he had _not_ lived in the dungeons for seven years!"

"You don't want to know." Greg munched on a large cookie. "It'd scare you too much."

"I have apprehensions about little Linny Crabbe, though. She's still in her growing period. – How is she, anyway?"

Draco lifted his shoulders. "Not well, I daresay. Not well at all. Greg?"

Draco hadn't seen much of Belinda, or any other surviving member of the Crabbe family in summer, outside of Vince's funeral. Mr Crabbe had tried to flee, but been caught eight hours after the Dark Lord's demise, had been tried, convicted and got a twelve years sentence. Little Linny would be twenty-six when her dad could finally return home. The thing that made Draco recoiling most was the fact that his own father was partly responsible for this sentence. While the majority of Death Eaters had admitted only what could be proven to them, a handful of them had given full testimonies, sparing nobody including themselves. Lucius Malfoy had been one of them – his confession had taken sixty-one rolls of parchment, each four foot long. Mr Goyle had been another, just like old Mr Nott. Consequently, Mr Goyle had received a sentence of nine years, and Thelonius Nott had got a much shorter sentence, but given his age it was nonetheless just as good as life-long.

However, with Mr Crabbe locked away in Azkaban, and barely so admitted to attend his own son's funeral (it had taken the heart out of Draco that they had buried an empty coffin, because the Fiendfyre hadn't left anything of Vince to lay to rest), and the loss of her only brother (for which Draco felt gravely responsible due to the _Confundus_ he had cast on him), Belinda Crabbe had been high up on the list of people that Draco had felt severely apprehensive of meeting. Greg had not been so squeamish and visited the Crabbes once or twice; now he sat up and gave Theo a gloomy look.

"Mrs Crabbe is a complete mess," he said flatly. "And Linny was scurrying about, sobbing most of the time, and locking herself up in her room."

Theo twisted his face and Greg said no more. Draco knew what bits he had omitted and he felt a heavy rock in his guts, thinking of it. For Linny had briefly interrupted her crying, to shout at Greg. She had reproached him for being the one who had survived, when her brother had burnt to crisp. Greg said he had been too dumbfounded to give an answer, and Draco didn't have a proper one, either. He _couldn't_ have helped Vince, he knew that, but that didn't lessen the guilty feeling. Now and then, he was overcome by anger – it had been _Vince_ who had started that cursed fire! It had been Vince who hadn't stopped for a second to help the unconscious Greg, but sprinted away without looking back! Vince, who had hurled Killing Curses around as if it was nothing at all! Nevertheless – Vince had been his friend for too many years to forget about all those, and merely recall the last night of his life.

Tending to his mum in her grief about Professor Snape, he had realised another thing that made him feel profoundly guilty. He thought he should feel the same sort of distress for Vince's sake, but he didn't. He _was_ sad, yes, he felt guilty, too – but it wasn't nearly on the same level like Narcissa Malfoy's mourning, and he knew why. His mum had been connected to Professor Snape in a sort of friendship that was unknown to Draco. He didn't have the same kind of close bonds with anyone, not even Vince and Greg, whom he had known as long as he could remember. He had been appalled with that realisation. Why couldn't he connect to them in the same way? Why was his relation to his two best friends so shallow?

It was so alien a concept for him, he had rather imputed a romantic entanglement between his mum and the Professor, than acknowledge the superficiality of his own friendships. Now that he had learnt the truth – the _full_ truth, at last – his shame knew no limits. How wrong had his conduct been! How disgusting! Not that he had anything to say in defence of any of his own views and conduct at that time, but this bit hit home worse than many others, because it had besmirched the woman closest to his heart and the man highest in his respect.

But he would make up. In his scarce leisure time in summer, he had invited Greg, and Theo, and Millicent, and Damian Montague, and had endeavoured to build up more meaningful relationships with them; he had tried to _talk_ rather than chit-chat with them, had tried to truly listen to what it was that they'd say, and the results had not failed to astound him.

For example – Greg, it would seem, had a crush on Millicent Bulstrode. Draco couldn't really claim that he couldn't have seen that one coming, but he had never spared it a single thought. Being two adolescent males, he and Greg, _naturally!_, hadn't truly discussed this topic, but between the lines, Draco had long ago realised that Greg had had fancied Millicent for _ages_, and didn't cope too well with her dating Theo Nott. Now that they did talk about it, he had to see that Greg was much more mature than Draco would ever have given him credit for; he said that Mil appeared to be happy with Theo, and that this was what counted, after all.

Another example – Theo Nott himself. It wasn't pleasant to admit, no, but Draco was forced to see that petty rivalry had been the beginning and the end of all his dealing with that boy for many years. There was something about Theo's natural self-confidence and self-possession that Draco had always envied, and the fact that Theo equalled, if not downright surpassed, Draco in all of his own talents safe for Quidditch, had only deepened that subconscious dislike. He had given himself a fierce shake in this regard, and was now rather pleased with the idea that he might one day call somebody like Theo his friend for real. Instead of delighting himself over-lording Vince and Greg, as he had done for so long, he liked the idea of bonding with someone on eye-level, and Theo appeared a ready-made candidate for that. He _was_ damn clever, and knowledgeable – more so than Draco, perhaps, because all of Draco's accomplishments in the quarter of education and erudition weren't due to some inner drive in him (as they were in Theo's case), but simply for pleasing his mum. And most of all, Theo had a moral backbone that shamed Draco to no end. Theo, together with Millicent, had returned for the Battle of Hogwarts, but not in order to hide away, like Draco's original plan had been, but to fight for what he believed to be right.

And speaking of old Millicent – with _her_, too, he had had some good talks. In fact, talking to her was easier than talking to the other guys, perhaps because she was a girl, and not the sort of girl like Pansy. Despite all stale clichés, girls (at least of her sort) were much easier than juvenile boys gave them credit for. And Draco didn't have to fret about all the unwritten rules of manliness when dealing with them, or rather say Millicent, who _was_ his only female friend (disregarding Moaning Myrtle for a moment, who was a very special case, and _definitely_ not an _easy_ one!). What was more – they had 'started' earlier on than he had with the boys. He still didn't quite comprehend why, but once Millicent had decided not to hate him any longer, last year, they had started to have the sort of friendship that he wanted to strive for in general from now on. Millicent made no bones about her opinion. She flat-out said what she was thinking, be it ever so unpleasant for her opponent to hear. It was refreshing. Awkward, but refreshing.

It was time to go up to the Great Hall for the Start of Term dinner, and automatically sticking to the other Slytherins, Draco set out, too. Saunders kept on babbling about his summer job, but nobody really listened, and Draco vaguely thought that Saunders should try bothering Macmillan instead. Here was a match made in heaven, blimey.

Greg and he sat down at the further end of the Slytherin table next to Zabini, Millicent and Theo took the seats opposite of them, and all of them automatically looked over to the teacher's table. There were the usual suspects – Sprout, Flitwick, Hagrid, Sinistra, Trelawney, Hooch, Pomfrey, Filch. There were also old Slughorn, and Professor McGonagall, who had surprised everybody in summer when turning down the offer to become Headmistress. In her stead, Professor Grubbly-Plank had been appointed for the job – talking of surprise!

Then, there was a woman that Draco suspected to be the new Muggle Studies teacher, Madam Kegg. In her early fifties, probably, so chubby that it effortlessly bordered on fat, and wearing flamboyant clothes that Draco suspected to be of Muggle origin, she was a funny sight that made him half sorry not to be in her class. She sat on the left side of a wizard that must be the replacement for Professor Vector, who had fallen in battle, and got replaced by some 'Nelson Moody', apparently a distant nephew of old Mad-Eye and former Ministry employee. Draco had seen a photo of him in the papers, but was curious to see the man for real now, finding him unremarkable. No share of Mad-Eye Moody's intimidating air, nor of the paranoia surrounding the old, now dead Auror. The nephew seemed rather genial, smiling kindly when talking to Professor Slughorn next to him. His most eye-catching feature was a shock of unruly grey hair and a set of ridiculously large whiskers, framing the pink, good-humoured face. Draco still tried to find a visual likeness, when he received a brutal nudge from Greg that made him gasp and groan.

"Ouch! What the –"

"Look! _Look!_"

Draco's eyes followed Greg's outstretched arm, pointing at the other end of the teacher table, and flabbergasted, Draco forgot to rub his aching ribcage. What was _he_ doing here? Would he be the new Quidditch instructor? What –

"Defence Against the Dark Arts, possibly," Theo said, being the only one of them who was rather unimpressed.

"Rubbish! He's not going to stay here!"

"Well, what's he doing at the staff table, then?"

Draco had a couple of rather exciting ideas about that – maybe something like announcing another Triwizard Tournament – something thrilling that had to do with Quidditch – whatever it was, no way in hell he was going to be a teacher here! Who on earth and right in their minds would abandon a thriving Quidditch career to teach in this place?

Millicent giggled. "Haul up the dropped jaws, sailors; you look stupid, all of you, and I think I can see your tonsils, Malfoy."

Draco obeyed, but couldn't stop staring at the young man up there. Viktor Krum. Inconceivable. _Viktor Krum!_ The most famous, and talented, and overall magnificent Quidditch player in the whole wide world! Right now, he was waving to someone among the students, and Draco remembered that Krum had made a number of friends here in his time, even though most of them had probably been fans rather. Draco had definitely been one of them, no use in denying it. Viktor Krum was sheer awesomeness, what else was there to say?

"If you want to see something _really_ funny, turn around and take a look at Gryffindor table, roughly eleven o'clock," Mil went on merrily. Hard as it was to draw his gaze away from _Viktor Krum_ (goodness!), Draco turned and craned his neck. He needn't ask twice what Millicent meant. Weasel Bee's deeply scarlet face would have served as a light house in the darkest of nights. He looked, in fact, as if his head was about to explode, his eyes protruding, his lips tightly pressed together, his hands clenched to fists that were as white as his visage was red.

It would have taken Draco a minute to grasp why Weasel Bee would look like this, if it hadn't been for his neighbour. Granger wasn't scarlet like her boyfriend – she had adapted a deep shade of pink, and glued her eyes to the empty plate before her. Oh, _right_! Granger had dated Viktor Krum back then, hadn't she? Course she had, that was a rhetorical question! It had been a _feast_ for the gossip mongers…

He couldn't have helped it, even if he had wanted – Draco burst out laughing, and so did pretty much everybody who had followed Millicent's cue. Poor Weasel King! It hadn't happened too often since they had met for the first time, but Draco felt a sudden inkling of compassion for the poor sod now. He didn't have a snowball's chance in hell to compete with his lovely's ex (the awesome! AWESOME!), and being the quick-witted person that she was, Granger would realise the same in a heartbeat. Poor Weasel King indeed!

Theo seemed to think along the same lines. "The poor fellow. There goes Gryffindor's Golden Couple."

"Why's that?" Millicent asked and frowned.

"Why's that? _Why's that?_ Oh, come on, Mil. Take one look at Weasley, and a fleeting glance at Viktor Krum, and tell me, in earnest, which's the more eligible."

"_Eligible?_ Did you secretly start reading romance novels without telling me, Theo?"

Theo had the decency to blush, and from the corner of his eyes, Draco stole a look of Greg. The merriment had dripped off that one's face and got replaced by a very forced smile. Speaking of 'poor fellows', were they…

"It must be the Defence position. It was the only one that was still open," Zabini said now.

"But he's a _star_! There's not a team in the world that doesn't want him! Who'd trade that for a teacher's job?"

"Didn't the papers write of that knee injury he received in the Great Battle?" Zabini suggested. "Or maybe he just wants to freshen up his thing with Granger?"

"Oh, get real. One doesn't quit a Quidditch career like that for some girl!"

"Always the incorrigible romantic, Malfoy, are you?"

"Look, Mil, I know that Quidditch players don't have a reputation for being among the world's greatest thinkers, but you mustn't assume that they were altogether stupid all the same."


	137. The Potions Class

Professor Slughorn isn't Professor Snape, so much is certain

* * *

_**- 4.11. -**_

The Potions Class

* * *

_du stiegest ab von deinem hohen hause_

_zum wege · manche freunde standen neben_

_du suchtest unter ihnen deine klause_

_und sahst dich um gleichwie in andrem leben._

_dich werden deine gipfel nicht mehr schützen_

_doch wie seither in lauterstem gewande_

_wirst du an deines nächsten arm dich stützen_

_und bleibst wie vormals gast von fernem strande_

_STEFAN GEORGE_

* * *

The Advanced Potions class was smaller than any other, with the possible exception of Latin for Advanced Learners and Gobbledygook for Beginners. So few students had taken it, the atmosphere was almost intimate, and for the hundredth time, Draco thought how advantageous this exclusivity could have been if only Professor Snape had been alive still. He listlessly stirred the potion before him, observing without much enthusiasm how it changed colour from brownish to a deep orange, just like it ought to. This was just too easy.

At least their teacher didn't appear concerned about this. He simply continued in the prescribed order of the book – going by the prosaic title 'Borage For NEWT Level' – not bothering that nearly all of his students had accomplished the correct concoction upon their first try. In fact, he loudly congratulated himself for his teaching abilities. Outside, an autumn storm was raging; nevertheless, Draco would gladly have traded another hour or two outside doing re-building, than sit here and waste his time.

He looked around. Next to him, Zabini was daydreaming, occasionally giving another stir to his _Prudentia_. On the table next to them, Granger tried hard to ignore her neighbour Macmillan, who was babbling as excitedly as ever. _Their_ potions flashed the proper colour, too. On their other side, there sat Potter and Weasley. Potter no longer was the genius of the Potions Class – _that_ title had been returned to its rightful owner, Draco himself, namely. Still, he wasn't doing half bad. Only his chum Weasel King faltered to succeed with his potion, though judging by his expression, he had not even noticed that it should _not_ be black, during no stadium of the process. _He_ glared, with a measly sneer, over to his girlfriend and Macmillan, and if looks could kill, Macmillan would surely be dead now.

Draco turned around to the second, and last, row of tables, where four Ravenclaws and Theo and Mil were seated. He exchanged a feeble smile with those two – Slughorn was still going on about the difficulty of this particular mixture, and how glad he was that his efforts were graced by such skilful junior potioneers. Mil winked at him, lifted her wand, moved it, and a small bouncy ball erupted from its tip, flying right over Zabini's head and dropping into his cauldron.

Zabini gave a start and wiped splashes of _Prudentia_ off his face; Draco bit his lips to stifle a loud laugh, and Millicent put on her most innocent expression. She received a strict glance from her boyfriend, who surreptitiously shook his head at her. Slughorn hadn't even noticed this little outburst of playfulness.

"You are so childish," Zabini grunted over his shoulder, taking out his handkerchief and cleaning his cheek.

"Don't rub it off! Maybe it helps," Draco said, still battling the urge to laugh.

"And how funny _you_ are, Malfoy."

"Oh, come on, Zabini. Why do you always have to be such a bore. We have Macmillan for that!"

Even Zabini had to laugh about _that_, and trimmed his own wand towards the next table. He non-verbally transformed one of the little vials between Granger and Macmillan into a frog, which jumped with a loud gawk into the cauldron of the Hufflepuff boy. The contents of his cauldron squirted right into Macmillan's face and he gasped and spluttered, much to almost everyone's entertainment. Draco cackled heartily, too, and so did Weasel King, louder than anybody else.

"Ron!" Granger ranted at him.

"What? It's funny!"

Granger had even less humour than Zabini and Macmillan put together, and kept on dressing down her boyfriend, not listening to his repeated vows of innocence. Draco thought that there must have been some mistake in hospital that day when she had been born. Because Mr and Mrs Granger were rather jocular, and wasn't it obvious that their supposed daughter must be a close relative of Minerva McGonagall instead?

As funny as that little tantrum over there was, it soon became repetitive, and the rest of the class meandered away like an inebriated Flobberworm on a Welsh hillside. "Is it possible to die of boredom?" Zabini said when they were finally allowed to leave and walked out of the classroom.

"I just wish Professor Snape had written a text book of his own," Draco said glumly. "Or preserved some of his original recipes."

Mil sighed and ostentatiously yawned. "I'd be happy enough with his improved ones for a start."

"Libatius kiss my arse Borage, ph!" Zabini shook his head.

"You know, seeing your nice little arse, he might just enjoy doing exactly that," Mil chuckled.

"No call for envy, Bulstrode."

Behind them, the Gryffindors emerged, Granger and Weasley still arguing like always, and like always, too – Potter trying to look as if he wasn't even there. "… absolutely impossible, Ronald!"

"Oh, when will you cut it out! I did nothing!"

"I suppose that frog was nothing, yeah?"

"I didn't do the frog!"

"You're telling me Ernie did that himself?"

They disappeared around a corner, and only then, Draco, Millicent and Zabini burst out laughing. Even Theo cracked a smile. "Someone really ought to undeceive her."

"Yeah, right. _I_ won't get into a brush with Granger deliberately!"

"Zabini, you'll be the end of Gryffindor's Golden Couple!"

"Me? I think Viktor Krum is doing the job single-handedly!"

They laughed even harder, before parting. Mil and Theo were off to the library, Zabini went Merlin knew where, and Draco fetched his rain coat and his broomstick and headed outside. Since returning to Hogwarts, he didn't manage to maintain the same amount of hours than he had during summer. He tried doing one or two per day during the week, and five or six at Saturdays and Sundays, which wasn't much, but alas. He needed to get through with this. He was well aware how lucky he was with such a punishment.

Before school had started again, he had a couple of times seen his father in Azkaban. That had sufficed to impress on Draco that he _really_ wasn't keen on moving into the cell next to his father's. And it wasn't just that; the two and a half months in Saint Mungo's had helped _him_ much more, he supposed, than he had been able to help the nurses and patients. He had got the feeling to do something useful, something inarguably _good_, and together with the sheer exhaustion of the rebuilding work, he had fallen into his bed at night. He had wanted to make up, and got the distinct impression that this work was a far better way to pay back than simply sitting on his bum in Azkaban. 'It is a far, far better thing than I have ever done,' his mother's voice resounded in his head on such occasions, reading in a book he had loved very much as a child.

Had any of them ever done anything really good? Was donating money for charity a good deed, if one had so much of it? Was the absence of bad deeds, which at least his mum could claim for herself, already supposed to count as goodness? And the hours and hours of social work he did and had done, dictated to him by a benevolent jury – were _they_ really good? Like, _really_ good? He did this work, hard as it was, because he must. Dean Thomas had committed the greater part of summer to the rebuilding of the school for some other reason, voluntarily. _That_ was good, inarguably. Draco longed to find something similarly worthy.

And speaking of working hard – at present, they were rebuilding Gryffindor Tower. Not much more than the bare skeleton of the spiral staircase was still standing, and even that wasn't safe to tread on. So the repairs had to be done on broomstick, mostly, and to his surprise, Draco was among the few actually capable of doing this. It turned out that most of the volunteers couldn't simultaneously fly and do spell-work. A baffling amount of them couldn't hold themselves on a broom in the first place. In the first two weeks, it had been fine still; it had been this Golden Late Summer weather, not too warm, not too glaringly bright. But the weather had changed since then, and today was the fourth in a row that he was out there in the pouring rain, heavy gusts shaking him and making it almost impossible to direct his wand properly.

He lifted stones over stones and conducted them to their designated places, following a blueprint that was long unreadable, because the magic ink had dissolved in the heavy rain; no charm he had tried had prevented this on the long run. He returned to the ground and turned to Hagrid, who was in charge and who kept on carting more stones with a gigantic cart wheel.

"Have you got another plan? I can't make out anything on this one anymore."

"That's yer own bad luck, innit!"

"Oh, but only for now. I rather not think of those poor Gryffindors living in a tower that's constructed without a proper plan."

Hagrid looked murderous. "That'd suit ye, wouldn't it! If that tower came crashing down with all that poor children innit!"

"If that was so palatable to me, I would hardly stand here quarrelling around with you, would I?"

"I'll report ye to Professor McGonagall if ye don't stop being cheeky, Malfoy!"

In the same belligerent tone, Draco snapped back, "Excellent! Because I'm sure _she_ has got a proper plan and would want me to use it, too!"

Their exchange had been overheard by Hagrid's giant half-brother, who now came staggering over to them, hurling a clenched fist, as huge as a menhir, at Draco and grunting angrily. Draco winced back and tripped over his dripping wet robes, landing on the ground and the giant missing him by mere inches.

"Hey! _Hey!_ Tell him to back off, man!"

"You ain't bossing no one around anymore, Malfoy! _Those _times are over!"

"Hagger," the giant croaked and lashed out at Draco once more. Draco scrambled back frantically, which was pretty difficult in his position. The giant scraped his broomstick, which was ground to pieces between the mighty fist and the stony path, and also caught hold of Draco's ankle. He lifted him up, gave the upside-down dangling boy a curious glance and stabbed a huge finger against Draco's chest, making him gasp.

"Hagrid," he shouted, trying to keep his voice half-way controlled but utterly failing. "_Hagrid!_ Do something!"

"Grawpy, put 'em down. Bad Grawpy. We must not touch everything!"

_Grawpy_ gave another grunt, sounding confused this time, and started to shake Draco. His grip on the boy's bones was shattering, and Draco had the distinct – and painful – feeling that the ankle was fractured.

"_Hagrid!_"

"Grawpy, _no shaking!_ We spoke about this, remember?"

"HAGRID!"

"Put him down, Grawpy. Put. Him. Down."

Suddenly, the giant loosened his grip and Draco came crashing down, trying to protect his head with his hands and arms, and moaning when he felt his left wrist snap, too. He cursed wildly under his breath, and trying to get up, he sank down again at once with a yelp. Yep, that ankle was _definitely_ broken. And Hagrid didn't feel the least accountable for this. Instead, he commended his idiot-brother for being so obedient, and was on the verge of walking away when Draco's shouting at him finally made _a little_ impression.

"Stop whinging, Malfoy."

"He's broken my ankle," Draco retorted through clenched teeth. "I swear to god, if you let me here like this –"

"What then?" Hagrid sneered.

"_Then_ I'll tell Madam Pomfrey how I broke these bones in the first place!"

Hagrid looked scandalised. "Telltale!"

Draco beckoned at the figure of the giant, that now looked innocently confused, and snarled, "Giant!"

* * *

_Du stiegest_… You descended from your high house to the path – some friends nearby. Among them you sought your home, and looked around as if in another life. Your peaks won't protect you any longer, though like before in the purest apparel you will lean on your neighbour's arm, but remain, like before, a guest from far abroad.

'_It is a far, far better thing..._' – Shortened quote from Charles Dickens, 'A Tale of Two Cities'


	138. The Potions Book

Hermione and Harry make an unsettling discovery

* * *

**_– 4.12. – _**

The Potions Book

* * *

_den vielen – die du immer meiden möchtest._

_vergeblich wäre wenn sie dich umschlängen_

_und töricht wenn du zwischen ihnen föchtest._

_sie sind zu fremd in deines webens gängen._

_nur manchmal bricht aus ihnen edles feuer_

_und offenbart dir dass ihr bund nicht schände._

_dann sprich: in starker schmerzgemeinschaft euer_

_erfass ich eure brüderlichen hände._

_STEFAN GEORGE_

* * *

"Ron, stop being so silly!"

"Oh, now I'm being _silly_, yeah?"

"_Yeah_, you _are_."

"I suppose dear Vicky is so much cleverer than I am!"

Hermione raises her eyes to the ceiling, exasperated, and groans. They're going in circles, _whenever_ the topic comes up, which is basically all the time since September, 1st. She and Viktor have been pen pals for years, save the inevitable break during their time in hiding from Voldemort and his consorts. So, yeah, they continued writing to each other again afterwards, this and that, and in his last letter this August, Viktor mentioned 'a surprise'. The surprise was that he has accepted the position of the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. He had sustained some serious knee injury during the Great Battle, an injury that will take time and rest to mend, so, yes, he then remembered the offer he had got from Professor McGonagall in passing – apparently after Professor Snape's funeral. No big deal, right?

Well, for Ron, it _is_ a big deal indeed. Because of that ancient story between her and Viktor. Hey, Lavender Brown is around him all the time, as a regular student here, and does Hermione make such a fuss about it? She sure does not! And Lavender, that little beast, does take advantage of the present tension and Ron's idiotic jealousy already!

Admittedly, she occasionally gets the impression that Viktor isn't as disinterested as she assures. He's been quite – hum – _flirty_, hasn't he? Charming, at any rate. More charming than appropriate for a teacher. And as much she disapproves of that for various reasons, she can't say she wasn't flattered. Viktor is a famous star, and the other girls make such a fuss about him and fancy him endlessly, and he has singled _her_ out, _her_, Hermione Granger, the boring bookworm with the shock of hair that looks like a ruffled broom after a rough game of Quidditch. Maybe that's the attraction, he feels reminded of his beloved Quidditch broomstick? That's what she's overheard Pansy Parkinson saying, and even though it's totally stupid, because that silly cow's opinion really means nothing to her, she was hurt by the remark all the same.

"Oh, don't be mad with him," Harry says when Ron has stormed out. "You know that he's always been jealous of Viktor –"

"I must have missed your compassion when Ron was all over the place with Lavender, then," Hermione growls dangerously.

"But that was different –"

"Was it? Really? Dear me, _that_ I must have missed, too!"

"Ron is much more insecure than you are."

Hermione snorts and ostentatiously returns to read. Ron, more insecure than her, pah! Why does everyone assume _she_ wasn't insecure? Only because she's not as immature as Ron? Only because she doesn't throw such frequent fits of jealousy? Why do people only get pity when they're behaving like donkeys?

So, yes, this is just another argument with Ron, and she can't even say how it got started. At first he was angry because, in his opinion, she talked too much with 'other guys' – that is Viktor and, silly enough, _Ernie Macmillan_. As if she were talking voluntarily with the latter! That's just Ernie! He just won't stop, like the battery bunny! And then Ron played a really stupid prank on Ernie to get back, which outraged Hermione in turn, and somehow… Well, the usual. So when Harry proposes to visit Hagrid, she says at once she'd come along. Anything is better than this, and they haven't had a chance of spending much time with Hagrid in the last weeks, because he's so busy with the reparations of the castle. He can't get much work done today though, because the weather is just too abysmal. Malfoy got swept off his broom by a gust of wind, even, and the other volunteers called it a day.

Outside, it seems like the end of the world. It's raining so hard that they need drying spells once they're in the hut, despite the umbrella charms they've used to get there in the first place. Hagrid is dishing up some of his infamous rock cakes and tea, and Harry asks casually, "How's the rebuilding coming along?"

"Aye, the weather's a bit of mess, innit," Hagrid sighs and peaks out of the window, where the impenetrable sheets of rain have caused an early darkness.

"I heard Malfoy's been swept off his broom?" Harry asks with thinly-veiled amusement, and both of them are surprised by Hagrid's sudden awkwardness.

"Well, not exactly," he mumbles and pours more tea. "He had a bit of clash with Grawpy and –"

"_What?_"

"Yeah, well, ye know Grawpy means no harm – he just wants ter play…"

Hermione twists her face, slightly aghast. "Hagrid, you're going to be in so much trouble, sooner or later! These things ought to stop! Professor Grubbly-Plank isn't Dumbledore! She won't ignore these things on the long run!"

"Malfoy surely reported you already!"

"He said he wouldn't," Hagrid says contritely.

"Well, I'm sure he's just waiting for the opportune moment! Wouldn't be the first time, remember?"

"But what can I do, Harry? He's my brother! And he's such a friendly little fella," Hagrid cries affectionately, beaming. "Also, I need him for the –"

He clasps a hand to his mouth, looking guilty all of a sudden, and Hermione groans. "What is it this time, Hagrid?"

"Strictly seen, I shouldn't tell ye –"

"No, you really shouldn't," Harry sighs and shuts his eyes in resignation.

"What _is_ it, Hagrid?"

He flushes, stammers and procrastinates, before finally grunting, "I called 'im Herman."

"Herman," Harry repeats, pained.

"And what _is_ Herman?" Hermione asks, hoping against hope that it's something small – fluffy – without teeth, perhaps…

"I got the egg for a good prize and hatched 'im meself," Hagrid exclaims proudly, beaming again, and utterly ignoring his guests' apprehensive faces. "It's a cross-breed between an erumpent –" Hermione whimpers. "– and a megalligator."

"Oh, _no_," Hermione and Harry gasp in unison, and the former proceeds, "And I take it you didn't – didn't tell anyone so far, and didn't apply for a license either…?"

Hagrid looks innocent and occupies himself with brewing more tea. Harry, still squeezing his eyes shut, goes on, "And you need Grawp's assistance to deal with it because – it's so big, is it?"

"Big, well… That really depends on the scale – you want to see 'im?"

"No," Harry cries.

"Yes," Hermione croaks, and catching Harry's glance, "Better know straight away what we're dealing with."

"Oh, ye'll see, he's a real beauty…"

After wading through two feet deep mud and getting drenched in icy cold rain for half an hour, they're deep inside the Forbidden Forest, where at least the rain is no longer pelting into their faces, but that's as good as it gets. They're standing in front of a huge kennel. The sheer size of that thing turns Hermione's stomach, and the deep, growling noises coming out of it make it all worse yet.

"Without Grawpy, I shan't open the door –"

"That's surely better!"

As if there was nothing special about it, Hagrid snatches both Hermione's and Harry's collars and lifts them up, so that they can peek through a long, small opening at the topmost side of the box, that is grilled with heavy iron bars. Hermione's eyes take a moment to accustom to the darkness inside, but then she can see the full size of the beast and catches her breath in shock.

_Herman_ is as big as a common rhino, but more massive, and covered in green and brownish scales. His horn is longer than Hermione's arm, very pointed and dangerous-looking, and so are his long, gleaming white, pointed teeth, that are crowned by two pairs of shocking sabres on the upper and lower jaw. His eyes are glowing in the dark, with alligator-like pupils, and as it spots the intruders, he rears up on his hind legs and snaps his murderous jaws.

Harry and Hermione both scream in terror, and startled, Hagrid drops them. They're landing on their bums in the mud, the image of the attacking monster imprinted on their retinas still. Hermione is trembling when scrambling back to her feet, staring at Hagrid.

"You cannot be serious," she breathes incredulously.

Hagrid doesn't seem to have heard her. His face is shining with elation, and he rhapsodises about 'little Herman', who, it appears, isn't yet full-grown. As an adult, Hagrid informs them merrily, Herman will be about eight feet high (not counting the horn, of course!) and weigh three tons.

"Where did you get that beast from?"

"Why, t'was offered to me by Mrs – now what was 'er name… Her husband was sent to Azkaban, ye see, and she din't know what to do with his things. Herman needs special care, ye know, and –"

"And what the _hell_ were you thinking, buying up the properties of some Death Eaters?" Harry thunders, uncharacteristically furious. Normally, Harry is the first to make excuses for the gentle half-giant, but the sight of _Herman_ gives even him second thoughts!

Hagrid gets awkward. "Well, what should we have done! Ye can't just kill the poor little baby, it's not his fault that –"

"That thing will kill _you_, Hagrid! God! Did you see those teeth?"

On their way back to the castle – and not longer bothering for umbrella charms, they're no use in that weather anyway – Harry keeps on ranting under his breath. "And you know who's going to look after that monster whenever Hagrid hasn't got the time, right? Why, _we_ will do that, of course, we always do! I'm surprised he didn't ask us already! Is the man out of his _head_! _Herman_ makes Fluffy look like a nice little pet! Aragog shrinks in comparison! Buying stuff from a convicted Death Eater! Tah! This beast will be his end, mark my words, Hermione! It'll trample him down, flay him, eat him – and what's left of him then will be sent to Azkaban! I don't _believe_ this!"

She's too stumped still to give much of a reply, which isn't necessary either. Harry's rant is a monologue, and she agrees with every single thing he spats. That megallimpent – that's the species' name, if she's got Hagrid right there – is the most gruesome monster she's ever seen. A dragon looks friendly next to it, indeed. _Herman_ is the stuff that nightmares are made of; one cannot bring enough distance between oneself and such a beast – and the man in principal care of it doesn't even take that menace seriously! She would not put it past Hagrid to take his new pet out for a walk! What if it breaks loose? What if –

Dripping wet and half frozen, they enter the Entrance Hall. Harry's new dorm is in the dungeons; Hermione's room is in what used to be Hufflepuff House, and they stop for a moment before parting, talking quietly. They resolve not to talk to anybody, save Ron, about Herman for the time being, but they reserve to do that still – if all persuasion with Hagrid to get rid of the thing, fails.

A group of Ravenclaw Sixth Years passes them, and Harry and Hermione guiltily fall silent in their rant, thus involuntarily overhearing their conversation. The students gloat about Malfoy's 'accident' this morning, and a girl with long French braids and a sniffy attitude, remarks, "Only got what he deserves!"

She receives ample of applause for this statement. Hermione and Harry exchanging a swift glance, on Harry's part uneasy, on Hermione's angry. "If I hear one more comment like this, I'll give them a piece of _my_ mind, oh boy," she growls.

"But Hagrid –"

"Did you happen to notice that Malfoy didn't even _mention_ the incident so far, Harry?"

"I'm sure he wants to keep that one up his sleeve for later purposes."

Yeah, well, knowing Malfoy, that's definitely possible. Still – she feels disgusted by this attitude, laughing about someone breaking their bones, even if it's Draco Malfoy. She knows that Harry and Neville agree with her, although they don't have the nerve to tell the other students off. She's going to show them the nerve of Gryffindor, pah!

"I'm sure he just feigns it, so he needn't do his penance," some other boy huffs now, and with her fiercest scowl, Hermione swivels around.

"He's got to do his hours anyway," she hisses, ignoring Harry's restraining hand.

"But not in pouring rain," the student retorts smugly.

"Oh, I'm sure he much prefers doing them later – in snow and ice."

This wasn't Hermione. She turns around and sees Millicent Bulstrode, towering with a disdainful sneer. The boy winces away, and Hermione can't say she blames him. She once wrestled with Millicent Bulstrode when she was a foot shorter still, and the bruises took weeks to fade!

"If you want to know the difference between a real broken ankle and a feigned one, I can help you there!" Millicent calls after the boy, who's quicker out of reach than Ginny on a broomstick. Millicent grins. "I think I might have scared the little shithead. I wonder why."

Hermione forces herself to smile. "Mysterious, isn't it…"

"Now that I got you here, Granger," Millicent Bulstrode proceeds, patting Hermione's shoulder and almost knocking the air out of her. "We meant to compile a book – a potions book – with Professor Snape's improved recipes."

Still rubbing her arm, but nonetheless pleased, and a little astonished, she cries, "That's a fabulous idea!"

"Yeah, it is, isn't it? Listen – you're an apt hand with potions, and we figured, because you've got such a good memory, that you might actually be able to help us."

"_Us?_"

"So far, it's Theo, Malfoy, Zabini, Goldstein, some Sixth Years and me. What's up – join us?"

Hermione goggles at her stupidly. That girl _cannot_ be serious! A bunch of Slytherin purebloods! Does Millicent Bulstrode believe for a second that she'd – _ever_ – sit down and work together with them? "I don't – don't think that is such a good idea," she murmurs with a frown.

Millicent Bulstrode shrugs. "It's for Snape," she says simply, smirks and makes to leave.

Hermione stares after the girl, speechless, and hears Harry say very quietly, "You could… You could give them the recipes that you still remember. I still remember a good deal of the stuff from the Prince. You'd only have to write it down and give it to them; you wouldn't have to – to – well, be in the same room with any of them…"

Slightly dazed, she turns around to him. "What?"

Like Millicent Bulstrode, he shrugs. "It's for Snape."

* * *

_Den vielen_… The many – that you always mean to avoid – it would be useless if they embraced you, and silly if you fought among them. They are too alien to your fabric's direction, and only sometimes they erupt with noble fire, and reveal to you that their bond would not shame you. Then say: I take your brotherly hands in strong unity of pain.


	139. The Ring

Hermione and Harry make an unsettling discovery

* * *

**_– 4.13. – _**

The Ring

* * *

_Once in Persia reigned a king,  
Who upon his signet ring  
Graved a maxim true and wise,  
Which, if held before his eyes,  
Gave him counsel at a glance  
Fit for every change and chance.  
Solemn words, and these are they;  
"Even this shall pass away."_

_THEODORE TILTON_

* * *

Hagrid found the odd thing – and because it reminded him of Dumbledore, he kept it. He didn't really think about it; it was just that – he had seen Dumbledore with this cracked ring, and so when one of the school nifflers had dug it out, and Hagrid had recognised what it was, he had pocketed it, and only thought of it again when he cleaned his moleskin coat and found the ring in the pocket.

He put it into the little sachet – onto which he had personally embroidered the words '_Rubeus' Most Trasered Things_' – in which he kept some broken remnants of his first wand, his father's silver pocket watch (which is far too small for Hagrid's big hands to be of any use), a charred wooden splinter from the Potters' house which had stuck in his finger when he had fetched little Harry, a tablecloth-sized handkerchief from his mother Fridwulfa, Grawpy's first tooth (well, the first Hagrid had seen him lose while biting onto a birch tree trunk, anyway), and other memorabilia of this sort.

The ring stayed in the sachet, until one of the students (detentions were nowadays served by joining the reconstruction volunteers) got injured, and Hagrid shouted at another, "Now move ya lazy bottom and get meh the magical bandages! They're in the topmost drawer over there!"

That student found the bandages all right – but also the sachet – and following a whim, rummaged through it with a scornful grin while Hagrid patched up the wounded girl. The student stopped short when coming across the ring. Though cracked in the middle, the Peverell coat of arms was still clearly visible, and glancing around, the student nicked the little treasure without further ado.

What's Hagrid to do with such a ring? He's got no link to Slytherin, or the Peverells, that's one thing for sure! Surely, it must be valuable, and if not for money, for historic reasons. Like Hagrid though, the student soon forgets about the small treasure again, after hiding it in a secret trunk compartment, and only remembers it when packing for the Christmas holidays.

That thing would make a nice Christmas present, wouldn't it? With that kind of history? Oh, yes, it would, and so the ring, however ugly in itself, will be put into a posh little box made of ebony and velvet, and wrapped up, and put underneath the Christmas tree when it's time with a nice little card, waiting there for its next owner.


	140. Replacement Activities

Narcissa tries to find a way coping with her loneliness

* * *

**_- 4.14. -  
_**

Replacement Activities

* * *

_Any idiot can face a crisis; it is this day-to-day living that wears you out._

_ANTON CHEKHOV_

* * *

She wished she had something to do. Something to distract her. _Really_ distract her. For almost twenty years – ever since graduating from College – she had been happy enough with her life just as it was. In fact, she had considered her life to be heaven on earth. Free to do however she pleased, she had spent her time with countless books in the extended library, she had learnt some dozen languages, even very complicated ones like Cantonese, or Merish – which had allowed her to read even more. When Lucius had been in his London office, she had seen after the gardens and the house, played the piano or cello, or Apparated to Paris and Amsterdam and New York to go to the famous museums, but she had always been at home again in the late afternoon, to welcome Lucius when he returned from work. Oh, she had enjoyed herself greatly.

And then, suddenly, Lucius had been caught in the Ministry and sent to prison – and in an act of pure spite, to annoy The Eel as much as possible, she had seen after the family's financial affairs instead of her husband. What was more – she had fretted so much for Draco's sake, she had found no peace of mind to start feeling bored. This time, however, was different. Mr Jenkins was a fabulous Law Wizard and she trusted him to take care of the family fortune – frankly, she found the whole business so mind-bogglingly boring, she was glad that he replaced her in this regard. And as much as she was glad that she had no more reason to worry – she now realised that the sorrows had at least spared her from the full impact of her loneliness.

Solitude had always appeared to her as the only eligible option, as long as she could recall. Severus had been the very first person she had ever permitted to come near her – and he was dead now. And then, there had been Lucius, with whom she had spent almost twenty-five years by now – and he was sentenced _for life_. He had turned only 44 this spring, which meant he had at least the same amount of years before him still, seeing that his father had died at 86, and only because he had caught a lethal disease.

The only other person she had ever cherished fully in her life was, of course, her son – and he was back in Hogwarts. Which was way better than where she, not too long ago, feared he would end – in prison or in the family crypt. Well, she guessed she should be happy, but naturally, she wasn't. She felt awfully lonely.

She had thought about redesigning the gardens – but with nobody else there but her to see them, it seemed no use. It had taken her twenty years to get them like this – perfect in her eyes, that was. She had also tried performing to the elves, like she had used to do for Lucius – but being them, they were no good audience. They _loved_ whatever she played – well, so had Lucius – but she had soon figured out that no matter what she did (and she had tried a lot to gauge their taste and level of sincerity – she had played silly drinking songs and deliberately hit the wrong keys; she had mistuned the piano and put on the wrong strings on the cello) they'd applaud still. It was not satisfying to play for someone like this.

In the end, she had crafted a kind of schedule for herself, to pass away time in the best way she could think of. She would have liked to do these things in the evenings – the time of day when she missed Lucius the most – but alas, it lay in the nature of her chosen pastimes that these could only be conducted during the day. Every Monday, she saw Mr Jenkins to hear how things were going. Every Wednesday she went to Lucius' London office, to show her face and look at their employees in a sufficiently unfriendly manner to keep them from embezzling money and motivate them to continue work like they used to do under their old boss.

Twice a week, she visited her sister and her grand-nephew Teddy, to spend an afternoon with them, but curiously, these visits made her feel her own lonesomeness all the keener. Seeing these two reminded her of _everyone_ she was missing, all of them at once. Andy, the grandmother – it evoked pictures of their own parents, coddling over Draco back then – before their Papa had died of a broken heart after what Bella had done. Before their Maman had followed him because she had missed him so badly. Then there was Andy, the widow – reminding Narcissa almost painfully of her own missing husband, and on top making her feel guilty in a way, because she thought it wasn't right that she lamented Lucius' absence just as much as Andy mourned for Ted's. Looking at Teddy, she had to think of the boy's dead mother, and also of Draco at the same age.

Oh, yes, she loved her sister, she always had. But nearly thirty years of estrangement weren't to be swept away easily, if ever. They didn't have much in common to talk about but their parents and a shared interest in art, and even there, their tastes were very different. Narcissa's interest was classicistic, Andromeda on the other hand enjoyed modern art – a style that her younger sister didn't comprehend and found quite unappealing, despite her best attempts to give it a chance. She'd stared at some Pollocks and thought they looked as if a couple of paint tins had exploded; she'd marvelled at a Hirst and had seen nothing but a dead fish.

Andy was also taking a keen interest in politics, which was just another topic that Narcissa had never harboured much sympathy for. Sure, it was important that somebody saw to it, somebody had to make the necessary arrangements, but why she should feign an interest in the simple running of everyday business was beyond her. What else should she say about the new Minister for Magic other than that he seemed to be a very good sort of person and ran his office the most efficient, competent way?

"Want to be more than a doll in a doll's house, Cissy?"

"Don't talk so big, Andy. You're a housewife just like me."

"No, not like you at all. I'm a housewife with an actual house to take care of. I cook, and I wash, I have lawns to mow and dust to wipe off –"

"I can send over Nobby to you to –"

"No, you won't. I'm grateful for everything that keeps me busy. What I meant to suggest was that a bit of work might do a world of good for you as well."

"Don't think so small, Andy. Doing the chores is overrated, as far as peace of mind is concerned."

"Helps _me_ to get by."

"I'm glad to hear it, but let no man's appetite be the judge of another's. Besides – our servants would never forgive me such an affront, and I cannot afford their displeasure. They're the only company I've got these days."

"What about me?"

Narcissa arched a brow. "Since _you_ flatly refuse to move to Malfoy Manor permanently, you don't count on the day-to-day basis, I'm afraid."

It had been suggested, by Andy as well as Draco, and even Mr Jenkins, that she could strain to do some charitable work, but all three had quickly realised that her unsociable temper wasn't to be reconciled to actually _handling_ other people. She gave money freely to whomever would ask for it, that would have to be enough as far as social engagement went. The actual confrontation with other people did neither her nor them any good. She found that they seemed to be frightened of her.

Lastly, she saw after Severus' legacy. In his time, he had patented a great number of potions and made a small fortune with those. The only thing he had ever done with the money, however, had been the purchase of his parents' house, and the maintenance of his unbearable father. Narcissa had to laugh whenever she thought of it. No – Severus had never forgiven his father. He had not seen to placing him in a retirement home out of the goodness of his heart, either. She just loved the irony of this. Severus had taken care to secure his old man a proper home, with fierce, capable nurses attending to his health because he had wanted 'old Toby' to live as long as humanly possible. Old, frail, sick, he had decades of misery before him still. Severus had once explained to her that he had made an oath after his mother's death – old Toby's death was supposed to be as long-drawn out as Eileen Snape's sufferings had been, and since he had resolved not to dirty his hands on the old man, that one should simply age – and get _really_ old. He had bribed several nurses to take extra good care that Tobias couldn't slip away to secretly smoke his beloved cigarettes, and to enforce his diet. They'd force him away from the TV set with its silly TV soap operas and big sports events, to take him out for wholesome walks and his physiotherapies. He'd even engaged some old biddy to come twice a week and read to him – from scripture. Being him, old Toby raged and clamoured and screamed abuse at the old girl – but Severus' choice had been as prudent and far-sighted as ever. He had chosen a deaf woman for the job.

It was a matter of honour – and respect to Severus' wishes – for Narcissa to follow his suit in this respect. She went to the retirement home herself, wearing her best Muggle outfit, claimed to be a cousin 'from the late Mrs Snape's side' and urged the head-nurse to carry on _exactly_ like before. "You see, Mrs Fox," she said extra-sweetly, "my Uncle Tobias is the last of the Snapes. I'd be inconsolable if anything happened to him. I happen to be the executor of my cousin's Last Will and I am in charge of his money; additionally, my own family is rather wealthy. I would _love_ to sponsor your institute in every possible way, but I hope you understand that this offer is only valid as long as my Uncle Tobias lives."

Mrs Fox was torn between delight with the generous offer, and mortification with the implied reproach. "I assure you, Mrs –"

"Black, Ma'am."

"I assure you, Mrs Black – we have _always_ done everything in the realms of our possibilities to secure Mr Snape's comfort."

"Of course, I can see that at once –"

"It's not _our_ fault that he's become a bit – loopy, and fantasises about witches and the like!"

"Oh, _absolutely_, Mrs Fox! Don't think I didn't appreciate your efforts! I just wish to make it very clear how dear my uncle's health is to me, and how willing I am to support you financially – in every way you can think of – to make sure it stays this way. As you mentioned yourself just now – he has turned a little strange in the head. I blame his bad habits of old. That is why I would like to ask you to make sure he stops watching television – it only gives him weird ideas. I'd also be inconsolable if he keeps on gambling away my cousin's hard-earned money. Please, do put a stop to this. _I_ think more exercise would do him good. Socialising with the other inmates – partaking in your Sunday dances, doing handicrafts, maybe joining your little drama club for the Christmas pastorals. I know he possibly couldn't memorise any text – but I'm sure you'll find a place for him, as one of the sheep or oxen. And of course, I expect you to keep all alcohol, or tobacco, as far out of his reach as possible."

Mrs Fox was avid to promise all this, and Narcissa proceeded to see 'her Uncle Toby', who narrowed his eyes and gnarled, "You – I know you! I think I remember you –"

"Of course you do, Uncle Toby. Now come, we'll take a walk together."

"I don't want no walking! I want my Eastenders!"

"But that is bad for you, Uncle Toby."

"Now I know where I've seen you! You – you're one of _them_!" He stared at her as if she had spontaneously sprouted a second head.

Still smiling, she turned slightly, to avert her face from the watching nurse, so that only Tobias could see her expression. She gave him a vicious grin. "_Them_, Uncle?"

"You're – a witch, too! You're that Black girl! You were at Rusty's funeral, I've seen ya!"

"Of course I was there, Uncle Toby." She turned around to Nurse Fox and made a spinning gesture, to indicate his state of lunacy.

"I'm not crazy," he thundered hoarsely and got a coughing fit. "You're – you're – a witch!"

"But of course I am, Uncle. And with my magical powers, I'll now take you out for a niiiice little walk."

"No! I'll go nowhere with ya!"

Of course he did. With the help of the nurse – who was pretty moved to see that her patient got his first visitor in how many years, save for the ones fetching him for his son's funeral in spring – Tobias was jockeyed into his wheelchair and Narcissa pushed him out of the house and along the little paths of the gardens surrounding the building.

With a gesture that might look tender to an accidental watcher, Narcissa bent over to his ear and whispered, "You are _very_ right, Mr Snape. I _am_ a witch – as a matter of fact, I'm your son's best friend. Which means I'll execute his legacy to my best capabilities."

"Leave me alone! You abomination!"

"He despised you, you know that? He detested you even more than you detest him. You do remember his mother, don't you? Well, I want you to know that _I'm_ not anything like her. You cannot bully _me_, you cannot threaten _me_. Now _you_ are the freak. The tables have long turned, Mr Snape, and I am going to continue my friend Severus' mission to prolong your life until you wish you and your wife had traded places that day back then when she died. I promise you, Mr Snape – before the end, you _will_ repent for what you've done to her, and for what you've done to your son!"

He screeched, "Get away from me!"

She straightened again and pushed him further on, only stopping when they reached a place where some other pensioners were playing chess. "Remember how you loved games, Uncle Toby?" she said loudly. "Come, we'll watch for a while."

"I _hate_ chess! Boring crap!"

She laughed brightly. "Sure, Uncle, sure. I'm sure you'll remember sooner or later, once we've watched for a while. You know what Tarrasch used to say – chess, like love, like music, has the power to make people happy. See? The lovely gentleman just did a King's Indian Attack – just like Bobby Fisher."

The gentleman in question gave her a delighted smile for that comment, and before long, he, his opponent and Narcissa were in the middle of a lively conversation about Bobby Fisher's greatest feats. Tobias Snape kept on groaning and whimpering and complaining, until he shouted at last, "Just kill me now, you evil female!"

The two old gentlemen couldn't help it but gasp, hearing that enchanting, smart young woman insulted like this, and let out a torrent of insults themselves in her defence. When Narcissa finally left the grounds after all – not without promising her 'Uncle Toby' to return soon – she had made quite some admirers, and Tobias Snape had once again confirmed his fellows' opinion of him to be every bit as mean-spirited and soft in the head as they had figured, worse even. Most of them would have given their remaining eye-sight to have a grand-daughter like her, so charming, so clever, so genuinely solicitous of _their_ well-doing. _They_ were used to relatives desiring their soonest possible death, to either end the expensive care, or in order to get to their money sooner.

Courtesy to Tobias Snape, only five months into her grass widowhood, she had made more acquaintances than in the past twenty years. In Green Meadows, she found an audience grateful and appreciate of her musical talents, elderly ladies who could speak about and listen to detailed accounts of gardening architecture, old gentlemen interested in chess and chemistry, touched nurses applauding so much uncalled-for diligence. What united them all was their shared repulsion of Tobias Snape, who'd quickly come to regard his visitor as his personal avenging angel. Her beauty with the long silky blonde hair and graceful appearance made her look like an angel indeed, but he knew her aim was sinister and evil, and despite her assertions to the contrary, namely that she wanted to make him repent his old convictions, she simply cemented them all the more deeply.

* * *

…_doll in the doll's house._ – Inspired by a saying from Charles Dickens in _Our Mutual Friend_.

_Chess, like love_… Quote by Siegbert Tarrasch, physician and chess grandmaster.


	141. Eightfold

**I am SOO sorry to have left out this chapter! My excuses to everyone reading this story! My only excuse (well, rather an explanation) is that this chapter originally was longer, ended later and would thus have come at a much later stage of the story, but since dividing it, it needs to be placed here. MY APOLOGIES!**

* * *

This chapter contains a brief excursion to the first stage of afterlife, some theoretical remarks, and an encounter with an old acquaintance.

* * *

_**- 4.15. -**_

Eight-fold

* * *

_Someone take these dreams away  
That point to me another day  
A dual of personalities  
That stretch all true reality  
And they keep calling me, they keep calling me  
When figures from the past stand tall  
And mocking voices ring the hall  
Imperialistic house of prayer  
Conquistadores who took their share  
And keep on calling me, they keep calling me  
Keep on calling me, they keep calling me_

_JOY DIVISION – Dead Souls_

* * *

In the Ministry of Magic is a room, much resembling an amphitheatre, with a Gothic archway standing in the middle. It's not a very remarkable archway, at first glance, just the last fragment of a structure long crumbled, and that fragment was taken there a long time ago. Nobody knows where or what the original edifice really was. A church? A palace? A temple? Something much more mundane? And nobody could either say how long exactly that arch is here in the Ministry. It was brought here in old times, stood around in a storeroom for no visible purpose for a century or two, until a team of researchers started to take a closer look, practising all sorts of spells and other magical operations. At some point, a veil appeared – but how, or why, if it was always there, just invisible and undiscovered, or if it was added afterwards – no chronicle gives account of.

Ever since, the research results have come to a halt though. Erudite guesses claim that this archway – in combination with that veil – is a gateway between the world of the living and the realms of the dead. But… Well, it's really just a guess. Some people – but not all, in fact only very few – can hear indistinct voices when standing nearby. Thus it was concluded these were the voices of dead souls. But nothing can be said for certain, really. Others think the sounds that only so few can hear were a kind of atmospheric background hissing, either caused by banal radio broadcast transmissions, or cosmological radiation.

_If_ it was possible to pass through this veil and live to tell the tale, one would see that some of these learnt guesses are quite true. It _is_ an echo of the voices of the very recently dead that can be heard by the chosen few, and yes, it _is_ a gateway to afterlife. Well, to its first level, anyway. The only level about which living humans can say anything, too.

When a human being dies – be they a muggle or magician, and incidentally, all beings with souls are actually concerned here, ranging from trolls to cats, dogs and even flobberworms – their soul is divided from their body. So far, so good, so well-known. When the being possessed magic in life, that magic makes a kind of corporeal imprint of the soul, usually imitating the being's old shape. _Usually_. That's not always the case, and never exactly identical with the original. It can happen that a hag's soul takes a beautiful form on this stage, because that soul was beautiful. It can also happen that a handsome man's shape is suddenly ugly and deformed, because his soul was so. Old people often appear much younger, because their spirits are young. Wounds and injuries are usually gone, unless they so deeply ingrained the person's character that they became an actual part of them.

Obviously, people die all the time. Constantly. There doesn't pass a second on earth when there isn't _someone_ passing away; it's a very ordinary thing, even if most people do not like to think about it. Then their soul, in whatever shape, goes on to the first stage, which is different for every individual and depending on their personal story. Strictly seen, it isn't even much of a _stage_ – more of a passage, leading further away from life, towards the real afterlife.

For Harry Potter, for example, that level was visually represented by the waiting section in King's Cross Station, which marked for him the transition from a world of misery and misplacement, to the world of his true self and destiny. Severus Snape found himself in a playground after his death – the same playground where he had once met the most important person of his entire life setting his fate on track.

Proserpina Nott, reluctant to succumb and determined to save her new-born infant, saw herself in the bowels of Saint Mungo's, the same place where she had just died, only minutes after her little darling, whom she had waited for so many, many years, for whom she and her husband had ascended to the highest echelons of Dark Magic, and not in vain, not in vain. She had, aged fifty-nine, become pregnant at last, but then, when she had understood that the baby in her belly was not a 'normal' child – that it didn't have a soul, that is – she had cursed the warlock who had enabled her to this pregnancy in the first place. But her husband was a mighty Dark wizard himself, and perhaps he had been naïve to be so tricked by his master, but he was crafty enough to trick nature itself then, too. They had long talked about this, and when the time came to deliver the soulless child, Proserpina had long said her goodbyes to her husband of thirty-eight years, swallowed the proverbial bitter pill (which her husband had slipped her in an unguarded moment), and freed her soul from her body, only to return at once and make itself homely in the body of the child. The Healers had laid the small corpse aside, and been startled when it had started to cough and whimper. They say that the ancestors live on in their scions – that turn of phrase never was more true than in the case of Theodore and Proserpina Nott.

So much for happy souls embracing death – or not – because their souls are whole, and have a centre, and a purpose. There are souls, however, who do not find such happy venues. After killing both his only love and himself, the Bloody Baron suddenly found himself lost in the dark, eerie woods of Albania, and his soul hadn't found its proper way out – to the next stage – because he had been so guilt-ridden. Instead he groped his way back to life, and lingers as a ghost ever since. And when the warlock who had styled himself Lord Voldemort, met his death in form of – another! – backfiring spell, the last splinter of his soul that was still linked to his mortal form, was thrown into a similarly confusing environment.

For a start – his soul was too heavily damaged to form a proper body, and to his horror, he tried looking down himself, not actually seeing anything, but feeling that he had become some repulsive being that was stuck somewhere between a foetus and a newly-hatched Blast-Ended Skrewt, unable to see, unable to walk, unable to do anything much but wail in unspeakable pain. Yet he recognised his surroundings. There was that smell – that very distinct stink of ammoniac, mixed with other smells, like the lingering swaths of watery potatoes, and noxious mint-sauce from the cantina, that certain smell of little children that outlived all attempts on cleanliness, the stench of vomit, urine, smelly feet, chamomile tea and baby powder. The sickeningly sweet perfume of Miss Manson – one of the wardens – and the smell of cheap sherry that followed around half of the staff. He knew where he was, oh yes, and what his crippled fingers felt only confirmed his frenzied premonitions. The smooth tiles on the walls, the rigid PVC floors that had replaced the old wooden planks and had been sold to the children as the height of sophistication then.

He need not _see_ where he was. He remembered every last corner of this wretched place. The endless sombre corridors covered in those old, brownish Victorian tiles, that the children had been forced to keep so shiny that one could see his own reflection in them. Little Tom Riddle had been so fed up with that chore that sometimes, with a blink of his eyes, he had managed to finish his bit in two seconds, puzzling – and infuriating – the Matron so much that he had been assigned to do the next four square metres straight away. One narrow bedroom after the other, all full with threadbare metal dorm beds and teeming with silly children, who were screaming and whining and thrashing about. There had been many a little boy and girl moaning in their lonely abandonment that it would have been far better if they had never been born – but little Tom had never been one of them. He had had a vision, as far as he could think back – he would get out of here. No matter what it would cost – he would escape this wretched place, and never return, unless to burn the whole thing down with another blink of his malevolent eyes. So how come that he ended here – _here!_ Of all places! – now that he was presumably dead? After everything he had done to distance himself from here as far as he possibly could!

Incapacitated as he was, he crawled and glided on the floor still, like a big, freakish slug, without ever finding an exit. Once, he came across a woman, who shrieked in shock when seeing him, and who didn't immediately recognise him – unlike vice versa. _He_ knew at once who that woman was, felt it possibly, though he had never really met her, had never even heard her voice.

Every soul is sent a guardian – another soul already gone – to welcome them and make them familiar with the new plane of existence. Even Tom Riddle – Lord Voldemort – the Dark Lord – oh, you _know_ who! – was granted this one grace. In his case, it was his mother's spirit coming for him, because she was one of the two only persons who had ever truly cared for him. The other person was his most devoted follower Bellatrix Black Lestrange, and at any rate, he should have considered himself more felicitous if _she_ had come for him, but as it was, she wasn't dead long enough to do so. Bellatrix Black Lestrange was still stuck in her own passageway (a derelict muggle industry site, incidentally, resembling the one where she had first met her later master, but much more intricately designed – like a labyrinth – so she found no exit either, and was most annoyed to be fetched by her own mother of all people, who wouldn't stop lecturing her very sternly for her chosen way of life on the way to the next stage), so the only possible person to give a hoot for You Know Who's soul and fate was Merope Gaunt Riddle, who took quite a while to understand what she was even looking at.

Disgusted as she surely was at first, she still brought herself to kneel down beside the deformed foetus. A mother's soul cannot be hindered only because her child is ugly, slimy and mutated. She tried to touch the thing, muttering soothing words of comfort, but had to see that her son, incapacitated as he was, would shrink away from her, crawl away from her, do anything in his power to escape her caresses. She tried to hug him and he broke out into such screams of outrage and repulsion that she dropped him again in shock. All her efforts were in vain and at last, dejected, she gave up and went away again, only to find a similarly hideous being in the next corridor. This one looked less foetus-like, more like a real baby – oh, well, 'baby' is only the next best description to the oddity he looked like – but just as ugly, just as sluggish, and _just_ as determined not to let his mother come anywhere near him.

It might be noteworthy to explain a few details about the transformational process that turned handsome Tom Riddle junior into the scary-looking Lord – you know who. Because indeed, as a boy and a very young man, he had been extraordinary not only as far as magical abilities would go, but all the more in appearances. He had inherited nothing at all from his mother but her father's name, and taken altogether after his muggle father in looks. Jet-black, wavy hair, dark, intelligent eyes, and features that should have graced any classical statue, tall and slender, with long, slim hands that appeared to be ready to knock out a sonata at any minute, he had looked alluring even when sneering in contempt. Nobody would have believed that anything could ever have marred these beautiful features, least the hundred girls with a desperate crush on him (incited even more by his utter disinterest in them).

But he _did_ change, and not for the better. His first murder he committed aged sixteen, even though this one was almost accidental. Since coming to Hogwarts, he had felt that his true calling was for greatness, and had fancied that he might be – _must_ be – related to great Salazar Slytherin himself, not only because he had the rare gift of speaking Parseltongue. So he spent years and years to go and find the Chamber of Secrets – out of interest in the matter itself, but also to prove his point – and was out of himself with joy when finally finding it. Never before, or afterwards, he experienced such an outburst of real feeling and true happiness than when finally having this proof in his hands. There was a basilisk in that chamber, yearning for blood and obeying to his every word, and after dabbling around with the beast for a while – and painting, as a bit of a joke, frightening verses onto school walls – he took the basilisk out for a walk – slide – well, whatever, but hadn't quite climbed out of the entrance to the chamber when that silly little girl showed up and dropped dead in the same instance. Oh, well. Perhaps he should have been more cautious in that situation. He could, for example, have hidden the body in the chamber, or have fed it to the basilisk to avoid attention. But he hadn't had so much experience and foresight then, and was far too stumped to think so far.

No, it would be wrong to assume that he was shocked of the girl being dead. In fact, he was pretty delighted. Firstly, she was only a mudblood. Who cared if she lived or not? Secondly and more importantly, he had only just lately learnt how to craft a Horcrux, and recognised a stroke of luck when he saw it. To make a Horcrux, one needed to commit murder, and this wasn't exactly easy while one was in school, obviously, and wasn't inclined to be caught. But now that the silly cow was dead anyway, he couldn't let that chance slip by unnoticed, eh? He ushered the basilisk back into the chamber, left the corpse on the bathroom floor and dashed off. An object, an object – where to find a proper object now, to put in a part of his soul? He was, you see, in a bit of a hurry. In later years, he would have scoffed at the mere suggestion to put a piece of the soul of the world's greatest sorcerer into some ridiculous muggle item. But, alas, it was there, right on his bedside table, because he had entertained himself in the last weeks by enchanting it. He had come so far as to control somebody who was writing in the book, which was quite a feat, wasn't it? Pity that they didn't give you awards for _such_ a prodigious bit of work. Grabbing the little booklet and barricading himself in an empty classroom was one, and some hours later – the girl's body had just been discovered – the muggle diary contained a part of Tom Riddle's soul, and his disconcerted looks were generally ascribed to his being shaken by her death.

But that diminutive change was irreversible, if also quite undetectable to any check but the most closely observant. His eyes, so glowing, so beautiful and attractive and clever and deep – lost a bit of their shine. Of course, they were still clever. Still deep. Still beautiful. But never again quite as much as they used to be. His perfect complexion lost some of its rosy glow, too. His pleasant voice got a tiny hard edge, barely perceptible. His slender fingers looked less like 'sonata' and a little more like 'rapier fencing'. As things were, nobody, not even his closest buddies, noticed any of this though, with only one exception, and even this man didn't quite understand what he saw. The Transfiguration teacher, Professor Dumbledore, did spot _something_, but honestly, even this astute wizard was far from guessing the truth at that time.

Then came the holidays; Tom Riddle was forced to go 'home' – that is, to the ignoble orphanage – and seized his time well. He was able to apparate since he was thirteen, so it was perfectly simple to give the wardens the slip, and pay a visit to his only living relations. He had spent many a night brooding over old Hogwarts annuals, figuring out his lineage. At first, he had simply refused to believe it. He _couldn't_ be connected to these derelict tramps! Degenerated, freakish, dirty inbreeds! He also got to take a look at his dead mother, of whom he so long had refused to believe that she was a witch even. But seeing her picture, he thought he _did_ understand something. Witch or not, she was weak. This wasn't about magical capacity – this was about her entire sex. So beaten-down, so depressed, so weak and powerless! This is one of the reasons why later on, he hardly ever admitted witches to the higher ranks of his order – witches could be pushed into submission by _muggles_ even.

However – he did pay a visit, he did find his uncle, he did obtain the information he had wanted, and something else, as a sort of prize. A ring – with the Peverell coat of arms – a family heirloom proving his relation to the Peverell family as well as to Salazar himself. The rest had been easy. Killing a fly was more difficult than patricide. Oh, of course, he had done in his grandparents in passing, but the important murder was the killing of the muggle swine that had fathered and abandoned him.

And thus, another Horcrux was made of the Peverell ring, another bit of his soul was cut off, and Tom Riddle's face sustained another transformation, still small, still hard to notice. His dark brown eyes got a hint of a reddish glow. His complexion changed from porcelain to waxy. His fingers got slimmer, and consequently appeared longer, with the perfectly manicured nails becoming a bit thicker, whiter, sharper. With the third Horcrux, his hair started to become thinner, his hairline started to recede, the red in his eyes became more pronounced, his features lost expression and his fingers grew half an inch each. Number four let the white in his eyes turn permanently bloodshot, added a greyish tinge to his face, and cost him twenty pounds, making him slim to the point of bony. Number five came, taking another fifteen pounds, most of his hair and both of his ears, but adding in height, and length of fingers and nails. His pupils became oblong, his eyes more bloodshot, his irises yet more red, and his complexion was beyond the point of no return, grey-white like a marble tombstone that was heavily weather-beaten. The sixth and seventh, and for a long time, last, Horcrux (and it was not even deliberately created!), robbed him of the last of his hair, half of his nose and made his fingers ultimately claw-like. Not that anyone could have noticed it this time – he was dead, at least his body was, and nobody bothered to examine the corpse at the time too closely.

He retrieved his body, more than a decade later, and yes, _this_ time, his followers definitely noticed the change. Their shock and repulsion notwithstanding (nobody, _nobody_ wanted him back – always excepting Madam Lestrange, naturally), they dared not trusting their eyes. The man in the graveyard there – he was hardly a _man_. His face seemed a blend between human and serpentine, his body was scarcely more than a skeleton with a thin layer of putty skin stretched uncomfortably tight about it, he seemed yet taller, yet bonier, his extremities unnaturally long. Let's face it – even his most undaunted, hardened followers such as Antonin Dolohov or Walden Macnair, or mindless thugs lacking sensitivity in every aspect like Marlon Crabbe, felt nauseated merely looking at him. For more refined men like Lucius Malfoy or Severus Snape the implications of the wizard's sheer bodily presence were much worse than his looks (why, of course they were), but they, too, had to rally themselves not to gasp and shudder. Those that he freed from Azkaban faltered for a second, earnestly contemplating to crawl back into their cells rather than face this – this – _creature_. Only Bellatrix Lestrange proved the old saying, namely that true love is above appearances. If she registered a change, she wasn't repelled at all. She had always admired this warlock, and in her fourteen years in prison, he had come to embody everything she loved and valued in this life – most of all, her freedom. What did _she_ care how he _looked_ like!

To make quite sure, he hastily created another Horcrux (_he_ thought it was number seven, the magical number seven, although in fact it was the unsacred number eight) because he figured that he could well do with every safe-guard he could get. No, he wasn't worried about the continued existence of his other Horcruxes, indeed not. But he knew that he would finally have to confront Albus Dumbledore, and that one _was_ 'the only one he ever feared'. _Six_ wouldn't do if one was to conquer Dumbledore. It had to be _seven_. This last transformation was almost as subtle as the first, simply because he had only so little soul left to split, that none of his minions paid the least bit attention to it. His movements became more snake-like yet, his voice a tad higher still, his cuspids became a bit longer still and more pointed. What they _all_ noticed at once though was the change in temper. Their master had never been patient. Never lenient. Never forgiving. But he had been _sane_ (in a manner of speaking) when they had last seen him, and that sanity, the capacity for logical reasoning, was gone for good.

Why am I telling you all this, you wonder? Why, to help you understand the nature of the weird creatures crawling about in the passageway – the orphanage of Tom Riddle's childhood. These were imprints of his damaged soul. The spirit of Merope Gaunt Riddle encountered not one, not two, not even three of these creepy things. She stumbled across no less than _eight_ of them, all different in appearances, and united in unsavouriness. She cried hot tears about the third one – a baby covered in scales without eyelids. Number four turned her stomach, with parts of the baby's spine _outside_ the body. Number five made her run away head over heels – it had twice as many arms and legs as it should have, and moved like a spider. The next creature she met soothed her poor nerves for a minute – it was a handsome boy of eight, nine years – but then she saw that he was blind, deaf, and mute, and just as unreceptive of her touch as all the others. The seventh one was a skeleton, and had it been a human shape, oh well! But this one combined the features of a human being with the upper extremities of a bat, the skull of a cat and the fangs of a sabre tiger, trying his best to bite his mother, but unable to see her with his empty eye sockets.

She paid no attention to the last one during her flight, but to complete this list: it was a baby, too, and a 'normal' one – meaning it had no scales, no unusual body parts – unfortunately it had _less_ than the usual body parts. It had no arms and legs, and while it could see and hear, it was almost unable to move. All it could do was rocking from one side to the other, making roughly two inches per minute if it was lucky. Merope Gaunt makes a final exit at this point; she returns to the higher plane of existence that most dead souls inhabit, knowing there is nothing at all she could do for her unhappy child, the result of an unhappy obsession that she mistook for love in her youth. Who could blame her? In life, she never experienced anything like real love, neither on the giving, nor the receiving end. And the eight creepy entities remain where they are, scattered about the place that resembles the state-run orphanage, in various degrees of decomposition and mutation.


	142. The Best Present Of All

It is Christmas and there will be presents

* * *

_**- 4.16. -  
**_

The Best Present Of All

* * *

_So this is Christmas.  
And what have we done ?  
Another year over  
and a new one just begun.  
And so Happy Christmas.  
We hope you have fun,  
the near and the dear ones,  
the old and the young.  
A very Merry Christmas  
and a Happy New Year.  
Let's hope it's a good one  
without any fear.  
…War is over if you want it…_

_JOHN LENNON_

* * *

Christmas and New Year were traditionally a big thing in Malfoy Manor. As long as he could think back, Draco had seen his parents in the highest of spirits at that time of year, even in those years when he was a child and his Nana alive still, and the visit of Aunt Andy and her branch of the family had led to inevitable arguments and some valuable crystal and china being smashed against walls and on floors (Aunt Andy had a preference for throwing things when angry). His mum, much as she had disliked the quarrels, had been glowing even more when surrounded by all her loved ones, and for his dad, it had taken something more to spoil his mood than Aunt Andy's nagging.

There had been few exceptions. The year when his grandfather had been dying, the year in which Lucius had been in Azkaban and Draco had stayed in school, and of course, last year, when twenty strangers had usurped the Manor. This year wasn't exactly to look forwards to, either. Lucius was in Azkaban again – but at least Draco would go home and console his mum.

He felt guilty for her present situation. Lucius might have fled if it hadn't been for his son and his reproaches. If it hadn't been for Draco, Lucius wasn't likely to have confessed to all these crimes that nobody had even known of but him, either. And no earthly force could have driven the man to be voluntarily separated from his wife other than the wish to reconcile his son's good opinion of himself.

But had he? Did his son think truly better of him after he'd decided to take responsibility for what he had done? On the one hand, yes. Yes, Draco was actually glad that his father, unlike many others, had turned himself in and given a full confession. It was that confession in itself that he could not handle. Lucius had admitted to have killed more than twenty people in his time, not counting the werewolves and trolls and goblins and vampires. Whatever Draco had expected, it had not been this. Aware that one didn't become the Dark Lord's right hand for being such a pleasurable companion, he'd, perhaps, expected four of five killings – and hoped for less. To actually sit in court and hear how his father had murdered in battle and outside of it, in stealth, for strategic purposes, for simple hatred and now and then, for absolutely nothing at all, not speaking of accidents or self-defence... Draco hadn't believed that his image of his father could be shattered worse than it had already been anyway.

His mother didn't make things easier either. She was a shadow of her old self, thinner, more fragile, her skin even more translucent, and never wearing anything but black as if she were a real widow. She didn't accuse Draco of anything, not directly at least, but wouldn't stop lamenting Lucius' decision, for which Draco felt directly responsible. He commiserated and resented her in the same moment. Why could she never think of anything outside of her own little world? Why did she feel wronged by her husband's imprisonment after countless people had been held imprisoned in her own cellars? Why must she be so inconsistent, so egocentric, so void of a higher morale? Of course, he never said any of this to her face, for pity, for love, for fear, but mostly because he was aware that his accusations were a little on the smug side, and he was ashamed. Let the woman be self-centred, she'd lost all she'd had, her husband, her best friend, and all remaining was a resentful, ungrateful son!

While Christmas was coming closer, Draco racked his mind what on earth he could give to his parents. There wasn't much that prisoners were permitted to have, even though the regulations had become more humane. And what was he supposed to get for his mother? What could you get for somebody who possessed everything she wanted, and the only thing she _really_ wanted, was impossible to get?

In this respect, he erred, and how very happily so. Of course, it was impossible for Draco Malfoy to fulfil his mother's dearest wish – having her husband home. But there _was_ someone who could do something for her (and Lucius, more ostentatiously), and that one also _did_ it. Kingsley Shacklebolt, six weeks after _officially_ taking the office of the Minister for Magic, and two weeks before Christmas, announced that he was going to decree an amnesty for select prisoners. He reasoned that, for a real, and sustainable start into a new future, it was no use to have large portions of citizens sitting in prison. His second argument was that the experiences with those who had received sentences of social work, instead of imprisonment, had been exemplary. Last but not least, he said, he found it an act of new injustice to punish die-hard Death Eaters, who had not even stopped fighting when You Know Who had died, in the same fashion like some lowly Ministry employees who had joined the Dark Order because it had been the opportune thing to do at the time.

From this verdict, six simple pickpockets were the first to benefit and be set free, just like three defrauders, and one marriage impostor. Their crimes had nothing to do with the reign of terror anyway. They were followed by twenty Ministry employees and the same number of other citizens, whose only crime had consisted in being a Member of the Dark Order and having joined out of their own volition. And curiously – wonderfully – even a handful of real Death Eaters saw their sentences converted into other punishments.

Draco learnt this from the Daily Prophet, one morning over breakfast in mid-December. He dropped his coffee cup when spotting the big, black headline, frantically scanning the article and praying that he'd find his father's name among the reprieves, and indeed! There it was! Lucius Malfoy! – Draco's heart missed some beats when reading that the sentence wouldn't be reversed, or alleviated. But then he read on and found that Lucius would be permitted to leave prison and be under life-long house-arrest instead. House-arrest! _At home!_

Draco's cup wasn't the only one smashed this morning. Dariah Fortescue read that her father went basically scot-free, and was merely expected to do three hundred hours of charity. Greg was informed that Goyle senior would have to do six years of house-arrest, followed by six hundred hours. Mr Parkinson was among those Ministry employees to go free, so were the Messrs deWinter, Montague, Clamb and Dempsey. The last actual Death Eater to get a pardon (and eight more months of simple house-arrest) was the old Mr Rookwood; it was counted in his favour that he had tried to shield his sister and grandnephew Neville Longbottom from further persecution, and had successfully prevented that the members of the Closed Ward in St. Mungo's were fed to the Dementors as payment for their services.

The paper had also printed an explanation for each of the convicts going free. In Lucius Malfoy's case, the Minister had reasoned that firstly, it had been proven that Lucius hadn't taken part in anything since his flight from Azkaban then, but secondly, and more importantly in this context, Mr Malfoy's complete cooperation with the authorities had been commended. The fact that he had _not_ tried to flee – that he had calmly waited for his arrest – had given a complete testimony without sparing anybody including himself – all this was, eventually, counted in his favour and had led to the conversion of his sentence.

Narcissa Malfoy didn't get these news directly from the Daily Prophet. Nobby, the house-elf who in lieu of his master looked through the paper each morning to make it fit for his mistress' notice gave a loud scream of surprise and joy, and apparated instantly to My Lady's room, not bothering that he woke her up, not bothering for anything, but shaking the front page wildly.

"The master!" he shouted. "The master! My Lady! Master will come back to us!"

Narcissa bolted up and stared at him, not daring to trust her ears. "What?"

"My Lord was pardoned! He'll come home! Master will come home to Malfoy Manor, My Lady!"

He pushed the paper into her hands, and as soon as reading her husband's name there, she joined his caper of joy. Lucius would come back! He'd be back with her! And under house-arrest! Narcissa felt as if this was a personal gift for herself. Not only would her love come home – he'd _stay_ at home, too! He'd never, never leave her again!

The last member of the Malfoy family to hear of this unforeseen stroke of luck – nay, not _luck_, _clemency!_ – was Lucius himself. He was told so by a guard coming to his cell, and exclaiming brightly, "So, Malfoy – made any plans for Christmas yet?"

Lucius, thinking this was an act of spite to remind him what he would _not_ do, snarled, "I'd thought I'd enjoy the fact that _you_ can't bug me because you will surely be on holiday?"

The guard grinned and made a mock bow. "Why, how sweet of you! But I dare say you'll have quite different things on your mind then."

"Will I? Did the cook announce his plans for the menu yet? Some experiments with gruel and porridge?"

"What's your cook at home usually doing for the Christmas menu?"

"I rather not think of it. No offence to your cooking colleague, and it's definitely improved since the last time I enjoyed your hospitality, but frankly, his food still sucks."

"How fortunate that you won't have to eat it, then!" Lucius inhaled for a snappish answer, but the man cut him short, "You'll be going home, man!"

"What?" Lucius said, unwittingly echoing his wife's reaction to this piece of news.

"We just heard it – there's a number of pardons granted, and you are among them. You're one lucky bastard, Malfoy! You'll be going home before the end of the week!"

Lucius goggled at him, almost frightened to believe what he heard. "You mean," he said hoarsely, "you mean I can visit my family and come back here then…?"

"No, you'll _not_ visit your family. You'll go back to them, full stop. The Minister decreed a number of pardons. For all I can say, you'll be under house-arrest for the rest of your living days, but I'm sure your Law Wizard will inform you of all the details. I just thought you wanted to know."

So, yes – Lucius Malfoy was permitted to go home at last, and on December 18th, he did. Mr Jenkins came to fetch him and delivered him to Malfoy Manor, where half a dozen house-elves already waited at the gates, to grab their master and Apparate straight into the house, where he was instantly knocked off his feet by his wife, who flew around his neck, for once not giving a damn about the present servants and the Law Wizard witnessing her exuberance. She insisted on treating him to the best the kitchen could offer, then dragged him to the bathroom where a hot and fragrant bath was prepared and a merry fire crackled in the marble fireplace; Narcissa divested of his clothes with one quick move of her wand and under countless kisses, jockeyed him into the tub, massaging his shoulders and grooming his hair, and following him almost instantly though still fully dressed.

Draco came home for the holidays three days later, hardly allowing his parents enough time to celebrate their reunion. After his initial joy, however, he had started being uncomfortable once more. Was it right that Lucius would basically go free? Life-long house-arrest without a wand – was that truly an appropriate punishment for all he had done in the past, even if it was a very distant past? Of course, for Narcissa it was nothing but joyous, and in this respect, Draco did feel happy and relieved. Slowly trotting along the long way to the Manor – he'd refused to apparate with Izzy, who'd welcomed him at the gates, and claimed he'd rather enjoy a walk in the snow – he pondered how he was supposed to meet his father. A hug? Or perhaps rather a handshake? Some polite lies? Grave looks? What was the proper way to welcome a murderer back home?

But then the huge front doors had been open already when he'd approached the house, he'd spotted his parents tightly huddled together enduring the cold wind in order to wait for him, and for some minutes, he forgot all his best intentions, ran the last fifty metres and embraced the both of them as fiercely as he could.


	143. Pining

Christmas isn't a happy time for everyone

* * *

**_- 4.17. -  
_**

Pining

* * *

_Come up to meet you, Tell you I'm sorry, You don't know how lovely you are. I had to find you, Tell you I need you, Tell you I set you apart. Runnin' in circles, Comin' up tails, Its only science apart. Nobody said it was easy, It's such a shame for us to part. Nobody said it was easy, No one ever said it would be this hard. Oh, take me back to the start. Tell me you love me, Come back and haunt me, Oh, when I rush to the start._

_COLDPLAY – Scientist_

* * *

She hates Christmas. Really. _Hates_ it. She only ever set up a Christmas tree for the sake of her boy, and lately, she got the distinct impression that not even _he_ sets much store by it.

"Merlin, _Mom_! I'm _nineteen_! How excited am I supposed to become about a stupid conifer?"

Yeah. He's not fond of the tree any longer, either. So why even bother for it? As a first measure, she threw the whole thing, ornaments and all, out of the window. With _that_ bit, he didn't seem too pleased either.

"Was that really necessary?"

"Well, if _you_ don't want it, and I _never_ wanted it in the first place – why spoil the living room with that example of bad taste?"

He screwed up his face and she bit down the piece of unasked-for advice – namely that this sort of grimace is going to cause nasty wrinkles on the long run. She somewhat dreads the day when her boy starts having the first wrinkles; she dreads that perspective much more than the possibility of getting wrinkles herself (and she is _very_ apprehensive of this). _Now_ he's still got his father's face, but Ty died before his face started exhibiting the first signs of age…

Unnecessary to mention that he passed away on December 23rd, right? Right. The whole house was decorated for the holidays already, and she didn't want him to leave – they even fought about this, she didn't want him to leave – but he insisted that he couldn't stand being locked up in the house, in this abysmal English weather, with all the snow, and the mire, and that he had some desire to just _strangle_ the baby if it didn't stop crying soon. So she let him go on that wild spree with his pals. She ought not to have allowed him going, but she did, and he never returned home. She sat there, with the still yelping baby, under the Christmas tree, waiting – waiting – waiting… It wasn't the first time that he didn't come home at night, so at first, she wasn't even worried. On the following day, she started sulking. And only on December 26th (by then she had been _really_ angry with him), a Ministry official had shown up and informed her in very snide terms that – that –

"Merry Christmas, Ma'am –your spouse has snuffed it. I don't assume you're surprised."

Oh, and she wasn't. _Surprised_ isn't nearly strong enough a word. Shocked, perhaps. Aghast. Completely freaked out. She couldn't _believe_ it. Seriously. When she had married Ty, she'd believed it'd be forever.

That Boxing Day was exactly nineteen years ago. The anguish has hardly lessened. Most of the time, she gets by, but around Christmas, it feels just as acute, just as painful, just as fucking unbelievable as it did then. A whole bottle of Firewhiskey hasn't done the slightest bit for her, but only made her more melancholic.

"Mom, stop it. Take a sleeping potion and go to bed, damn it."

"I'm not tired yet."

"Yeah, I can see that." He throws a disapproving glance at her full glass. "Incidentally, Mom – alcohol makes a pasty complexion, has countless calories and lets your skin age."

"Oh, shut your face, Bee!"

"I just thought you ought to know."

"I _know_, alright? Don't you play the mom with _me_ now!"

"I wonder how much trouble you could have spared yourself over the years if you'd just let your hands off the booze. You have any idea why it's called 'getting wasted', Mom?"

Alcohol can make people babble, but it's never made anybody particularly eloquent, though when one's totally lacking a proper answer – like her now – it can still be used as a reply. She hurls the contents of the glass into her son's general direction, but instead of his face, she only hits his sweater. He scowls at her, head-shaking.

"Excellent, Mom. Whiskey in the jar and all that."

Thus, he leaves her to her misery and she somehow slumbers away and only opens up her eyes again in the next afternoon. Without her waking up, Bee has tidied up, disposed of all traces of her nightly session and wrapped her up in a thick blanket. His father would have done the same... No, he wouldn't, but she doesn't allow herself to fully admit it.

Cautiously, because her headache is killing her, she tries to sit up, and suddenly, Bee is there with a tray, a huge pot of coffee, a glass with a remedy potion and a small little box with a huge green bow. She stammers some excuses – he won't hear of it and ushers her to first drink the potion and the coffee, and open the Christmas gift next.

It's a ring, ugly as hell, with a broken gem, and for a moment, she thinks that's some sort of malicious comment on her damaged appearance, but Bee awkwardly shrugs his shoulders. "What to get for someone who's got everything already, and then I saw this, and... It's got the Peverell coat of arms, you see?"

"It's... Lovely!" No, it isn't, but he meant well, and she tries to remember where she hid his present – a Fender Stratocaster like his dad used to break whenever he left a stage – but seeing the boy with it makes it all kind of worse, because he now looks like Ty down to a tee. At least she manages to postpone opening the next bottle until he's gone – their only real Christmas tradition is to leave each other alone, thank goodness.

She absent-mindedly gazes at Bee's gift through the bottom of the jar. It magnifies the broken stone, the Peverell coat of arms. It looks like one of those magical rings in the children's stories that she used to read to Bee, and tipsy as she is – and because it seems the only thing to do with such a hideous thing, because even as a corpse, she wouldn't voluntarily wear it in public – she starts playing around with it like described in all those fairy tales. She spits on the stone and rubs it, prodding it with her wand she mutters various invocations like '_Accio Ty_', and – with growing sadness, as punch-induced as the other antics, but much more real, and utterly tormenting – she shakes and turns and twists the bloody thing and whimpers, "Come on, Ty! _Please!_"

And then, the incredible – the wonderful – the indescribable actually happens, though at first, she believes it's only the alcohol. Suddenly, white mist rises and forms the long-lost, but never-forgotten shape of her Etienne, who addresses her in his unmistakable voice, speaking words of love and admiration, and – curiously – pleas for forgiveness, for acting so irresponsibly and leaving her and their son alone. She never blamed _him_ anyway; instead, she almost loses her mind with happiness, that kind of unadulterated, true joy that takes her breath away as much as her common sense. She couldn't have torn herself away from the apparition if her life had depended on it, but Ty seems to have gained sense in death, or perhaps all those drugs back then in the seventies finally took their toll, at any rate he starts uttering all these things that she suspects someone like Albus Dumbledore would have said, too.

"You must not wane away in front of an apparition, Vivi. It won't do to dwell on dreams of the past."

"The past is all I have, Ty..." she whispers, tears in her eyes.

"Let go, Vivi. I'm long gone and for twenty years, you pursued nothing but a memory. Live your life – it's always too short anyhow. We'll be together again when it is time."

And then, he vanishes again and she's back on her own and – then she loses it completely. In fact, she throws such a frustrated tantrum that her bedroom needs a complete make-over repair afterwards. She wants him _back_. For almost twenty years, she has wanted him back, but after encountering him again like that, her craving has become irresistible, and it doesn't take her very long to come up with a wine-trodden plan.


	144. A New Start

It's partytime

* * *

**_- 4.18. -  
_**

A New Start

* * *

_An optimist stays up until midnight to see the New Year. A pessimist stays up to make sure the old year leaves._

_BILL VAUGHAN_

* * *

Narcissa had never been fond of parties. Attending them, giving them, cumbersome small talk, boring after-dinner speeches, donning impressive evening gowns revealing pieces of skin that _she_ thought only her husband was entitled to see. Every now and then, however, she had felt compelled to throw some big event, and _this_ year, she did so in the highest of spirits, because she wanted to celebrate Lucius' return home on New Year's Eve. She wasn't even discouraged by the rather delicate question of whom to invite, which was tricky indeed, because so many of Lucius' acquaintances had been imprisoned or where on the flight, or wouldn't want to associate with a known criminal.

In the end, she had gathered forty people, give or take. Damocles and Bertie honoured their friendship of old even though they had opposed Voldemort and his cause, and both of them were such reputable wizards in the community that others, who might have shunned the invitation otherwise, let themselves be persuaded, too. The Flints came, so did the Warringtons, the Patils and the Smiths, Rick Jenkins and his wife, Miranda Crabbe and Venus Yaxley, Celestina Warwick and Gwenog Jones, the de Winters, Montagues, Greengrasses, Urquarts and Parkinsons, and to crown it all, she'd even managed to talk Stubby Boardman into coming and performing. He'd been singing on Rabastan's New Year's Eve party twenty-six years ago, orchestrating her and Lucius' first dance, first kiss, making him a natural choice for this year's celebration in her eyes.

Surprisingly, it took some hefty persuasion to induce Draco to invite his friends. Not even Narcissa was so unworldly not to grasp that her son might not be particularly keen to party with his peers among the adults, so she'd suggested that they could fete in the dungeons instead, but he had declined in something like shock.

"I'll never voluntarily set a foot in that dungeon again, Mum!"

Oh well. She understood _that_ easily enough, so she recommended La Grande Salle in the castle wing and after a lot more tergiversation he gave in after all, obviously to do her a favour. Truth was that Draco really didn't feel like throwing a party and was irritated that his mother (of all people!) should. How could she? How should he?

But he'd said yes, and after some more squirming, he thought he did see a bright side after all: if he invited his friends, he could steer clear of his parents, which seemed like a good idea. He found it difficult being in the same room like his dad – talking of squirming! – he never knew what to say. Most of the time, he didn't even know where, or how, to look. The last two and a half years had taken their toll from Lucius; he was thinner, looked older, strands of real silver had mingled with the silver blond. His eye-sight had lessened so he wore glasses most of the time, and without a wand, he also appeared rather helpless in other respects. Without the house-elves' and Narcissa's assistance, he'd have been entirely lost; he couldn't even unscrew a bottle of wine without his wand. Draco actually shied away on these occasions, unwilling, nay – incapable – to help his own father.

'In Azkaban, you wouldn't have been drinking some nice Beaujolais either, now see for yourself how you open it,' he thought but didn't say. There were loads of things he couldn't bring himself to say but which lingered on the tip of his tongue constantly all the same and made it nearly impossible to talk to Lucius. Draco had thought that he hated the idea of his dad in prison, but had come to realise that he hated him _not_ atoning for his crimes even more. This wasn't right. It just wasn't right. Perhaps it would have been possible to scream all this at the mighty warlock his father had been once – but to confront that frail, beaten man was out of the question.

In his dilemma, he turned to the only people he could think of who'd both understand and sympathise – he called on Theo and Mil, of whom he knew that they spent Boxing Day together on the Bulstrode's farm. Theo didn't appear overly joyous to be thus disturbed, but once he had heard why Draco had come, he listened as attentively as Millicent.

"If you really don't want to do it, just pretend you were ill," he suggested off the cuff.

Millicent shook her head. "Rubbish. His mum will pour a dozen potions down his throat and drag him to a Healer. I mean... Why don't you just have that party, Malfoy? It's merely a sodding party after all."

"How can I give a party in the former headquarters of the Dark – of doom, Mil? Who on earth am I supposed to invite, eh?"

"Us," she replied brightly. "Greg. Pretty Boy. Daphne and Panse. Flint, all the Warringtons – including your girlfriend. Gosh, I nearly forgot her –"

"You can. We've split up. Nearly a month ago."

"Did you! Oh my. Since Panse and me are no longer talking, I'm always the last to hear of these things. Did you split up badly, or on friendly terms?"

"Rather friendly terms, I guess..."

"Good, so you can invite her, too. And who knows, maybe you make up after all –"

"I really don't think so. I – she – I couldn't _bear_ her."

"Yeah, well... Can't say I blamed you." Millicent made a knowing face. They must both be thinking of the same.

For four or five weeks – which had appeared longer, mysteriously – he had dated Ivor Warrington's little sister (who wasn't that little any longer) Aida. How had this come about? Draco could hardly say. Or perhaps he could. Aida had been determined to have him, and she had gotten her will. One evening, she had pranced into the Potions Book meeting, feigning an interest for the subject but really just dallying with Draco, who, for the first time ever, had taken a closer look, and had been startled finding that 'Warrington's little sis', as he'd always called her until then, had grown into a quite pretty little thing, with long, slender limbs, a handsome body and an almost beautiful face. She was also rather fun to be with, talking easily and animatedly about a lot of things, mostly Quidditch (well, she _was_ her brother's little sister after all!), and wasn't nearly as pushy or unnerving as Pansy. So who was he to discard such attractions, eh?

By and by, however, he had found out that, as pleasant as she always was with him, as condescending and conceited she behaved towards other people. Most of the time, it had been Greg on the receiving end of her sharp-tongued wit and Draco had grown increasingly uncomfortable. Mocking Greg wasn't fair. He was not one of the world's great thinkers, but he was genuinely kind, good-natured and funny. Also, he was Draco's oldest and best friend in the world. When he'd criticised her for her mockery, she'd shrugged, wide-eyed, and had claimed that she was just kidding, 'no offence!' But Draco _had_ taken offence, more than Greg possibly, and had finally broken it all off. Aida, with her natural cheerfulness which had attracted him so much, had shrugged once more and remarked that he shouldn't take matters so seriously. Luckily, she'd taken the break-up in the same vein. He had been afraid that she'd make a similar drama out of this like Pansy had, then.

After digesting her surprise, Millicent went on making a list. Anthony Goldstein from their Potions Book project, Luna Lovegood because she'd become a friend and the same was true, strangely enough, for Gryffindor's Dean Thomas. Then the other guys from their dorm, the usual Slytherin girls, the old and the present members of the Quidditch team. Draco dutifully took notes and care to follow Mil's instructions; he had some candidates of his own in mind of whom he didn't expect that they'd accept but whom he meant to ask anyhow.

He was quite astonished to see that, some few exceptions with prior engagements aside, most people actually came in the end, even those he had never ever reckoned with. _Neville Longbottom_ showed up, doubtlessly dragged here by his friends Dean Thomas and Luna Lovegood, who assured in the sincerest tones that she wouldn't have missed this party for the world. In the tow of these two, some other unexpected guests had come, like Gryffindor's Finnegan, Brown, Macrae and Oglewood, Ravenclaw's Boot, Corner and Davies, and even a number of Hufflepuffs, among them Zacharias Smith and the inevitable Macmillan.

"Nice joint," this one remarked in an ill-conceived attempt of _not_ sounding like his own grandfather, and made a wide gesture.

Draco did his best to smile nonetheless. He found that he should make his peace with Macmillan; after all they shared a room these days. "Yes, well… The house was built in 1068 and has been in the family since then."

"Almost as old as Hogwarts! You have a Poltergeist as well?" Thomas asked.

"Poltergeist?" the ghost of Myrtle, who'd made a particular point of coming after Draco had specifically gone back to school to invite her, screeched in dismay.

"No Poltergeists whatsoever," Draco calmed her. "No ghouls, no immured relatives turned into ghosts or any of these things."

Dreamily, Myrtle let her gaze wander, eying the two-metres thick stones walls, the armours, ancient paintings and halberds, and muttered, "This place could very well do with a ghost..."

Draco, as much as the others listening, bit his lips to keep himself from sniggering, but Myrtle wasn't discouraged so easily and went on, long after Draco had strolled away to look after his other guests.

Luna Lovegood, for example, asked him whether he was in the mood for a game of chess, which he politely declined, claiming that he'd stand no chance against her anyway because her strategies confused him every time.

Being her, she answered, "If you were a subscriber to _Rook's Turn_, for example, you'd have seen right through me."

"I don't think I ever heard of that chess magazine."

"Oh, but it is no chess magazine. It's an American news journal comparable to the _Quibbler_, and they have a section with chess riddles!"

That did explain a lot, he thought.

"When did you two play chess, then?" Greg asked, looking bewildered. In this moment, Draco prayed that for once in her life, Luna would keep her mouth shut, but of course, she didn't. _Of course not._

"During my imprisonment here," she replied with the same serenely unconcerned air like usual. Draco felt his cheeks redden and desperately thought of some, _any_, sort of an answer, but was spared by her next remark. "Next to Mr Ollivander's company, Draco's was really the highlight of my stay. We had so much fun, didn't we?"

Draco swallowed and forced his face into a smile, if ever so wryly. "I don't think I –"

"I'm a rotten player," Longbottom inserted, and even if he didn't mean to save Draco from more embarrassment, he could have kissed his feet for that respite regardless.

Greg nodded. "So am I," he cried. "Never beat Malf a single time. Or anybody else, now that I think about it…"

Draco had never figured how pleased he could be by a conversation about _chess_ – usually not much of a party starter, all the more when it weren't some grandmasters talking, but people who had not the remotest clue of the matter. Seeing Longbottom and Greg talk about _anything_ was odd enough. He admired Longbottom's capacity for magnanimity; nothing in his demeanour betrayed how badly he had suffered from Greg's hand for years. Or from Draco's, in that vein. No, Longbottom was quite at ease, it appeared. Much more than Draco at any rate, who fled at the first chance he saw and wandered over to a group of sofas where Mil was engaged in some game, drinking half of Slytherin's past Quidditch team under the table. Ivor Warrington's eyes squinted into two different directions, at least. Damian Montague seemed delirious, leaning against the wall. Jerome Urquhart was sleeping, his forehead on Montague's shoulder. Marcus Flint's fingers were clenched around the edge of the table, desperate not to succumb to the horizontal, too.

Mil flicked her wand and half a dozen coins flipped on the table. "Darn," she groaned, pouring a shot of whisky, gin and vodka each, and drinking them in rapid succession. "Your turn, Flint!"

"What if I just –"

She grinned sardonically. "Then I'm entitled to call you a chicken, Flint, bear that in mind!"

The folks surrounding them cackled and cheered, and Flint flicked his own wand in response, squeezing his eyes shut as if he couldn't endure seeing the results. "Two vodka, mate," Harper exclaimed. "Come, that's not too bad!"

The sight of so public an execution was too ghastly to linger, so Draco turned his back on them finding Luna Lovegood had indeed found herself a victim to exercise _Rook's Turn_'s latest recommendations – at least someone had taken pity on Macmillan; that had to be counted as a blessing. Spotting Panse conversing with Zabini (and never keen on talking to her in the first place), he took a slight detour, ending up with the latest addition to their little Potions Book Club, Susan Bones, who was no longer attending the class, but who had not been bad at it prior to ditching the subject.

Another one of those whom he had invited out of politeness, but whom he had not expected to actually show up. He dressed his astonishment in polite words of welcome, making her grin. "Tell you the truth, Malfoy, I was just too curious. Everyone who's ever seen it says this house was like some enchanted fairy castle, and I must say, they were right."

"Thank you, that's –"

"Not the first time you heard that one tonight, eh?"

"Oh, well... My mother dislikes company so much that the majority of folks have never before been here either, so... I take it you finally pardoned me for the beak last spring, or are you just waiting until I'm drunk and you've got the proper opportunity to give me one in turn, too?"

She smiled. "I figured I couldn't continue blaming your for simply being a rotten shot."

"Oh, shoo! I happen to be an _excellent_ shot with the right wand."

"Always blame the equipment, eh? How very modest you are!" She gave him another smile, and perplexed, Draco discovered two things. Firstly – Susan Bones was remarkably cute, if one really looked at her. She had round, blue eyes, and a button nose covered in freckles. No, she was no conventional beauty, but the way she smiled there now, she was a pleasure to look at. From their classes and the Potions Book Club, he knew that she was smart, and it clearly showed in her eyes. And secondly – he had never really thought about it, but right now, he got the distinct impression that Susan rather liked him, if that was a word. That was – well, weird, somehow, but he also felt pretty flattered. Susan was one of those good girls, in every whatsoever respect.

"I have a collection of flaws indeed, but false modesty isn't among them," he said, smiling, too, and raising his glass to toast with her.

"Well, self-realisation is always a good start!"

"Let's not talk about _me_," he cried and smirked at her. "Let us rather talk about _you_, Susan. What are _your_ flaws and follies?"

"I believe one of my worst flaws is the habit of gallivanting with strangers," she replied in the same jocular fashion.

He took a mock look around. "What strangers now? I had hoped you were flirting with me."

"But I hardly know you!"

"_That_ can easily be changed."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. _If_ it was true in the first place, which I don't think it is – that we hardly know each other."

"Is that right!"

"Oh, yes. I happen to know, for example, that you have a pet crup – I believe its name is Betty."

"How do you know _that_!" she exclaimed, genuinely surprised. Oh, bless his capacity for memorising random pieces of useless information! Ha! He had once heard her speak about this to one of her friends, while they were working on the renovation of the Astronomy Tower. She had talked about some Betty having cups, and deduced that she was talking about a crup rather than a simple dog. He hadn't had the least inkling though how much remembering such a trifle could impress a girl!

He crammed in his memory for more information of this kind, recalling a novel he had once seen her carry around, asking her how she had liked it and making some clever remarks on it. She was even more delighted, and then he crowned his impending victory with simple, yet subtle because ironic, sycophancy – "And I know that you have an impeccable taste."

"Do I?"

"Absolutely. Your choice of subjects – like ditching old Slughorn knowing he can't teach you anything else anyhow, your choice of robes and last but not least, your choice of a dancing partner."

"What dancing partner now?"

He winked at her and simply snatched her hand to pull her over to the improvised dance floor, where a dozen other people were dancing already, among them Greg and Mil – geez, how was that girl capable of as much as _standing_ still?

So far, it had always been some girl who had been smitten with him and he'd then decided to allow her advances. Dumbfounded, he now realised that all this was _much_ easier than he had ever imagined. Even a smart girl like Susan Bones could be captured by a few smiles, a feeble stab at small talk, and not ten minutes later, she was lying in his arms kissing him quite passionately. This was good. Not only the kiss - which was very good indeed - but to kiss a girl like Susan. A good girl. Upright, smart, kind. Not a conceited cow like Aida, not a stupid goose like Pansy. If one wanted to lead a good life, a good girl like Susan was certainly the way to go.

Speaking of Pansy Parkinson – she was forced to witness that kiss, standing nearby with Juliet Montague and Blaise Zabini, and looking as sour as if she had just bitten into a grapefruit. "Yuck," she made, taking great care to sound as disgusted as possible.

"Tough luck, Parkinson" Juliet remarked and sneered.

Zabini shook his head. "He's got a questionable taste."

"She's positively ugly!" Pansy agreed fiercely.

Juliet sniggered. "As I keep on telling you, Parkinson – envy is no attractive feature. Neither is jealousy!"

"Jealousy, pah! And envy! I'd try cursing my nose off if I had a face like Bones!"

"Nomen est omen," Zabini said wisely.

Pansy stabbed her finger against Juliet's shoulder. "And _you_ shouldn't be talking! I think we all remember _your_ antics when you tried making Becca Goldstein jealous! Is Bones your type then, that you're defending her?"

Juliet shook her pretty head, gave a sigh and started walking away. "You're pathetic, Parkinson. Just – pathetic," she said over her shoulder and was overheard by Millicent, who was dancing nearby, this time with Theo.

"Good lord, Panse," she sighed under her breath. Their old, close friendship had dissolved in the last year due to a whole catalogue of reasons, but that didn't mean that Millicent wasn't still sorry when she saw her formerly best friend make a fool of herself.

* * *

_Nomen est omen._ – A name is an omen.


	145. The Imperturbable Mr Diggle

Dedalus Diggle receives fan mail

* * *

_**- 4.19. -  
**_

The Imperturbable Mr Diggle

* * *

_Happiness is a warm gun._

_THE BEATLES_

* * *

Dedalus Diggle is a peculiar man, and it isn't just his flavour for flashy top hats that makes him that. In his sixty-eight years on this fair earth, the wind has scarcely blown in the east, as he puts it himself. In fact, he is a truly happy soul. Not even the regime of Lord Voldemort could change much about Dedalus optimistic perception of the world surrounding him. Many call him 'naïve'. Others go further and say he's a nutter. But Dedalus unwaveringly believes in the innate goodness of mankind, and that even when people would strive for evil, an invisible balance will set it all right again on the long term.

This morning, like every morning, he collects the morning paper, the post, and the milk bottles and takes all into the comfortable kitchen, before preparing breakfast. His flatmate, Walter, a veteran from the Voldemort wars, likes to sleep late, while Dedalus prefers thinking of himself as an early bird. This also gives him a perfect opportunity to do something for Walter, who, unlike himself, suffers from gloomy moods and harmful recollections of loved ones now lost. So like every morning in the course of the past year, Dedalus makes breakfast for the two of them, brewing Walter's favourite sort of tea (Earl Grey with two sugar cubes), frying some rashes of bacon and sausages, toasting some bread, and scooping some of Walter's favourite jam (raspberry and mirabelle) onto a little dish – the dish with the little rose pattern. He does all this with so much love and attentiveness that not even Walter, disgruntled as he is, can find it in himself to mock him – or the ridiculous china, with the roses, that looks as if it belongs to a five-year-old girl catering to her dolls.

Every morning at half past eight, he takes up a cup of Earl Grey, quietly putting it on Walter's bedside table. And then Dedalus waits patiently until Walter gets up at last, no matter how hungry he is himself. This morning, his patience isn't tried – well, it never is, really, this is a mere figure of speech. Dedalus Diggle's patience knows no limits. This is why he was chosen to guard over Harry Potter's family – his Muggle relatives, more precisely – during the last time of upheaval. The other order members decided unanimously that Dedalus was suited best for that job, after hearing what the Dursley family was like. Well, Dedalus was delighted with his task, and it remained incomprehensible to him why the other members should be so apprehensive. Admittedly, Mr Vernon Dursley isn't as easy-going, or polite, or broad-minded, as some other people. And yes, Mrs Petunia Dursley _could_ be considered a little trying for one's nerves – but it is Dedalus most sincere conviction that there is no human being without merit, and he is in the singularly happy position to be capable of seeing that goodness almost at once when meeting someone new.

Mr Vernon Dursley's most pleasant feature, for example, is his outright honesty. 'Bluntness', Hestia – oh, dear, dear Hestia – grumbled, now and then. But Dedalus preferred to call it 'honesty', and take comfort in the fact that Mr Vernon Dursley would always and under all circumstances, speak his mind. And his wife – such a tidy, well-organised woman, indeed! And both of them so truly solicitous of their son's well-being. Oh, and speaking of the boy, Dudley. Charming, so charming! Not the sharpest tool on the shelf, perhaps – but not everybody can be a Dumbledore, can they? And young Dudley is an obedient, eager, and astonishingly strong young man. What endears him most to Dedalus is that he truly cares for his cousin, the admirable Mr Potter. So often, young Dudley inquired after Mr Potter – where he might be – if the Order had heard something from him – what was to become of the boy…

"Guess who has sent a postcard, my dear fellow?" Dedalus cheerfully exclaims when his flatmate enters the kitchen, with droopy eyes, in his shabbiest pyjamas.

Walter grunts a reply that is virtually indistinguishable, but Dedalus doesn't mind, and continues in the same serene vein, "Dudley sends his love, from Majorca!"

"_Who?_"

"Dudley! Dudley Dursley! You know, young Mr Potter's cousin!"

"The fat one?" Walter asks, beckoning at a little photo that Dedalus has pinned to the cupboard.

"Fat – that is an ugly word, Walter. Young Dudley is powerfully built, indeed," Dedalus corrects him mildly.

Yawning, Walter grunts in return, "Nice of him to send a card…"

"Yes, isn't it? He never forgets his old friend Diggle!" It's true. 'Young Dudley' sends postcards whenever he sets a toe out of Surrey. Around the photo, there are postcards from Portsmouth, Cardiff and Brighton, and still smiling, Dedalus fixes the latest one there, too.

While Walter devours his breakfast, leafing through the Daily Prophet, Dedalus continues to look through the post. Among the bills and leaflets, there is one other, most exciting letter. A very polite request for an autograph. Dedalus gasps with surprise – and embarrassment – surely, this is _too much_ flattery! An _autograph_! Of _him_!

'_Dear Mr Diggle_,' the letter begins in a clumsy hand. '_I am a great admirer of you, and indeed, the entire Order of the Phoenix. I would be honoured beyond expression if you were so kind to sign the photo of yourself that I enclose. I also enclosed an envelope, and the necessary stamp, because I wouldn't want to cause you (one of the greatest hero of our time, dear Mr Diggle!) the least bit of inconvenience. I already have some autographs, from Harry Potter, for example, but my collection could never be complete without your likeness. I entreat you, my dear Sir, to oblige my humble wish. Yours most sincerely, _–'

Well, the signature is too untidy to decipher, and in any case, Dedalus is too awkward to try. He glances at the little return envelope, that the writer spoke of. U. N. Owen, the address says, from Lancashire. Lancashire – how pleasant! Dedalus once spent a most delightful holiday in Lancashire – back then, during the London evacuations in the Forties…

It takes him the better part of the remaining morning to come up with a suitable answer for such an immense compliment. He writes two foot of parchment, thanking the unknown admirer over and over again for his kindness to think of him – _him_, Dedalus Diggle, so unimportant in the grand scheme of things, and not anywhere near as deserving as the other members of the Phoenix Order. Really, what has _he_ done, compared to the feat of a Minerva McGonagall, a Kingsley Shacklebolt – not to mention the grandiosity of Mr Potter himself! Then, he puts his signature on the photo – a cut-out from the Daily Prophet, incidentally – and puts both, letter and photo, in the envelope.

Finally, his gaze rests on an innocuous piece of paper, a little pink thing, with the picture of bust of a rather pretty female on it. Only then, he remembers what this is. A _stamp_, oh, yes. Yes, he remembers _those_. Mrs Petunia Dursley used them, too, when sending notes to her muggle friends, explaining the family's sudden disappearance from their neighbourhood. Now what was it that she did with those… He scratches his chin. She somehow glued them onto the envelopes, yes, but how did she do it?

He's hit by a brainwave. Or rather: a memory, of Mrs Petunia Dursley sticking out her pink tongue, moistening the thingy's back. Very graceful, how she did it. He smiles, picks up the 'stamp', sticks out his tongue like he saw Mrs Petunia Dursley doing the same – of course, he's not nearly as graceful! – and licks over the smooth surface. He twists his face. _Yuck!_ It rarely happens that Dedalus Diggle is disgusted – but the taste of this thing is too revolting even for his good temper to ignore. For a split second, he wonders how Mrs Petunia Dursley managed to keep such a calm face, but then, his mind is distraught by a sudden griping sensation in his stomach. Well, _griping_ is a little weak – the better expression would be agonisingly painful. Never has he felt such intense pain before!

In the next second, Walter is startled by a loud noise coming from the kitchen downstairs. "Everything's all right with you there, Dedalus?" he shouts, more for courtesy than worry. But he doesn't get an answer, and calling out some more times, he finally lifts his lazy old body off the couch and strolls downstairs, to see what's happened to the old fellow. He freezes when entering the kitchen – before him, keeled over atop the kitchen table, lies Dedalus Diggle and gives neither stir nor sound. Rallying his shock, Walter hurries over to check his friend's pulse, but no matter how hard he tries, he finds none. It takes Walter some minutes to process this. Dedalus Diggle, the imperturbable Dedalus, friend of the friendless – is dead.


	146. Guys And Girls

It's a comforting thought that all men are the same, somehow.

* * *

_**– 4.20. –**_

Guys And Girls

* * *

_I was feeling insecure,_

_You might not love me anymore,_

_I was shivering inside,_

_I was shivering inside,_

_I didn't mean to hurt you,_

_I'm sorry that I made you cry,_

_I didn't want to hurt you,_

_I'm just a jealous guy._

_JOHN LENNON_

* * *

Jealousy isn't a sympathetic feature, Hermione has decided lately. Not that she isn't jealous herself, occasionally – but Ron's taking the issue to a whole new level. He spends their entire Defence Against the Dark Arts class alternately scowling at Viktor, and surveying Hermione with a sour look. And dare she look at their teacher – _oh boy!_ Last week, he made a huge scene, right outside of the classroom. Today, he's simply snatched his bag, got up and marched out, in the middle of their class!

She's given him a piece of her mind about this, and they had a big row about it. Well, not only about _this_ – Viktor – but about pretty much everything that has ever bugged either of them about the other one. He accused her of being a sniffy, bossy smart aleck, and of deliberately flirting with both Viktor and – unbelievable but true! – Ernie Macmillan. She in turn sniped at him for behaving like an idiot, being 'nigh illiterate and proud of it', and dallying around with Lavender, and every other girl making him a compliment for his Quidditch skills. Well, she's not proud of herself, but how could she have helped it! He practically begged for this!

And what do people who try to hide away, from moronic boyfriends and other disappointments, and who live in cramped ten-bed-dormitories, where do such people go for comfort and a few private minutes? To the bathroom, of course. Hermione tries several ones (all of them practically crowded with other girls having similar problems), before resorting to Moaning Myrtle's old refuge. It's not entirely empty either, and she tries to make no noise when locking herself up in the next best cubicle. She doesn't want to disturb anyone else in _their_ grief, she only wants to be alone.

Some girl is crying nearby. Not very loudly, not very desperately, but crying she is, and Hermione feels nosy for just being there and hearing this. A nose is blown repeatedly, and then, someone else comes in.

"Susan? Susan, are you here?"

To her astonishment, she recognises the voice of Draco Malfoy, and also the girl's who's answering to him now. "Leave me alone, Draco!"

"Oh, _please_, Susan. Come on, let us talk about this."

"_Now_ you want to talk!"

"Yes, I do! I had no idea that this would make you so upset! I didn't mean to –"

Judging the sound, Susan unlocks the door, and Hermione – now truly nosy indeed – has a moment to process the idea that, apparently, Susan Bones and Draco Malfoy are something of an item. How odd is _that_! She always thought Susan was such a sensible girl!

"Now could you please, please tell me what I did wrong?" Malfoy asks in an imploring fashion, sounding unfamiliarly nice.

"If you don't know _that_ –"

"Come, Susan. I'm a guy. We don't know what's going on in girls' heads in nine cases out of ten." Susan gives a reluctant laugh, and he continues, "There you go. No need to cry, I'm sure. It's because of that letter, yes?"

"Yes," she gnarls.

"But what did I do wrong? I truly meant it – you do deserve that scholarship!"

Ah – the scholarship! Hermione knows what _this_ is about! Susan Bones has been accepted in a Wizardry College in New York, which is a huge thing among her Hufflepuff fellows. Only few Hufflepuffs ever manage such feats – Hermione knows for a fact that Ernie is _green_ with envy because _his_ application was rejected.

"This isn't about me deserving the bloody thing!" Susan moans now.

"But what is it then?"

"It's – it's – you don't give a damn, that's it!"

"But that's not true! I really, really meant it! Congratulations, I am so –"

"Glad to see me leaving!" she interrupts him forcefully.

"What?"

"You're not even bothered that I'll leave England for one and a half years!"

"What?"

"You – it doesn't even matter to you whether I'm here or not!" Susan's voice is dripping with bitter accusation, and Hermione thinks to herself that boys are really thick sometimes, even the more intelligent ones like Malfoy.

"But this is – what _should_ I have said, in your opinion, eh?"

"If you can't figure that one out yourself, I'm not going to tell you either!"

Angry steps disappear, and Hermione can hear another loud groan, which is clearly coming from Malfoy. "Oh, bloody hell," he sighs. "_Girls!_" And he bangs the door of the cubicle.

"She's quite angry with you, isn't she?" Moaning Myrtle's voice resonates gleefully through the tiled room, and Hermione gives a start. Where did _she_ come from now?

"I suppose you listened to the conversation anyhow?" he asks, a tad exasperated. "You _are_ a girl, so _you_ tell _me_ what the hell she wants!"

"Why don't you just stop hanging around with those silly chicks, Draco? _I_ –"

"Leave her alone, Myrtle. Susan is really all right."

"_I_ would never give you so much grief!"

He laughs. "I think I was the one giving _her_ grief, you see? Besides – I hate harping on about this, but you _are a ghost!_ I can hardly ask you out on a –"

"A date?" Myrtle's voice trembles with excitement and Hermione clasps a hand to her mouth to keep herself from laughing. Myrtle's got a crush on Malfoy? That's priceless, that is!

_His_ voice turns strict. "Myrtle, we talked about this, and I think we agreed –"

"I didn't agree!"

Hermione puts half her hand into her mouth to keep herself from bursting out, and shakes with suppressed giggles. Myrtle got a crush on Malfoy indeed! Yikes! How hilarious is _that_, eh?

"I _have_ a girlfriend, Myrtle. I _can't_ go out with anyone else, okay?"

"You didn't ask me out before you had her, either!"

"Oh no, not this again. I thought we had talked about this, how many times! Listen, Myrtle. You are, apart from being a ghost, as you well know, both too old, _and_ too young for me. On the one hand, you're old enough to be my grandmother – and on the other, you're a Fourth Year. Also, you don't live. I'm sorry, but I make it a prerequisite in _anyone_ I go out with to be alive for a start."

"Because of the – the – the sex thing?"

"_No_, not only because of that. Good heavens!"

"Because I'm ugly, that's it!"

"You're not ugly, Myrtle."

"Yes, I am," she mutters, sounding resigned. "I've lived in a bathroom for fifty years, I've come past quite a few mirrors in my time."

"Come, come. You died on the height of puberty. I know, off the cuff, half a dozen spells that would have cured you of any blemish you ever got. They've also got much more modern glasses nowadays. Think those away, and you're as pretty as the next girl."

Myrtle gives an overwhelmed cry of joy, and from the following exchange, Hermione guesses that the ghost has tried to throw herself at Malfoy. To be quite honest – even she, Hermione, was rather endeared by this little piece of flattery. She hadn't thought Malfoy capable of such niceness, even if it's a complete lie, of course. Myrtle _isn't_ pretty, and _he_ would never touch her even if she was alive because, above all, the ghost was a Muggle-born. Nevertheless, it was kind of him to say this, and most of all, it is nice of him to be friendly with Moaning Myrtle in the first place. So far, Hermione has never met a person who didn't simply try to flee as soon as spotting the whining cry-baby ghost.

"Myrtle, stop doing this! Seriously!"

She coos some more, until remarking in a confidential mode, "You're still wondering why that girl was so upset?"

"Yeah."

"Instead of congratulating her for that thingy, you should have complained that she's going to abandon you."

Malfoy doesn't answer at once, but murmurs at last, "Blimey, why does it always have to be so complicated?"

"It's not that complicated," Myrtle says, voicing Hermione's own sentiments. Girls _aren't_ that complicated. Guys are just being thick-headed! Malfoy leaves the bathroom ten minutes later, and Hermione realises that this little scene has cheered _her_ up endlessly, too. Not as much as Myrtle, possibly, who's singing since he's gone – old-fashioned Muggle tunes from the forties, that evolve around love and kisses – and Hermione has to use a Disillusionment Charm to sneak out unnoticed. She isn't inclined to be found out for eavesdropping, and by Moaning Myrtle of all people. She wouldn't hear the end of this!

If this afternoon has proven one thing, it's this: boys are simply silly, not malevolent, even such dubious specimens like Malfoy. Ron doesn't mean to hurt her either. He loves her. She knows he does. He's just bad in showing it, sometimes. To honour that new-won realisation, she goes searching for him, finding him, alas, outside on the Quidditch pitch, training and showing some flight manoeuvre to –

_Lavender?_ He's got one hand on the girl's back and they fly side by side, laughing, and Hermione can tell that Lavender is deliberately making mistakes so he can correct her. Oh yeah, he loves that, right? Being given the feeling how great he is? She turns right on her heels and stalks back to the castle, unable to decide whom she's more mad at – her boyfriend, or her roommate. On a second thought – with Ron. Definitely! That _arse_!

She comes across Ernie (and has half a mind to drag him outside for a walk around the Quidditch pitch!), Malfoy and Susan Bones (who seem to have made up, sitting on the steps together, reading), and finally, at last! Viktor, who's sweet as always, and asks her if everything is all right, after the little scene in his class this morning.

She twists her face. "Not really, no…"

"I'm sorry… I don't vont to cause you trouble."

"But you're not doing anything wrong! He's just –" A total moron, she nearly says, and bites her tongue. "Really, this isn't your fault, not at all."

"Would you be in the mood to go to Hogsmeade tomorrow afternoon? For a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks?"

She opens her mouth to say that she'd love to – because it's true and she would! – but then she thinks that meeting up with Viktor would be even worse than Ron showing off to Lavender on his broomstick. Right? At least, it'd be in the same league of nastiness, and if there's one thing, she's proud to be on higher moral ground than darned Ronald Weasley. There's a reason his second name is Bilius!

"I think I shouldn't, Viktor," she mutters, contritely. "Thanks for the invitation though."

He smiles at her. "Anytime. I just hope one day you'll say yes, after all!"


	147. Worse Than Death

Second thoughts do occur now and then, even in the most stubborn of subjects

* * *

– _**4.21. –**_

Worse Than Death

* * *

_I chose an eternity of this like falling angels the world disappeared Laughing into the fire Is it always like this?  
_

_THE CURE_

* * *

So this is what Albus Dumbledore meant, after all. A fate far worse than death… The bit of Tom Riddle that actually heard this speech remembers it just too well. He wouldn't believe it at the time, and if he had – it had been too late anyhow, right? And what was it that goddamned Harry Potter said? About remorse…? Nope. He neither remembers, nor cares. _Remorse_, pah! There _are_ a few things he _regrets_, but he doesn't think it's the same like the stuff that Dumbledore would have harped on and on about. He did what he had to do, that's all, and he's still enough of his old self to maintain that course of sly defiance that he had in life, when contemplating how to trick death itself.

Well, as things were at first, he could be as sly as he pleased, it wouldn't help him to get out of here. In the labyrinth of corridors and empty rooms and cellars and attics and staircases, none of his eight fragments comes even close to the exits – because, as you might have guessed already, there are two, of course. One connecting to 'life' and one to 'afterlife'. Taking the former, the soul of a wizard becomes a ghost and returns to the mortal world. Taking the latter, one enters the unfathomable depths of immortal souls. Tom Riddle cannot take either, blind, immobile, lost as his single parts are. If he was to stay here – oh, well. In the course of time, he might, bit by bit, stumble about the exit, but it would surely take ages (literally, _ages_ – about as long as dinosaurs ruled the earth, roughly), and wouldn't entirely satisfy him either. He never wanted to succumb to death, and hasn't changed his mind in this respect. He's had plenty of time for an analysis of his errors, _and _an almost impossible streak of good luck. Because someone called for him, from the _right_ side of the equation. _Someone_ demanded his spiritual presence, and Merlin, he's never been happier to oblige. He answered the call. And it took him no more than a minute to comprehend that he's met the single most fortunate object he could have encountered. Someone so greedy for what he's got to offer that no caution, no fear, no repulsion needed to be overcome.

The deal was easy enough. Serva me, servabo te – help me and I will help you. That was already a part of the oath he made his faithful Death Eaters swear, then. Oh, but he's learnt from his mistakes. Faithful Death Eaters, ph! He had exactly _one_ faithful follower, and she's dead. He doesn't need _followers_. _He_ needs a vessel to slowly but steadily reassemble his spirits (never was the plural used more purposefully!) for a start, and a _body_ that can live, and for _that_, he needs the assistance of the living.

He's got that assistant by pure chance, but then he found he was always (with some few deplorable exceptions) on the lucky side, and in the mournful state he was in, he _deserved_ a streak of luck, right? Right! That 'assistant' confirmed every prejudice he ever had about women, combining every single of their short-comings in one perfect shell. _That_ was lucky, too. He couldn't have found himself a weaker, more willing help. But then, only such a person would have called for him.

The story he dished her up! Oh, Salazar! Only the most desperate would ever buy in such a crap! Although... He must not underestimate her. He's had time to ponder his past mistakes, and yes, definitely, underestimating his opponents – and his allies – and the ones he thought to be allies – was surely one of his worst mistakes. He won't make that mistake again. Because this female, nonsensical as she certainly is, is also a pretty sly specimen. Women may be weak always, but they're not necessarily dumb. This one isn't.

Once again, the _luck!_ He had to work on an ad-lib story that night, and happily, he struck the right chord instantly on his very first try. On a second thought – no, not sheer luck, but experience with female feebleness made him successful. She's a mother. She loves. And she's vain. He'd pity her if that was in his nature.

However, she isn't entirely stupid either, so he has got to keep her off the track, throw her off the scent. If she had an inkling what he's really after, she might back off after all. Tell he's after the one thing while he's really after the other and pretend that while she's pursuing her own aims in all this, she isn't playing into his hands.

During his travels as a young man, he had come across all sorts of magic, in the remotest parts of the world. On Haiti and in Mexico, he had learnt about Voodoo (and sneered about it then, because even the muggles knew about some of this stuff). In North America he had learnt about totems (and not realised the true value of that principle, then). In Transylvania and Galicia, he had come across the instructions to make a golem. In the deepest primeval forests of the Congo, he had picked up knowledge about the properties of different materials – how to produce them, how to infuse them… Yes, without understanding it at the time, he had gathered all kinds of priceless knowledge.

He's a genius. A real genius. He's halfway there already.


	148. Outside

Millicent is a girl for outdoors, but her boyfriend isn't

* * *

_**– 4.22. –**_

Outside

* * *

_Don't want to give, don't want to steal_

_Don't want to be anything I'm not_

_I will take you as you are_

_Please accept me as I am_

_Find your lonely life bizarre_

_I know it's above me_

_I know it's below you_

_BADLY DRAWN BOY_

* * *

Millicent Bulstrode was never a girl with romantic aspirations. Seriously. Never. _Love_, yes. A functioning relationship, like her parents' – why, yes, of course. She always hoped for something like _that_. But the whole bees-in-the-belly, the blushes, the giggles and everything else that the other girls so enthusiastically go for – no, this has never been for her.

Even when she started going out with Theo, she didn't felt anything like it, and didn't think that something was missing in their relationship. Nevertheless , or even more, because to her, Theo Nott is something like Draco Malfoy was (and is, judging her demeanour) for Panse, with reversed signs. On the one hand, he is everything she ever wanted in a boy and from a boy. He is kind, thoughtful, and he has fallen in love with her for whom she is, and she _knows_ she isn't exactly the first prize in the What Men Dream Of tombola. Because that's the thing, too – she can't help feeling idiotically inferior, and _that_ is something she never felt before either.

She's always been content enough with herself until he started showing his interest in her. That was when she got self-conscious. She is taller than he, well, she's taller than most guys, but what's most, she's also weighing forty pounds more than he. She hasn't got an ugly face, but she's not really pretty either. She moves with the forceful 'grace' of someone bridling Abraxans since she was four. And that is only regarding appearances, which she never really did anyway.

As for intellectual qualities – Theo is _truly_ bright, and while Millicent doesn't regard herself as stupid – far from stupid, frankly – she's not nearly en par with a guy like him. She reads books for the fun of it, she's good in school because where would be the point in going and not listening then? All in all, however, she is the 'outdoor type' who enjoys rollicking about outside with her friends, or brothers, or animals and pets, much rather than sitting around in a library. She doesn't particularly enjoy the conversations that Theo prefers, not because they weren't interesting, thrilling at times even, but because it makes her feel clumsy and ignorant and as if she's got nothing to contribute. He and Malfoy are planning to read Philosophies and Law at Artemis College after their graduation and already they manage to immerse themselves into highly theoretical debates about questions like 'What can be the authorised foundation of law-giving without resorting to Law of Nature?' and other highly obscure topics of similar ilk.

She listens with interest but since dishonesty isn't in her nature, she also tells them rather bluntly that their intellectual elitism is not very different from the old pureblood superiority complex that was so fashionable until lately. It's exclusion, just on a different level. Malfoy, prone for self-doubts these days, usually falls silent then with pinks cheeks, but Theo thinks she'd truly want to talk about it.

"How is it _exclusive_?" he'll ask on such occasions with an expectant face.

"It's exclusive because you two are sitting up there in your ivory tower contemplating questions that have nothing whatsoever to do with real life, or real people."

"Quite the opposite, dear! These matters are at the very root of everyday life and how people live it!"

"No, Theo. Life, for most people, is just what happens, and how to deal with it. Ask any other person in this entire castle and they'll tell you exactly the same."

"I want to hear what _you_ think though."

"I just told you. I think it's bullshit on a very high plane."

Being him, Theo isn't affronted though, and though she knows he doesn't mean to, only heightens her feeling of inferiority. If only he'd get mad sometimes! That'd be something she could deal with. After growing up with her four brothers, she can fight for herself, it's just that – Theo won't. Nothing ever makes him angry; he remains always calm and composed, and as much as she admires these qualities in themselves, they drive her crazy now and then. But can you argue with the friendliest, kindest, most patient person in the whole wide world? You bloody can't.

"Oi, Mil – come out and score a few hoops?"

She looks up from the application form before her and sees Greg with a bright smile and Zabini with a malicious sneer remarking, "That's your only chance for scoring, isn't it, Goyle?"

Greg blushes, and Millicent snaps, "Well, _that_ way of scoring is surely safer than yours, Zabini. No jeopardy of venereal diseases."

His dark, slanted eyes narrow a fraction more. "Well, the only danger is taking bludgers to the head – and he took plenty of _that_, clearly."

"Mmh, I wouldn't feel too safe of brain damage if I were you, either, Zabini. Syphilis does nasty things with your grey mass," Malfoy says in passing, glancing over his shoulder and grinning because Zabini twists his pretty face. "Though I'm afraid, in your case, there's not much to destroy up there anyway."

Malfoy disappears, and before Zabini can come up with a reply, Millicent gets up and smiles at Greg. "Let's go then. I haven't had a chat with old Edgar Clogg in ages!" She resolutely grabs his arm and drags him away, whispering under her breath, "Never mind the stupid fart, Greg."

"I don't," he replies wryly.

"You look as if you do, though."

He just shrugs and avoids looking at her, and in that moment, she realises she's still clinging to his arm, and drops it instantly. Suddenly, she feels very awkward, and grateful that the dim light in the hallway conceals her pink cheeks. She deliberately changes the topic to the new album of the Weird Sisters, which he happily responds to, until she cries that 'Baby Stir My Cauldron Right' is her favourite song on the album, and they are back to instant embarrassment.

"'Ogre Bogey' is a good song, too," he says timidly, and even in the feeble light, she can see his scarlet ears.

"It's fantastic!" she cries far more loudly than necessary, and with that certain shrillness that bats gladly respond to.

"Totally!"

"I like the bagpipes in that one."

"Oh, yeah. Yeah. Uhm – and the – the drum solo is cool, too."

She answers that her brother Zac always says that solos were the musical equivalent of wanking, and is on the verge of hitting her head against the next wall for saying something so – so – duh! And it gets even worse. On the stairs, they practically run into Theo, who's balancing a huge pile of books and drops them when bumping against Greg.

"Hey there – where are you going? I thought you wanted to fill out the application for the apprenticeship?" he asks Millicent, stoops, and starts to pick up the books again.

She helps him and murmurs, "Oh, we wanted to play some Quidditch."

"Oh, yeah." He smiles. "Seize the good weather. I don't think it'll last."

"Yeah…"

"On a second thought," Greg interjects, collecting some books, too, "I really ought to do some revision as well, and you should really look after your – your – anyway… Let's just play another day."

He dashes off, leaving Mil and Theo alone in the otherwise deserted staircase. "You confuse the poor lad," Theo says with an indecipherable expression.

"Oh, get off it!"

"But it's true! Did you see his face?"

"He had a brush with Zabini, that's all. That haughty little arse!"

"Why, what did he do this time?"

"Joking how dim Greg supposedly was."

"Well, he _isn't _the brightest star in the –"

"Oh, shut up! Not _you_ as well!" She scowls at him. "I wish you'd all just stop with that! He _isn't_ stupid! Maybe he isn't as smart as you, or Malfoy, or even that bastard Zabini, all right, but half of his clumsiness is for his deficiency to believe in himself, and he's only so diffident because everyone always keeps on picking on him, and laughing at him, and –"

"Look, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to –"

"Spare your breath," says somebody, and turning around, they spot little Linny Crabbe leaning against the banister. She is a mere shadow of herself these days; since her brother's death, she must have lost thirty pounds, if that's enough. "You all did just the same to my brother. That's why he was so keen to advance in the Dark Arts. It was the first time he excelled at something and was no longer mocked by you lot. That's why he's dead. You must be so pleased with yourself."

She walks away, not bothering for both Theo and Millicent crying after her.


	149. Missing

Susan finds there's something missing in her relationship, but Draco got other problems

* * *

_**– 4.23. –**_

Missing

* * *

_Mother, do you think she's good enough for me?  
Mother, do you think she's dangerous to me?  
Mother, will she tear your little boy apart?  
Mother, will she break my heart?_

… _Mother, did it need to be so high?_

_PINK FLOYD_

* * *

It was the last evening in school before going home for the Easter holidays, which Draco slightly dreaded. He had gotten word from his father that cousin Lenny had mysteriously disappeared and although there were no signs of a crime (in fact, there were no signs whatsoever), Narcissa and all the more Andromeda were crazy with fear. It wasn't as if Draco weren't worried as well. It was rather that he was worried enough already, barely capable of suppressing the fears, and being confronted with his mother's dreads was going to freak him out, he could tell.

So now, as much to take his mind off the more serious matters, as because he really wanted to meet her, he waited for Susan in their usual spot – one of the deserted greenhouses, behind an almost impenetrable hedge of Raspberry Roses. She was a little late, which was unusual for her, and he made himself comfortable, observing one of the tentacles growing. Raspberry Roses grew astonishingly fast, and he made a mental note that they might have to cut back the hedge after the holidays if they meant to keep this place.

Susan came at last, looking a little strange and hesitant, but when he kissed her, she was her normal self again, and he forgot to even ask her whether anything was wrong. "What are you going to do on Monday?" she asked, nuzzling his hair.

"Monday… I have no idea. Why?"

"I thought we could meet up."

"Monday – no, I don't think that's possible."

She stopped fondling his hair. "Why not? I thought you had no plans."

"I have no plans because I intend spending some time with my parents. I haven't seen all that much of my father, you know –" She put on a pout, that reminded him _awfully_ of Pansy, and he frowned. "What is it?"

"I asked you about Monday because I _did_ consider that you want to spend time with them, and I thought the whole weekend would suffice!"

Yes, well, the weekend might suffice if Draco merely wanted to exchange some chit chat about school and partake in some nice family meals. In the last weeks, however, he had plucked up both courage and determination to confront his father and _that_ could well take much more than a mere weekend. No matter how it'd go, he doubted meeting up with his girlfriend in between would be appropriate.

How was he supposed to tell that to Susan though? He didn't like talking about his father. Since the world knew he was a murderer, it seemed indecent, disloyal, for his son to oppose him openly as well. He did so in private – really, he didn't think there was someone else in the world so preoccupied with counting and judging all of Lucius Malfoy's sins, wondering what it meant, whether it meant that he, too, had this thing in himself, that propensity, capability for murder. Everybody told him he was spit and image of his father and one look in the mirror told him the same, but was he really, _really_ like that? Did they share more than a face and a name?

The only people he dared talking two about these questions were Greg and Theo, because those two knew how it felt like having a beloved parent sidelining as an assassin. Theo, so much smarter than Greg, had some clever insights in the topic, but truth was that Greg's simplicity, not bothered with psychology, sociology or biology, was even more helpful for Draco. Greg merely felt the sting without theorising about it, and Draco wasn't ready for theories yet.

Susan glided from his lap now and looked reproachful, annoying him in turn. "Why does this have to be such a drama? We can go out next weekend!"

"But perhaps _I_ haven't got time next weekend!" she snapped and crossed her arms and legs.

"Then some day in the week after that."

"You know what? We don't have to meet _at all_. You're clearly not all that smitten –"

"Oh, come off it!"

"And _I_ have not the least inclination to spend my holidays with anybody who doesn't want to see me in the first place," she proceeded regardless. She took a deep breath and went on more calmly, "Let's face it, Draco – this isn't going anywhere. I'll go living in the States for eighteen months, and you're hardly committed enough to keep this going while I'm in England still."

"That's not true, Susan! I – I just –"

She looked at him in silence and gave the distinct impression that she wanted him to speak up, but he really couldn't come up with anything. She shrugged, she smiled sadly and chuckled under her breath. "You know, when we – when we got together, I... I looked at you and thought to myself, why, isn't this just the sort of boy that _every_ girl wants? He's so handsome, and so clever, and charming, and kind... And you are all that, and perhaps every other young girl does want nothing else than that, but I realised I do."

This was confusing. It sounded like a compliment, but with an edge, and seriously, in that moment there, Draco found that he could hardly be expected to be even more than this. He had strong doubts that he was half as good as she painted him there. "I – I don't... What _is_ it that you want, then?"

"I want _you_!"

"But you've got me!" He stretched his arms in a futile gesture. "You've _got_ me!"

"No, I haven't. You're all sweet and charming, but you're just not really there."

"I'm here!"

"Yes, some parts of you are here, but your heart isn't."

He could merely goggle at her, at a total loss what she was even talking about. All he vaguely realised was that this was a dumping conversation, and remembering some other of that sort he had been through, he felt fairly complacent about his attitude. 'Look at this, Pansy – being ditched and not a single sob in the making!'

Susan got up with a little pout. "And not even now, you can be bothered to fight for us – if anything, that confirms my notions!"

"Look, what do you want to hear? You are right. Yes. I… I guess I'm not the _type_ –"

"You're the type for being an idiot."

"What did I do, then?"

"Nothing! That's exactly my point! You're doing _nothing_, and frankly, I deserve a little bit more than that."

"You certainly do." He smiled at her and meant it, but somehow she must have mistaken him, because she threw a flower pot at him. "Hey! What was _that_ for?"

"For not giving a damn about me!"

He lifted his hands to ward off the next pot. "_Hey!_ Firstly – it's not true, I do give what you call a _damn_. I like you! Why do you think I was going out with you, eh? And secondly – _you_ are breaking up with _me_ and not the other way round. So how come _you_ are the one becoming hysterical now?"

Clearly, the word 'hysterical' had struck the wrong cord with her. She grabbed a pair of gardening scissors and he drew his wand to cast a shield charm, but then she put them down again after all, breathing heavily and glaring at him. "So this is it, then?"

"You're telling _me_, Susan. _I_ don't want it to be over."

"What _do _you want? Really! I haven't got the foggiest what you _want_ from me! Deep down, you just don't care. What is wrong with you?"

He shrugged, not yet putting his wand away again. "I have no clue what you're even talking about! I'm just like that, you _know_ me!"

"Do I? I don't have the impression that I do." She shook her head. "You always seem to be waiting for something, Draco, and I'm just not entirely sure what that is!"

"I'm not waiting for anything, what are you talking about!"

"I tell you what you're waiting for," she said, matter-of-factly. "You are waiting for a girl like your mother, and that's just – just idiotic. You are waiting for someone just as beautiful and poised, just as cool and clever. Seriously, Draco. You'll never find a girl like your mum. No one ever does."

"This is the most ridiculous idea I've ever heard," he snarled, the harsher because he had more than once thought the same, even though it was quite a while ago. When dating Pansy still, he had often thought to himself what a pity it was that she wasn't more like his mum. And even now – while realising the nonsensical demand in itself – he still wished he'd feel the same for Susan like his dad felt for his mum, the same unconditional affection, the same devoted commitment. Her accusations in that quarter were right, weren't they? Because he _didn't_ care enough, not nearly enough for what Susan would have deserved by right, and although he knew that this wasn't fair, he couldn't have helped it either.

Susan was still scowling, and he thought he had to try anew. "Listen, Susan, this is nonsense. _Really_, it's total rubbish. I – one of the things I like so much about you is in fact that you're _not_ like her. I – I like you because you care so much while she – look, I don't want to talk about this, but –"

"Exactly, Draco. You don't want to talk about it. You're a smooth talker, you can talk very appealingly about god and the world, but you never talk about anything that really matters. You never say what's going on in _there_." She reached out, one hand stroking over his forehead, one hand touching his breast. She brushed a kiss on his cheek and walked away, while he remained rooted to the spot, flabbergasted.

As Susan left him alone there in the greenhouse now, he leant back, looking at the hedge but not really seeing it. He thought about her reproaches. He had treated Susan much better than Pansy, or Aida. He had tried to be really good this time.

Perhaps she was right though? Perhaps he wasn't committed enough? Because if he were, he would have to be feeling downcast now, wouldn't he? But frankly, he felt nothing safe for puzzlement. Well, maybe it would come later. Maybe the message simply needed some longer to sink in. The next day, he drove home like most other students. His dad was not allowed to leave the boundaries of Malfoy Manor, and Draco had expressly asked his mother not to fetch him from Platform 9 ¾ either. She didn't like these things, and seriously, he was just an Apparition away from home, so why make the effort. However, he had not quite passed the gates when Elsy had apparated next to him, stooping quickly for a bow and grabbing his hand. "Oh, my master Draco," she wheezed, "it is so good that you are here at last!"

"Thank you, it's good to be home, too –" He would have said more, but the alongside-apparition squeezed the air out of him, and he re-emerged in the house itself, slightly astonished with the elf's curt hurry. His parents embraced him at once, and it took him a minute to register the presence of his aunt and grand-cousin Teddy, who waited their turn before silently embracing him, too. Was he mistaken, or did all of them look – well – concerned…?

"Anything the matter with Lenny?" he asked anxiously.

No, it turned out. _Nothing_ was the matter with Lenny, that was just the point. He was missing for eleven days now and there was not a single trace of him. Aunt Andy was a mere shadow of herself, supported by her sister who looked hardly less agitated, and even Lucius seemed for once concerned about his half-blood nephew. At first, Draco angrily thought he was putting up an act, but had to see then that his dad truly cared, pacing up and down in his study and absent-mindedly twisting his reading-glasses for wringing his hands so much.


	150. The Wine

How lucky that Harry Potter once enabled the Malfoys to get a portrait of Severus Snape

* * *

_**– 4.24. –**_

The Wine

* * *

_What's more delightful than an evening beside the fire with a nice bright lamp and a book, listening to the wind beating against the windows?_

_GUSTAVE FLAUBERT – Madame Bovary_

* * *

Lucius never managed to get much work done, once his wife would enter his study. He'd much rather ogle her than focus on his papers, and frankly, he hadn't got all that much incentive to do the latter in the first place. Once one had reached a certain level of wealth, the addition of a bit more gold hardly made a difference. The Malfoys had reached these echelons roughly five hundred years ago. Not even Lucius himself was entirely sure just _how_ much gold he possessed. He couldn't even have said, off the top of his head, how many _vaults_ full of gold, or diamonds, were in his possession. Still, these things had to be done; it was the only thing he had ever been truly good at, except for playing Quidditch.

Somehow, he had hoped that at least Draco would pursue that path – become a professional Quidditch player and not spend his time brooding over endless columns of figures and stock market reports. But for some reason that he would never comprehend, his son had declared to study the Law like his father and grandfather before him. The boy could be surprisingly stubborn. Well, perhaps it wasn't such a surprise after all. The inherent stubbornness was a bit of a family trait, from both his father's and mother's side.

Narcissa lounged on the sofa opposite of his desk, giving him an occasional smile now and then, while sipping her wine and reading the newspaper. Draco had accompanied his aunt and Teddy home and stayed there for a few days, ostensibly to keep her company and make her feel safer, but Narcissa had the distinct impression that he merely wanted to get away from the Manor. Lucius thought the same, but whenever he made a mention, Narcissa felt compelled to contradict him instantly.

"Nonsense, Lucius. He doesn't want to get away from _us_."

"Not from you, mon ange, but certainly from me."

"No, he doesn't!"

"Yes, he _does_, and I can't say I blame him. I always knew it'd be like this one day."

"He's just lovesick, that's all!"

"What?"

"That girl – what's her name... That weird little Hufflepuff – she broke off with him."

Lucius was all astonishment. "_She_ broke up with _him_...?"

"Apparently. Andy told me."

He took a moment to process this and went on relentlessly, "Do you need much more proof than that? That he's confiding in his _aunt_ when some girl dumped him, and not his parents?"

"Oh, come off it, Lucius! Would _you_ have told your father something like this?"

"I wouldn't even have told my father the time of day if I could have helped it!"

Narcissa made a face as if that had proven her point. "They still haven't found the Parkin boy," she said, eager to change topic, scanning an article.

Lucius nodded. "Yes, I know. Percival has taken the whole next month off."

Percival Parkin was one of the higher-ranking employees in one of the family's enterprises, but since his little son had disappeared ten days ago, he had not come to work. Lucius had never been a very sympathetic employer, but this case was different. For a start – he had resolved to be a better man than he had been, in all his relations and dealings, and continuing to pay a clerk in such a situation seemed like the proper thing to do. Not only did he continue to send the comparably high salary cheques, he had also given the ransom that had been demanded. Nothing had come out of this; the muggle who had shown up to collect the ransom had turned out to have been imperiused, and had not been capable to give any useful hints. Consequently, but with just as little success, Lucius had posted a reward of hundred thousand galleons to find the missing child, which nobody so far had claimed. Instead, he had been reproached by the Auror department because they were flooded by false alarms from people who were keen on the money. It wasn't easy being a good person!

"They must be mad with fear," Narcissa said now and turned the page. It was obvious that she thought of her missing nephew, and Andromeda's silent dreads to lose her other child as well. "I don't know what I would have done if something like this had happened to Draco…"

Indeed – neither would Lucius. This was the more fundamental reason for his pity for Mr Parkin; he could just too well imagine how the man must be feeling. When Draco had been so small still, they had jealously guarded him – _if_ the child had left the almost impenetrable boundaries of Malfoy Manor, he had been accompanied by either his parents, or a plethora of house-elves, who had even stayed with him (though in the background) if he had slept over at Gregory's or Vincent's place. Furthermore, Lucius had always relied on his own, intimidating reputation to deter any possible criminals. Only once, their little boy had been in serious danger, despite his father's best attempts to protect him from harm, and in the aftermath, the protective spells on the boundaries of Malfoy Manor had been ten-fold increased. He thought it was ironic – and bitter, oh, so bitter – that the next time their son's safety had been in peril, this had been a direct result of his own father's doing. After defending the Manor against intrusion from criminals, and every other stranger, really, they had been compelled to undo the spells and open the front doors themselves to the worst set of scoundrels. He smirked balefully with that thought.

Narcissa appeared to have observed that smirk and put away the paper. "I'll leave you to finish your work, mon amour."

"No, please!" He gave her a loving smile. "Just stay with me for five more minutes, blossom. I'm almost done."

"Oh, don't hurry, chéri. In fact, I believe you might be much quicker if I just leave you alone –"

"No, no. Please, stay."

Not two minutes later, she caught him staring at her again, and reprimanded him playfully. She raised and swung her legs from the sofa, strolling over to the little table to open another bottle of wine. Lucius gnawed on his quill, his eyes trailing his wife and wandering up and down her slender frame, and he smiled when she turned back around to him, her glass raised. "Here's to you, my love!"

He raised his own glass of whisky for a toast as well. "To my angel, light of my eyes!"

She laughed, her eyes caressing him, and took a sip. Her face twisted, and Lucius was on the verge of asking if the wine had gone bad, when she dropped the glass and it splintered into a thousand pieces, dark red wine on her robes and on the floor like blood – but he didn't even see that because real blood came out of her nose in this second. Her hands had clasped her throat – her eyes were wide and slightly blurred – and even though Lucius had jumped up at once, she collapsed on the floor before he could reach and fetch her.

More blood, out of her mouth, out of her nose; Lucius screamed on top of his voice, alarming the elves and a dozen portraits that had been dozing. "Narcissa – Cissa – can you hear me! _Narcissa!_"

She couldn't breathe, and as a first measure, he ripped open her corsage to relieve her, but it did not help. Lucius felt on the edge of passing out himself – his worst nightmare – Narcissa, blood spluttering out of mouth, nose and ears by now – helpless, screeching elves – shouting portraits of his ancestors – and faintly, he heard a harsh, commanding voice –

"Get a bezoar – Cissa will have one in her potions lab – _QUICK!_"

Three elves at once skidded out of the door and could be heard racing down the corridor, and out of himself, Lucius screamed after them, "Idiots! Bloody _apparate_ there!" But this gave him a notion – he exchanged one swift glance with the portrait into which Severus had squeezed himself, who had had the idea in the first place – he grabbed Narcissa's wand and yelled, "_Accio bezoar!_"

He didn't dare breathing, staring in utter horror into Narcissa's bloodstained, gasping face – he had bedded her head in his lap and soothingly stroke over her forehead – he only exhaled when he could hear the growing noise of the summoned bezoar causing havoc on its way flying zig-zagging through the hallways and there it was – flying right into his open hand.

"Shove it down her throat," Severus' portrait commanded, and albeit every of his nerves screaming in terror, Lucius pushed his fingers into the bloody hole that was by now Narcissa's otherwise so beautiful mouth.

"You must swallow this, love!"

Her fingers were wrenched around his left wrist like a life-saver, her eyes were unfocused, but she seemed to hear him still and obeyed. Almost instantly, the tension vanished from her body, and for some dreadful seconds that felt like minutes – _hours_ – Lucius believed that she was dying there. But then she began to cough and gasp, one of her hands kept clinging to his arm, the other flew to her mouth and she rolled over, retching onto the Persian rug.

"Narcissa…?"

"No matter what – you must find the stone and make her swallow it again. It's vitally important she keeps it in her system for a while!"

Lucius' fingers rummaged through the pool of dark red vomit – blood mixed with wine – he touched the bezoar, wiped it on his sleeve, kissed Narcissa's forehead and said in his most imploring voice, "Petal – please, swallow this, it's –"

It appeared to him as if she was smiling at him – it was hard to say underneath all the blood – in any case, she grabbed his hand and obediently swallowed the little black stone once more. He stroke back her hair from her face, smiling as lovingly, as encouragingly at her as he possibly could, and willed his heart from hammering so violently in his chest. Was that it? Would that bloody stone save her? What was this, anyway? And what had that fit been? And most importantly – would she be all right? Would his blossom be alive – healthy – striving as ever…

"No matter what poison this was," Severus said behind him as if sensing his questions, making Lucius' head jerk around to him, "a bezoar is the right antidote to any of them."

"_Poison?_"

He was scandalised by the mere idea, but kept his mouth shut on the topic for the time being. For now, exactly one thing mattered – that Cissa was all right. He sent a servant to fetch a Healer, vanished the vomit and performed some cleansing spells against the blood, muttering soothing words to her all the time and fondling her hair, until she saw fit to sit up and lean against him.

"What the _bloody hell_ –"

He embraced her gingerly and pressed a kiss on her hair. "Good god, angel – you frightened the hell out of me – are you… Are you okay?"

"I think I am – now… But – what –"

"Off the cuff, I'd think it was Fractavitra, seeing the effects."

Narcissa's, Lucius' and half a dozen pair of elf eyes darted up to the portrait, clueless on the elves' part. Lucius didn't let go off his wife and railed, "Nobody would want to poison Cissa!"

The man in the portrait shrugged. "If the poison was in something in this room –"

"The wine," Lucius and Narcissa groaned in unison.

"– it's more likely that she wasn't the target to begin with. And while Narcissa may not have many – or any – enemies willing to kill her, _you_ surely have."

Lucius felt nauseated, less by the prospect of having someone wanting to poison him, but by the idea that Narcissa had nearly died – _would_ have died if it hadn't been for Severus' quick thinking – because she had accidentally come in the way of the murderer that had meant to aim at _him_ –

Three Healers arrived, followed not much later by a bunch of Ministry wizards; Draco was informed, fetched, and nearly vomited, too, when hearing what had happened. It had been the wine indeed, and exactly the poison that Severus had suspected, as the investigation confirmed. It seemed impossible though that anybody should have managed to enter the study unnoticed. There were ample of spells on the doors, and half a dozen portraits that had a light sleep. One of the Aurors examining the cork said that the poison must have been injected through this, and further inspections proved that there were no less than thirty poisoned bottles in the wine cellar, randomly distributed on various shells.

The Malfoys heard about this only next morning; Narcissa had been ordered to go to bed for recovery and her husband and son had refused to leave her side; well, in Draco's case, he had left eventually, but his father, frightened out of his senses, didn't find a minute of sleep that night, anxiously watching over her as if suspecting an assassin sneaking into their bedroom in the small hours to finish what he had begun the previous evening.

"This is all my fault," he kept on repeating, and meaning it in every possible respect. That poison had been destined for _him_, it was _he_ who had begged her to stay, which had led to her opening the cursed bottle and drink from it –

"Nonsense, mon amour." She looked very earnest and squeezed his hands. "_You_ would have drunk from that wine tomorrow evening then, with nobody around to notice and wake up Severus and… And if not tomorrow, Draco might have ordered a bottle – it's good that it came like this."

"No! No, it isn't! _I_ should have been the one swallowing that poison – it was meant for me – I could never have forgiven myself if something had happened to you!"

"Look at me and listen – this is not _your_ fault!"

"It wasn't you they wanted to kill. And this was no schoolboys' prank, petal, this was someone acting with real malicious intent. And if there's one thing for sure, it's that nobody wants to see _you_ dead!"

Draco, who had been sitting quietly for all his horror in an armchair on the other side of the bed all morning, kept his silence but privately thought that his father was right. Lucius had surely made enough enemies for a lifetime.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, Lucius," Narcissa replied. "Thirty bottles in the wine cellar – accidentally picking any of them could have killed all of us over a single meal. Either the culprit isn't squeamish how many he kills as long as hitting the right target along the way, or it might have been his _aim_ to strike at all of us. As for the motives… I don't know, Lucius, but if this was a Death Eater out for revenge, he might hate me much more than you, for lying about Potter's death there…"

Convict under house-arrest without a wand or not, Lucius Malfoy could still be every bit as intimidating as he had ever been, and had left a deep impression on the Aurors investigating the case. But they couldn't unearth much more than they had in the first twelve hours after the incident. Nobody could say how long that poison had been in the bottles, no traces of any nature had been found, and while Fractavitra in itself was very rare, its source could not be located either. Perhaps these bottles had been poisoned already when this house had still been inhabited by dozens of Death Eaters, perhaps not – no one could say. Or perhaps, someone had managed to get into the house unnoticed, which was far less unlikely than it should have been. _If_ the perpetrator had been a former Death Eater, he'd be free to enter the boundaries still, because the Dark Lord had demanded then that the protective spells would be modified to leave in anyone carrying the Dark Mark on their wrist. Once someone was 'officially' permitted to enter, the magic recognised them, and it was very difficult to rewind that permission. Impossible without the person's actual presence, in fact. Also, most Death Eaters had been shown at least _some_ of the secret passages, from the time when the house had been monitored by the Ministry still. If, say – Rabastan Lestrange – had wanted to get into the building, he wouldn't have found that overly difficult. As a result, Narcissa spent the first couple of days after she received permission to get up again, with sealing every passage way that Bellatrix had known of (because she had been the one to show them to her companions).

No, in the end nobody could say what exactly had happened with those poisoned bottles, the why's and how's and when's – but Lucius and Narcissa were determined to believe that the poison had been put in the wine when their house had been infested by Lucius' former 'comrades' still – every other possibility was just too unsettling. Lucius couldn't for the life of his imagine that someone might actually want to kill his wife. Narcissa in turn refused to believe that her husband could be a deliberate target of murder. These times lay behind them, each of them privately decided, and perhaps there would be consequences of old to deal with now and then – but those were risks of old, while their presence and future was as safe and carefree as _they_ could warrant by giving nobody any further reason to bear a grudge against any of them.

Once again, Draco had his doubts regarding his parents' reasoning, but his shock sat too deeply to speak up, and what was more – _this_ surely wasn't the moment to confront his dad. Truth was, however, that Draco was sure that the wine hadn't been poisoned by some Death Eater – that was more than unlikely and none of the Aurors believed it either. The culprit could have accidentally poisoned himself then because mostly, the wine in Malfoy Manor was served in a decanter, so he, or she, couldn't have read the label and recognised the bottle. Draco found it far more likely that someone had taken justice into their own hands, incapable of tolerating that Lucius Malfoy, formerly the Dark Lord's right hand, should have gotten away so easily. House-arrest in Malfoy Manor, ph! Punishment? That was the sort of life that his mother had chosen and led for the past twenty-five years voluntarily! How had Susan called it? An enchanted fairy castle? Susan...

As a matter of fact, he missed her, a fact which might have pleased her to hear. But she had been right, hadn't she? He wasn't ready for what _she_ expected from her boyfriend. And in four months, she'd be going away anyhow, and then he'd miss her even more. It must be better this way, surely.

Being attached to somebody was a perilous affair, he thought, supported in his conviction whenever he took a look at his parents, or Aunt Andy in that instance. She was fading away with fear for Lenny's sake. The loss of Uncle Ted and Dory had almost destroyed her already. He must know; he had kept her company for the past two weeks. And Narcissa? What if she had died from that poison? It'd have killed his dad, and frankly, Draco thought it'd have killed him, too. No, he found, he had too many people in his life to fret for already. He didn't need anybody else that he could lose again.


	151. Age Is Relative

Someone Narcissa went to school with, is dead

* * *

_**- 4.25. - **_

Age Is Relative

* * *

_Divorce has become a lucrative process, simple to arrange and easy to forget; and ambitious females can repeat it as often as they please and parlay their winnings to astronomical figures. The husband's death also brings satisfactory rewards and some ladies prefer to rely on this method._

_ROALD DAHL_

* * *

"They've released that Ridgebit person."

"So he didn't kidnap his niece?"

"If he did, they can't prove it to him." She turned the page. "And still no news about Lennart."

"If there were news, you'd hear them much sooner from your sister than read them in the Prophet, petal."

"I had hoped there might be _something_ – you know, between the lines… _Some_ hint, at last!"

He gave her a sympathetic smile. "Don't worry, my love. I'm sure it'll be all right."

She rather wanted to believe him and smiled back. They both knew that in all likelihood, something very, _very_ serious had happened to their nephew – or they'd have heard of him by now. Nobody dared to speak it out loud, nobody could think of a possible reason, but chances were that Lennart was dead. A cold shiver ran down her back and she stared at the paper again to distract herself while Lucius went on going through the post, sorting out the business letters for later. Narcissa fed him with pieces of croissant and cranberry jam every now and then. He loved to watch her lick the jam from her fingers (which she did for the sole purpose of his entertainment) and paid only little attention to the pile before him, until he came to a square, violet envelope with the most unlikely return address. Curiously, he opened the envelope, and couldn't help it but chuckle.

"We've received an invitation for a wedding, petal," he said sneeringly and handed her the card. It was made of fine rose-coloured parchment, expensive but nonetheless tacky, with cut-out hearts and other nonsense that Narcissa's taste could never approve of.

She raised a brow and read the card, laughing out loud after all. "Is it possible! Is this number nine, or ten?"

"I stopped counting at four or five, I believe."

"She's not able to help herself, is she! Good grief! Who's the guy, though?"

"That's the thing, isn't it… He's total non-entity from the Ministry, if I'm not mistaken."

Narcissa grinned and fed him another bit of croissant. "Well, so she's not after the money, this time."

"Must be love, then."

They both snorted. "Oh yes, _right_," Narcissa gasped, carelessly throwing the card away. "You don't mean to go, right?"

"I don't think I'd receive a permission to leave the boundaries in the first place, for a party."

"A party! The first act of a funeral, more like!"

"All the more important to take a good last look at the groom." He winked at her. "Could be fun!"

"Fun? As in – being bitten by a crup? As in – being bored out of one's senses? I've had to attend too many of her weddings already! Can't the woman find herself some hobby!"

"I rather meant that I'd love to go there with you and see the bride green with envy because you look so much better than her. It'd kill her!"

"She'd kill _me_ if she truly thought so, more likely!"

Because Venus Zabini Youw, as she was presently called according to the invitation, was the vainest person either of them had ever come across. Very pretty by nature as a teenager, she had invested ample of time, money and research into perfecting her appearance, ending up as the rather ageless creature she was now. In fairness – she didn't look like her forty-eight years, and she _was_ stunningly beautiful. She was slim, but voluptuous in the right places, and her legs were in a league of their own. Her face was immaculate, and dominated by lush, promising lips, that distracted the observer from the calculating glint in her almond-shaped blue eyes. And _calculating_ she was – it was a miracle that she had never landed her pretty behind in prison. Venus didn't believe in divorces, as unorthodox as these were among wizardkind. No, _she_ disposed of her spouses altogether, but always so cleverly that nothing could be proven to her.

Aged nineteen and barely out of Hogwarts, she had got married to Zoran Smith, the oldest scion of the younger branch of the Smith family, and averagely-handsome heir to a decidedly handsome fortune. Neither of them had been lucky though. Zoran had gone on a pub crawl with some friends and – those had been the seventies after all – died from a lethal overdose. But his mourning widow, only twenty years old, had _not_ seen a single knut from her late husband's fortune. Her father-in-law and a sly Law Wizard had seen to it that she was completely cut out of the inheritance, and in those days then, her brother had not yet been the famous Law Wizard that he had become in later years. Helpless, she had been compelled to watch how everything – _everything_ connected to Zoran, even her wedding ring, had been taken away from her.

Well, that grievous experience had surely taught her something. The next news one had heard of her was that she had married an ageing, wealthy muggle, am arms dealer, who had deceased after only 27 days of matrimony; he had been shot in broad daylight by some rival. Venus Smith, as she had still called herself then, had been twenty-one. Aged twenty-three, it was reported that she had got married to another muggle, even older than his predecessor on the nuptial couch, and wealthier, too. He had lasted for six whole weeks though, before mysteriously walking onto a busy highway street and meeting his fate in form of a ten ton truck.

Aged twenty-five, she met the American rock star Etienne Zabini, just as handsome as her, but not quite as rich, and the two of them had married before the end of the first month of their acquaintance. It should be her longest, and quite possibly happiest marriage, ever. Not long after the birth of their first, and ultimately only, child though, disaster struck once more. Etienne, participating in an illegal magic carpet race, had collided with a muggle helicopter and very literally lost his head to the propeller, and his agonised wife became a widow for the fourth time. She was thirty then, even though she looked not a day older than on her first wedding.

She took her time before engaging herself again. In 1986, she married another muggle – this time young and flippant, the sole heir to a publishing empire, who, watching a tennis match, took an unlucky match ball to the head ten days into their marriage and died, unlikely as it seemed to anybody who had seen it. So much for number six. He was followed, five years later, by husband number seven. This time it had been a wizard that she had betrothed herself to, an Australian mine owner. During the course of their two-months marriage, poor, poor Venus had been forced to watch her spouse's health decline constantly, until he had, while she was on a weekend trip to Tahiti, eventually succumbed to some freakishly fast-growing brain cancer. The large inheritance had been divided between her and the man's siblings; still she was a rich, a _very_ rich widow once more.

Her next, and judging the lately arrived invitation, penultimate husband for the time being, was another muggle – a Hong Kong-based businessman who had become rich with some muggle-thing that Lucius couldn't be bothered to remember. Venus hadn't taken the trouble to introduce her son to the man – or come to that, informed her new husband of her even _having_ such a son. He had survived the wedding for astonishing four months, which was record-making for the muggles on her list, but this time, she hadn't even been forced to make an effort of getting rid of him herself. She had walked into the Ministry of Magic last spring and sobbed that her newly-betrothed was really a half-blood, and had deceived her about his deplorable lack of a proper pedigree – the rest had been done by a Death Eater commando.

So now it was a Ministry man? Peculiar, wasn't it? Lucius thought it was, but on the other hand – old Venus hadn't _always_ married mercenarily. Although she surely put the 'black' in the old saying about widows, at least hubbie number one and four – well, the Smith bloke might have been the result of juvenile misdirection – had been marriages of affection, as far as he could see. He remembered her well. Better than he would acknowledge to Narcissa. He didn't like reminding her of his conquests of old, and in this particular case, he wasn't even entirely sure if it hadn't been _him_, being conquered, given Venus' track records. She was one and a half years his senior, and they had briefly dated at the end of Lucius' fourth year in Hogwarts. _Very_ briefly. In fact, he had called-off their entanglement after six days, because Narcissa had given him a fleeting smile over lunch, which in hindsight had been a misinterpretation on his part. She had laughed _about_ him instead.

However this might be – he ought to consider himself lucky for having been so steady in his love for Cissa that he had never been at serious risk to fall prey to Venus – or he would very probably be dead now. Seeing that there was no richer wizarding family in all Europe, he had definitely been in her target group. He wondered how well that Ministry bloke would stand up to the test. He was likely to consider himself blessed, attracting a witch like her. Because Venus _was_ stunningly beautiful, if not exactly Lucius' type. But then, no other witch but Narcissa had ever _been_ 'his type'; he was a biased judge of other women's beauty.

"You know how very lucky you are, mon amour?" the sole object of his affection interrupted his musings just now, voicing his own thoughts precisely.

"Merlin, I do," he sighed and meaning it in every possible respect.

Narcissa grinned broadly. "I _could _have poisoned you over breakfast myself, couldn't I?"

"Oh, I'm sure you could have," he purred and gave her a coy smile. "And much more slyly than Madam Zabini, too. She lacks subtlety."

"That she lacks indeed."

"So why didn't you?"

Instead of a direct answer, she fed him with another bit of croissant. "Who says I'm not doing it?" She allowed him to lick her fingers that were a little sticky with jam and gave a deep sigh. "Ah, it'd be such a terrible waste…"

He sucked on her thumb and pulled her closer and closer. "Waste not," he growled under his breath and kissed her. Well, they traded the breakfast table for their bed, and around noon, Narcissa finally got a chance to finish the Daily Prophet, coming across the subject once more. There was a short note in the gossip column, adorned with a photo of Husband Number Nine. Lucius must be right, she thought, studying the picture. 'Must be love.'

Nigel Perkins, the caption said, 61, employed in the Ministry for thirty-nine years, was neither affluent, nor handsome, and judging his sappy grin on the picture, he wasn't the brightest star on the night sky either. On the other hand though – maybe he didn't always look that dim-witted. The poor man surely couldn't believe it himself that he of all persons was holding famous beauty Venus Zabini in his arm there.

The witch herself looked like always – literally. She certainly didn't look like pushing fifty. Narcissa smirked at the photo with real, unadulterated loathing. She wouldn't have admitted it for the world, because she found jealousy a base, self-deprecating sentiment, but she recalled every girl Lucius had ever gone out with and hated each one of them with a passion, unreasonable as it was. She knew that he had never loved any other woman but her and in twenty-five years of marriage, he had never even looked at another witch but her; he had remained indifferent in the presence of a dozen Veelas even. Reason though had nothing to do with it.

Still relishing the little triumph of old over this particular other woman, she turned the page and stopped short – "Hestia Jones is dead."

"_Who?_"

"Hestia Jones, née Abbott." Narcissa scanned the obituary notice once again. "I was in school with her. Ravenclaw."

"How come she's dead, being so young still?"

She bent over and blew him a kiss. "Thank you for hinting I was still young, mon amour."

"Well, you _are_, ma belle." He winked at her. "You're two years younger than I, even, and _I_, for that matter, feel pretty young indeed!"

She forgot about Hestia Jones there – it wasn't as if they had been acquainted with each other, ever – but later that day, Lucius' question came back to her. Why was Hestia Jones dead, only forty-three years old? An accident? Some lethal illness? The death notice hadn't mentioned the cause. It wouldn't have mattered, if that witch hadn't been just as old as Narcissa – somehow, that notice had reminded her of her own mortality, cheesy as it might sound. Well, she wasn't afraid of dying – _her_ fear was rather that Lucius could die _before_ her, and this fatuous train of thought caught up with her that afternoon. She went over to his study, pretending to be reading her book while he was working on something, but in fact, she observed him, and apparently, she wasn't very subtle about this, either.

He gazed over with a mischievous smile. "What is it about me that you seem unable to concentrate on your book, precious?"

She returned that look likewise. "I just thought…"

"Yes?"

She let her gaze glide up his still lean body, settling on his temples, that had turned from silver blonde to sliver grey. "I just thought you're looking better than ever, honey."

"Did you, now?"

Narcissa shut her book, got up and strode over to his desk. "I did, indeed. You are _very_ handsome."

He chuckled, all the more when feeling her stand behind him, her fingers gliding down his front. "Oh yes, I know. I'm terribly handsome. Always was, always will be. I've got fantastic genes in that department, from my mother's side. The only good thing I ever got from _her_."

She didn't join his laughter, but bent down and nibbled on his ear. "Mmh, definitely. So appealing… So arousing…"

"Blossom," he groaned. She had nimbly unbuttoned his robes and now let her hand glide under his shirt. "What are you up to?"

"Playing," she replied under her breath and bit his neck. Well, Lucius was certainly up for _playing_ and that's what they did for the next hour. When she finally curled up on his lap, breathless the both of them, he stroke back some strands of her hair to have a better look at her. It was quite a while that she had last – erm – kepthim from his papers like this, and that after spending the chief of the morning in bed together already! In their twenties, the only real work he had got done had taken place in his London office, because at home, in situations like this, they simply hadn't managed to keep their hands off each other. Their love life was still lively, but getting older, they had become a little more – well – _reasonable_. Also, it was perhaps five hours that they had left the bed to begin with… This gave him an idea.

"You're _not old_, mon ange. You know that, right?"

She raised her head from his shoulder and gave him a bewildered glance. "Why, thank you!" She sniggered. "Yes, I do know that, as a matter of fact."

"Sorry, petal. It's just – for a moment there… I thought you were trying to prove the point. Forgive me, I –"

She shut him up by kissing him, and whispered at last, "Forgive _me_, love. I think I did want to prove myself something indeed, but it's not… I'm not Venus Yaxley, or however she's called these days. I'm not scared of growing old. In fact, I cherish the idea of growing terribly old, but… I'm sometimes scared that – that something happens – like that weird poison incident, and…" She swallowed hard and raised her eyes to look straight into his. "I would have you promise that you grow old with me, if I could make myself believe it was in your power to keep."

"I'll never again leave you," he muttered lovingly, tightening his embrace. "Never!"

"I know. But there'll come the day when one of us has no more choice."

"Shhh, blossom…" He was reminded of all the horrific thoughts haunting him in Azkaban the first time – of his overwhelming terror when seeing her collapse on that very carpet over there, blood spurting out of nose, her ears, her lips a pool of blood – her dead-white skin in that moment – her gaze on the verge of breaking. Yes, there wasn't much that Lucius Malfoy feared in this life, but he, too, was frightened senseless to think that there might come the day, and if it was in a hundred years from now, when he might be forced to lose Narcissa. He somehow hoped he'd be the first of them to go, and in the same moment he wanted to swear to her that he'd be there until her dying breath and never leave her alone before that.


	152. It's Like Riding A Broomstick

A certain person is at it again

* * *

**_– 4.26. –_**

It's Like Riding A Broomstick

* * *

_Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth._

_HENRY DAVID THOREAU_

* * *

I've been asked by many people whether now, after the incredible success of _The Life And Lies Of Albus Dumbledore_, I'd retire and live the life. Some believe that such a masterpiece could not be beaten anyhow, others, less flatteringly, say I peaked and that I should leave the scene as a winner. Some – the unimaginative, I should say – believe it's all about the money and now that I have more than enough of that, I can quit and live of the royalties. What do _they_ know? I didn't choose to be a journalist to make money. Not even to earn a livelihood, because face it, there were many dry spells, more – it cost me many crushed fingers, broken ribs and three teeth, knocked out one after the other by enraged subjects of my coverage.

No, I, Rita Chloris Skeeter, became a reporter because I have a mission. The pursuit of truth – perhaps slightly embellished in order to sell it, because people tend to be strangely disinterested in the pure, unadulterated facts, all the more if they contradict their petty little fancies – that is what I am aiming for.

Of course, the doubters do have a point in saying that the triumph of my Dumbledore biography will be hard to match. Unless I can coax Harry Potter into giving up his story to me, which is, frankly, unlikely to happen. But I won't be discouraged. I will continue pursuing truth where I find it; I will ask those questions that nobody else dares asking – or that nobody else cares for.

And there _are_ such questions, or rather say cases, that did upset the public opinion very much, but which in my humble opinion aren't properly investigated all the same. The still unsolved disappearance of two little children and one young man caused much stir in the community, but then, many people have disappeared over time, some came back, some did not. It just _happens_. Wilda Griffith's disappearance back then, for example, was much talked of, but forgotten before the end of the month. These things occur in Quidditch; she's not the first and she won't be the last. Or take Chrysostomus Cronk, who vanished under the eyes of two hundred and thirty curious spectators while singing an aria of _Hell's vengeance boileth in mine heart_, never to be seen again. Stubby Boardman was gone for almost fifteen years and only a few eyebrows rose when he returned without an explanation eighteen months ago. Artists, eh?

And that's what people think about Lennart Tonks, the young sculptor, too. And perhaps they're right, what do I know, after all? What do I know _yet_! I simply cannot believe, however, that five-year-old Presley Parkin, decided on the spur of the moment that abandoning his parents was just the thing. I won't believe that Hortense Ridgebit, aged eight, on the way home from her piano lesson, thought that she'd never suffer through another lesson again in her life and rather wanted to start anew in Canada. Where are these children? What happened to them? Doesn't anybody else find it shady that the ransom for the Parkin boy was never claimed? That no ransom whatsoever was demanded for the Ridgebit girl? Why kidnap two children if not for the money? And if it's some creepy paedophile doing these things – hasn't anyone thought that it might happen again, that more children could be abducted?

These kids did not pull a Stubby Boardman, and if no one else volunteers, _I_ am going to discover their fates. Perhaps I shone in the realms of sensational celebrity journalism lately, but I've learnt my trade. It took me two weeks of patient persuasion before I'd convinced the children's parents to even talk to me, and talking they did. Little Presley is three feet four, weighs 44 pounds, likes eating pineapple ice cream and spaghetti with meatballs, is a big fan of the Montrose Magpies and the Smurfs, and will fall asleep instantly when his mother sings _Jinx me baby one more time_. He is scared of big dogs, men with moustaches, slugs and of being asked to tie his shoelaces in front of other people. He displayed the first signs of magic when he was two – he transfigured porridge, which he strongly dislikes, into chocolate pudding.

Hortense Liliana Ridgebit, is four feet two, sixty-nine pounds, unsightly freckled and when last seen, had lost three of her incisors. She started playing the piano when she was five and is quite a prodigy on the instrument. Her favourite food is, disturbingly, black pudding, her favourite drink cocoa, her great idol is Celestina Warbeck. I talked to her piano teacher, Mrs Arlene Wimple, who could not imagine for the life of her that Hortense should simply have run away. "She was always very focused," she assured me, "she'd never have gone astray on the way home! She never once has! And she's been coming to me for three years now!" Well, I won't give too much on the opinion of an old biddy, but she wasn't the only one very firm on Hortense being a serious, oddly reliable for an eight-year-old, responsible little girl.

The Ridgebits live not twelve minutes away from the Wimples (I personally checked that – twelve minutes in heels!) and the way doesn't lead through some remote areas, but past masses of houses, three busy shops and a Muggle school. It should be impossible that a girl just vanishes in broad daylight like that, so I spent two and a half weeks talking to _every_ single person living or working along that way. _None_ of them remembers anything useful, which doesn't mean that I didn't have to listen to tons of crap.

Incidentally, I did the same in Presley Parkin's case, with the same meagre results. I won't give up though. I will find out what happened to these kids. Keep an eye on the Daily Prophet and read it first there!

* * *

To all you guys who are so kind to leave reviews for me: you're great! And I'm really really really grateful to you all!


	153. This Is The End

The penultimate day in school is supposed to be for drinking and partying, but those two don't always go hand in hand.

* * *

**_– 4.27. –_**

This Is The End

* * *

_Thursday night, everything's fine, except you've got that look in your eyes when I'm telling a story and you find it boring you're thinking of something to say, you'll go along with and then drop it and you humiliate me in front of our friends. Then I'll use that voice what you find annoyin' and say something like "intelligent input darlin', why don't you just go and have another beer then?" Then you call me a bitch and everyone we're with will be embarrassed, and I won't give a shit. My fingertips are holding onto the cracks in our foundations, and I know that I should let go, but I can't. And every time we fight I know it's not right, every time that you're upset and I smile I know I should forget, but I can't ... and dear God, I hope I'm not stuck with this one._

_KATE NASH_

* * *

The average Hogwarts student leaves for the summer holidays on a Friday morning in late June by means of the Hogwarts Express. A student not coming back after the summer because they've gotten their NEWTs, will watch the younger students go – and seize the next forty hours or so to celebrate that they'll not so soon set a foot into the castle again that has been their home for so long, as much as using both the alcohol and the company of fellow sufferers to console themselves for the fact that it's all over now.

Millicent Bulstrode is leaning on a banister to monitor the exodus down in the Entrance Hall alongside her dorm mates and friends in seeming placidity. The countdown has begun.

"Fifteen," says Daphne, her eyes fixed on a crying Second Year who lost her rucksack and is admonished by Professor McGonagall to calm herself.

'Fourteen' sees the return of the rucksack, 'thirteen, twelve and eleven' the formation of another queue under McGonagall's stern care, 'ten' and 'nine' the get-going, 'five' the last little boy leaving, 'four' McGonagall shutting the large front door behind her.

"Three – two – one," the Seventh Years which technically are Eighth Years chant like a swelling choir and stare at the closed door. And then someone, not even one of Millicent's crew but from another group waiting downstairs, pops a champagne cork and they all fall into each others' arms indiscriminately as if this was some New Year's Eve party. Millicent hugs Daphne, Juliet, even Pansy and Pretty Boy, Ariel and Draco, and Theo, of course. They kiss, though not nearly as stormily as Zabini and his present Ravenclaw girlfriend. Theo isn't the type for frolicsome hilarity and only gingerly embraces his other friends; Millicent faintly wonders if he'd even be here now if he weren't trying to do her a favour.

Someone touches her elbow and turning around, she sees Greg smiling shyly, and of course, she hugs him too. In return, he lifts her off her feet and easily throws her in the air as if she was a child – a two hundred pounds child – making her giggle, and the floor tremble when she lands again.

"And you really want to go to New Zealand?" he asks her softly.

Why, yes, of course. She's got that apprenticeship on an Abraxan farm there, and she's had endless discussions with Theo already who tried to talk her out of it. Her NEWT marks are pretty swell; she's the fourth best in their year in fact, and Theo thinks she's wasting her talent if she doesn't attend college now. To _him_, breeding Abraxans is the sort of physical work that people without brains should do – well, that's what she imputed on him during their quarrels – on her part a quarrel. He remained as collected as he ever was, of course. He didn't say it like this, naturally. Theo isn't the type for that kind of speech either. She's taken offence all the same. Her family has been in the business for almost two hundred years and since she was a very little girl – so small, her parents wouldn't yet dare to leave her alone with an Abraxan in the first place – she's never dreamt of becoming anything else. She and Ty and Zac are going to take over once their parents and Aunty Doris retire, they've got it all mapped out in great detail. And neither Gwen and Mel and Doris Bulstrode, nor Zac, nor Ty, are idiots fit for nothing else but manual labour. They managed the farm so well, they're among the leading breeders in the world by now, and the farm where she'll do her apprenticeship is one of their few contenders, run by a former assistant of her grandfather. She has craved for that chance like she never craved any other thing, how can Theo not grasp this?

She now scowls at Greg for his question and gives a rather acerbic reply, prompting him to shake his big head fiercely. "No, no – you got me wrong! It's just... It's such a pity you'll be going away!"

"Oh, Greg! I'll be coming back before long! It's just two and a half years, practically nothing!"

"Two and a half years," he sighs, and she thinks it's rather sweet of him to bemoan her absence so.

"And I'll come back whenever I'm on holiday, too."

"Which is for twenty-four days per year," Theo interjects coolly. "Not exactly much, is it?"

"Well, you're all free to visit me as often as you can. And since you –" She addresses Theo with a smile, "will be a college student, you've got three months in the summer!"

"Which isn't really _holidays_, but merely lecture-free time supposed for study –"

"And while you're up to your nose in books, I'd be supposed to watch you reading?" She laughs and shakes her head at him. Perhaps he'd answer, but in this moment, they're both handed their first glass of champagne for the day and Juliet makes a toast.

"To the treadmill!" she cries, "cheers!"

Joint dorms or not, the Slytherins up there are, with the exception of Blaise Zabini's Sixth Year girlfriend from Ravenclaw, on their own. Most Hufflepuffs are sitting on the shore of the lake, some have gathered downstairs in the Entrance Hall, others are lounging in their old Common Room. Many Ravenclaws have gathered in a freshly renovated dorm in their tower, while most Gryffindors drink the first toasts in the Transfiguration classroom.

"Damn it, I'll miss it here," Seamus Finnegan exclaims and takes a look around.

"Me too," says Dean Thomas. "Especially since I can't help it but feeling that I built it myself."

Everyone laughs, and Hermione finds herself sitting at one of the desks as if she was attending a class here. The others are rather lounging, not to say hanging on their chairs, or the tables, she alone is sitting straight and proper like the model student that she is – was. Blimey, she'll need some time to get used to this change! She tries loosening up by sipping her champagne, but truth be told, she's not all that keen on it. A very overrated beverage, isn't it? Why doesn't one buy something normal, the money could be used so much more usefully by donating it to the –

She catches herself in that very uptight train of thought and empties her paper cup with one big sip as a remedy. The only thing she achieves though is a sickening feeling in her tummy and the almost irresistible urge to burp. Good heavens, if she means to party with the others, she'll better try finding a decent bottle of wine or so.

There they all are, Harry and Ron, Ginny and Luna (who are allowed to stay, too, because they're Harry's, respectively Neville's dates for the Big Night tomorrow), Lavender and Pavarti, Emma and Evelyn, Neville of course, Seamus and Dean. In the course of time, they've become her best friends – her only friends, and if she's truly candid with herself, she's scared out of her wits what's to become of these friendships, now that they'll be starting to go their own ways each.

Harry wants to become an Auror, so he'll start working in the Ministry in late August. Ginny and Luna will remain in Hogwarts for another year, Seamus will work in an experimental apothecary, Lavender has got a place at Witch's Weekly, Emma will join her parents who moved to Canada during Voldemort's reign and decided to stay there, Neville wants to work in the Botanical Gardens of Magic in London. And Ron? Ron's desire is to become a professional Quidditch player, so he'll be trying out for the Chudley Canons, the Whimbourne Wasps and some other teams. But even if he's not successful, he's unlikely to start college. Academic life never was for him, was it?

It's taken her so long, so very, very long to make these friends, and now she's afraid to lose them again, which is so melancholic a thought that she lets herself be given another paper cup with yet more champagne that she doesn't like and cannot digest. She's clearly the only one not keen on the taste, but obviously not the only one unable to stomach it. By two o'clock in the afternoon, Evelyn and Neville have been sick already (twice on Neville's part). By three o'clock, Lavender needs to lie down and vehemently refuses to let any of the girls take her down, insisting on Ron carrying her instead. On the inside, Hermione is fuming with anger and that Ron's taking almost half an hour before coming back doesn't make it any better. By now, they're sitting on the lawn beside the lake, too, like the majority of folks and the rather strict separation between the old Houses has dissolved as well.

Emma and Evelyn have joined their Hufflepuff friends, Dean and Seamus are sitting together with Terry Boot and some Ravenclaw girls, on a bench nearby, Ernie is immersed in a lively conversation with Slytherin's Saunders. Hermione is talking to Susan Bones, Hannah Abbott and Justin Finch-Flatley when Ron finally returns with a broad smile on his face, sitting down so close next to her he could just as well be sitting on her lap. Her glare he happily ignores and snatches her hand instead. His splendid mood cannot even be spoiled when she jerks her hand away and turns her back to him. He just goes on talking to Hannah, and very flirtatiously so.

Hannah, however, doesn't appear flattered, but moderately uncomfortable, and is only spared from further harassment because a bunch of other people come over and settle down among them. As if Hermione hadn't been jealous enough, they're now joined all of a sudden by Anthony Goldstein and his pretty little sister who'll possibly stay for the ball tomorrow, too, like Ginny and Luna, and the even prettier Juliet Montague, blonde pride of Slytherin House, though like the proper representative of that house ought to, she's also usually disgruntled and abrasive. Today, she doesn't display her signature sneer, but seems, like anybody else, in the highest of spirits, joking around with Anthony and his sister, and seeing her for once smiling, Hermione is almost flabbergasted with the notion just _how_ very beautiful she is.

Ron doesn't miss that, either. At first, he merely stares. Not even Hermione can blame him for that, all the guys are more or less staring and incidentally, so is Hermione herself. Ron gives himself a fierce shake and starts talking to her, actually faking an interest in her brother at first, asking her how Damian is and dropping loads of sycophantic remarks next, how very great it is that Damian chose a career in Quidditch – 'with _his_ talent!' – and slyly manoeuvring the conversation onto the path of his own aspirations in that field, strongly hinting at him having received no less than five invitations for try-outs. Juliet doesn't flat out tell him to shut up, but it gives Hermione some sombre satisfaction to see that she's not in the least bit impressed either.

For some unfathomable reason, possibly because Ron is making such an idiot of himself, not only Juliet is smiling with thinly veiled glee – so are the Goldstein siblings, and Susan Bones, who has by now been joined by her – if one's to believe the gossip – ex-boyfriend Malfoy, who watches the spectacle tongue-in-cheek, and Hermione doesn't doubt for a minute that he's smirking because the joke's really on her, until –

Yes, until...

Regardless of Ron's babbling, Juliet turns sideward to Rebecca Goldstein and whispers something with her, and Rebecca nods, laughing. In that second, Hermione is still convinced that they've been mocking Ron there, but then Juliet gives Ron a _very_ sweet and very _false_ smile and coos, "As thrilling as your account is, Weasley, I beg you'll excuse me for a minute," and thus, turns around to Rebecca once more, hurls her long, slim arms around the other girl's neck and kisses her. On the mouth. Tongue and all.

Hermione's chin drops to her chest. In retrospection, she'll be sorry to have missed poor Ron's flabbergasted reaction, but the sight is just too – too – too...

Anthony grins and shrugs. He's clearly not the sort of overprotective elder brother like Ron, minding his younger sister snogging in public. Malfoy's giggling, too, that is: he's giggling until Susan remarks in a low voice, "It's official then, eh? There she goes, your only chance to get off with a girl as perfect as your mother, Draco."

Her own surprise and displeasure at Ron's stupidity aside, Hermione clearly perceives his hurt expression, despite the fact that he's quick in covering it up. "Susan," he murmurs in an imploring voice.

"Hm?"

"Listen, can we talk?"

Susan gives him a warm, sad smile, then gets up and helps him up as well. They walk away and out of sight, and half an hour later, Hermione catches a glimpse of Susan, with puffy eyes and blowing her nose, on her way back to the castle. Why are all men such idiots?

She must have said that out loud, because Juliet Montague laughs out loud and cries, "Getting there at last, eh?"

Seamus puts on a mock serious face. "We're not born that way. We got to work hard until we can say with pride-filled chests, 'Yes, I too _am_ an idiot'!"

"Not all of them are idiots, _some_ are perfectly nice. They rarely have a girlfriend though," Juliet says with a swift return to her usual mode of scornfulness.

In the same vein, Hermione retorts tartly, "Oh, so it's the girl's fault when he turns into one, yeah?"

"I don't know. I rather have the impression that no girl is ever much interested in the perfectly nice ones, or why is a guy like Longbottom going to the ball tomorrow with his best friend rather than a date?"

She does have a point there and Hermione keeps her mouth shut. Ron, apparently sobered by the latest events, asks her to go back to the school together not much later, lengthily apologising on the way.

"Look, when I saw you saying goodbye to Krum this morning, I – I... I can't help myself, I'm going mad with jealousy when I see the two of you together!"

"But Ron! There's _nothing_! There never was much to begin with, and that was more than four years ago!"

"But he still fancies you, anyone can see that, and he's a star, and –"

"What makes you think I cared for that? Do you really think I'm that shallow?"

"No, I don't. I'm just an idiot."

He says it so contritely that she cannot but swing her arms around his neck and kiss him, and after drinking three or four more cups of the ghastly champagne that's on offer practically everywhere today, they decide to 'withdraw' into one of the classrooms in the Astronomy Tower – their _special_ classroom where they used to meet at night in the past year for making out. In stark daylight, it looks very different though, so prosaic that Hermione can suddenly hardly imagine that she ever made love here – on the floor, between the blackboard and the teacher's desk.

"I don't think this is such a good idea –"

"Oh, come on. This is our room. We'll never be here together again!"

He's got a point there, too, and he's got her halfway undressed already anyhow. It's a miracle that he managed so much because he's really drunk, and her bra poses an insurmountable barrier. He couldn't open the clasp in his state if his life depended on it, but being the practically-minded boy that he is, he rather continues tearing off her knickers. Some conscious part of her can see herself lying half-naked on that floor in the broadest of daylights, and honestly, she feels totally silly. Ron, butt-naked too, is all over her but doesn't – _well_ – make an entry, as it were, and thinking that it'll be best to get this over with before she feels even more foolish, she lets her hand glide down to his crotch, only to find that there's – no key, to stay in the imagery.

Instant disappointment hits her. He's not turned on by her. After dallying around all day with Lavender, and Hannah and seeing pretty Juliet Montague kissing pretty Rebecca Goldstein, he just won't be turned on by _her_. It's sad but true! Maybe he loves her – she knows he does, in a way – but she's not the girl setting his mind, or gear, in motion, is she?

"You've got to loosen up," he murmurs in her ear.

"Do I?" she answers, half furious, half on the verge of tears. "Isn't it bad enough that you're losing it?"

He pulls away from her with an offended expression and she seizes the opportunity to scramble away from him, snatching her clothes as she finds them, but not even putting them on, only donning her school robes and buttoning them up from top to bottom. The rest, she stuffs into her pockets, all the while trying her best not to start crying, and ignoring his questions and pleas, she runs away, down the stairs and towards her room, only making a detour to the bathroom for throwing up all that disgusting champagne. The rest of the day, she spends sobbing in her bed, the posters closely shut and hexed soundproof, and she's by no means the only one.

In the dorm next to Hermione's, Susan Bones is doing basically the same, and so do Pansy Parkinson (who always gets pretty depressed when drinking alcohol), Emma Drake (because she'll go to Canada and who knows when she'll ever see her friends again?), half a dozen Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs (for various reasons), to be joined in the Club Of Misery not that much later by another girl who's usually not much of a candidate for crying her eyes out.

Millicent Bulstrode spent the greater part of the day in a rather pleasant fashion, even though she always felt the lingering suspicion that something, not to put too fine a point on it, isn't right. It can't be the alcohol, because courtesy to her stout built and years and years of steady practise with her older brothers, she can tolerate alcohol much better than most guys she knows. There's something wrong with the atmosphere, she finds, people are so feverishly exhilarated that it's bordering on the sort of surreal air that some dreams have, and not the good ones.

Theo, for example, is usually laid-back and easy-going, but today he has taken it to his head that tomorrow marks some kind of epic change, and change for the worse, and makes lots of cryptic remarks about the innocence of childhood days being on the verge of slipping away and other stuff like that, to which Millicent can only respond drily that especially in the last years, there wasn't all that much _innocence_ in the castle to be lost _now_. He merely looks at her, his blue eyes wide and sad.

"And you'll be going away and when you return, you'll be a very different person."

"Older, wiser, bigger you mean?"

"Wiser, yes... That might be the right word."

He's so melancholic that she can't bear it any longer, and kissing his forehead, she leaves him alone to his ill-fated contemplation. Strolling through the castle, she comes across Malfoy and Greg, who have made themselves comfortable with a large bottle of wine in a high window niche in the staircases, giving them a perfect view over the grounds as well as the Entrance Hall.

"Mind if I join you?" she asks them, and they immediately make some room for her, too, until all three of them are tailor-seated looking outside where the sun makes a last brave appearance before getting ready for setting. "Beautiful, isn't it? It's almost a pity we're not going to see it again like that."

"A sunset is always beautiful, regardless where you look at it," Malfoy mumbles darkly, but not tearing his eyes away from the scenery either.

"How very cheerful you all are!"

Malfoy makes no reply but keeps on staring out of the window, sipping his wine in between, and Greg mutters under his breath, "Leave him. He had a bit of a brush with Bones."

"Oh!" she exclaims, but chooses to keep her mouth shut on _that_ subject. Susan Bones is a bit of a touchy spot with Malfoy; heaven knows why, because when they were dating still, he never seemed to be _that_ terribly interested in her. Millicent suspects that it's hurt his male pride to be dumped, it's the only explanation she can think of.

Malfoy, however, doesn't seem to want letting the topic rest. "I'd so hoped that we could make up before she leaves. Not make-up make-up, but..."

Make up make up? "But...?"

"She thinks I don't give a damn, and that's just not true."

"_Not_ not giving a damn might not be enough for her."

He smiles sadly. "That's exactly what she said, if not quite in these words."

"I always knew she's one clever girl."

He finally draws his eyes away from some point at the distant horizon to look at her. "And yet, you pretend to be at a loss why Theo isn't in the highest of spirits?"

"Pert remarks of that sort are _my_ domain, Malfoy," she says smugly, only to hide that he hit a very dissonant chord in her there. "And if you truly want to talk about _Theo_ – he's turning it all upside down, only so – only because he's not satisfied with the way that I plan my own life. He keeps on babbling how I'm going to change, but truth is, he's disappointed that I'm going to remain exactly as I am, that he did not manage to turn me into some – some – oh, some high-brow college student delivering the cues for him!"

"What?"

"You know what I mean!"

"I have no clue what you mean, and I think you're talking total nonsense."

"Said the boy famous for his comprehensive grasp on the female psyche!"

Despite himself, Malfoy cracks a smile, takes one last swig from the bottle, passes it on to Greg and disentangles his legs then. "You're a wise girl, Millicent Elise Bulstrode, in every aspect where you're not concerned yourself." Speaking thus, he jumps down from the window sill to the floor and walks away.

"Where he's going?" Greg asks, looking after him.

"Being existentialistic in your dorm, I suppose."

"Pardon?"

"Dressing himself in black and wining, Greg."

"Oh, that. I didn't know there's a six-syllable word for that."

They both crack up and looking out of the window, share the wine between them. "I do get his point though," Greg murmurs at last. "He's sad that Bones is going away, and she doesn't believe him."

"She may believe him all right, but he never cared for her enough to begin with."

"I think he did."

"You think that, Greg, you think that." She sees him twist his face as if she had insulted him, and quickly adds, "You're a boy, too, Greg, that's why you can't understand girls. I'm sure Malfoy liked Bones a lot. Much more than Panse, I guess. And _he_ thinks that would suffice, but it doesn't."

"Why doesn't it suffice?"

"Because Bones was really in love with him, and when you're really in love, you can't, in the end, settle for some lukewarm compromise. When you're really in love, you want to be truly loved in return, nothing else than that will do."

"You needn't be a girl to understand _that_," he whispers and turns his head away again and it takes Millicent a minute before she understands _him_ in turn. Perhaps Malfoy was right after all, eh? She might be smart, but only in regard to others, never to herself.

"I'm so sorry, Greg..."

"What for? You needn't be."

"But I am! I – look, I... I never realised – and I never meant to – to..."

"You're one of my best friends, Mil," he says, incapable of looking at her. "You're the most decent person I know, you have always treated me good, better than anyone, and you never – you never did anything to be sorry for, okay?"

Maybe that's true. It doesn't matter though whether it's true or not, because in the next moment, she is going to do something which she'll feel terribly sorry for for the next years to come. She reaches out to stroke Greg's cheek, making him wince back and stare at her like her brother Ty will stare at a ladybug (Ty's awfully frightened of ladybugs, Merlin knows why), and he looks so vulnerable there, so fragile – that huge guy, fragile like a baby bird – she has got to hug him, and next thing she knows, she kisses him, too.

She doesn't notice Malfoy returning from the bathroom – because that's where he went – and instantly turning on his heels as soon as spotting his two friends kissing on that window sill. For some unfathomable reason however, she does notice when Theo appears on the scene not all that much later. Her eyes closed and oblivious to the world around her, outside of that kiss, she still senses his presence and breaking away from Greg, turns her head around seeing Theo rooted to the spot – on the stairs, twenty feet below them. He looks up to them, nods, smirks and like Malfoy before him, turns around on his heels and marches away.

She follows him at once, crying after him but he won't stop and when she's finally caught up with him, he, for the first time since she's known him, loses him temper and first shouts at her to leave him alone, and next shouts at Malfoy, sarcastically thanking him for some invitation to a game of chess – a remark that Millicent doesn't get at first, and for which she's got no room to ponder now either.

So, in the end, Millicent Bulstrode, always mildly scornful of her fellow females, is lying on her bed as well, mutely crying, until she's made up her mind and given herself a fierce shake. She'll talk to Theo tomorrow and sort it all out. There's no use in wallowing in misery. But when that next day comes – the day of their great celebrations – Theo is nowhere to be found. Malfoy doesn't know where he is either (she doesn't dare to ask Greg, or do as much as face him). Apparently, Theo is mad at Malfoy, too, because he thinks – rather astutely as it turns out – that Malfoy, after seeing Millicent and Greg together, and subsequently meeting Theo on the search for his girlfriend, tried holding him back deliberately by asking him to play chess.

They finally do find out where Theo is – no longer in Hogwarts, that is – because Ernie Macmillan saw him packing and even helped him carrying his large trunk out of the castle.

"He can't! The ceremony! The bestowing of our NEWT records!"

"I daresay he couldn't care less for the damned records, Mil," Malfoy quietly says and pulls her away. No, neither of them much cares for the records any longer. Millicent feels sick, Malfoy feels uneasy, Greg feels so guilty he looks like crying himself any minute now. Pansy Parkinson has such a bad hangover that she seriously contemplates skipping the ceremony and staying in bed. Susan Bones is apprehensive of meeting her former boyfriend.

And Hermione Granger? Hermione Granger has made up her mind. She procrastinates as long as she can, not leaving her room until it's high time for her to hurry to the Great Hall without further delay because as the best in their year, she's supposed to hold the valedictory speech. It's the sort of standard speech that's expected on these occasions, although she did seize last night's sleeplessness to give it a little edge here and there. Trying hard to keep her eyes unfocused so she doesn't accidentally see Ron, she goes through the motions, talking about good times that necessarily must come to an end sooner or later, that one cannot cling to even so beloved a place like Hogwarts forever when the time has come to have grown out of it. She speaks very detached and matter-of-factly; she's getting in tune for her next speech of the day, the one making her _really_ nervous. For neither she'll receive much applause from her hung-over audience.


	154. The Consolation Prize

What is supposed to be a great day for everyone, turns out to be a bit of a disaster.

* * *

**_- 4.28. -_**

The Consolation Prize**_  
_**

* * *

_Weak! Do you really think, Arthur, that it is weakness that yields to temptation? I tell you that there a__re terrible temptations that it requires strength, strength and courage, to yield to. To stake all one's life on a single moment, to risk everything on one throw, whether the stake be power or pleasure._

_OSCAR WILDE – An Ideal Husband_

* * *

Only once before, Hermione has ever broken up with anyone, and that wasn't much of a break-up to begin with. Breaking up with Ron _was_ a real, proper break-up as it is supposed to be, with all the tears, pleas, incomprehension and anger that usually occur on such occasions. Strangely enough, Hermione feels far more heartbroken when it's over than Ron appeared to be, and after all, _she_ told _him_.

_He_ just thinks she's gone crazy.

Yeah, if it's crazy to think that one deserves better, then she's crazy indeed. For now, she merely feels miserable though. This is her last day in school, she's top of her year, number 68 on the all-time-records, by right she should be feeling fabulously! Another tick on the tally list of all that Ronald Weasley has inflicted on her in all the years she's known him. Oh, but why is she surprised! He ruined the only other ball she ever went to as well!

She's grateful for Ginny's company after the awful talk; while Hermione is crying, Ginny consoles her and rants incessantly what a stupid fart her brother is, and in order to do something, they start dressing and grooming. Luna has helpfully offered to fetch Hermione's things from her dorm, because right now, she can't bring herself to face Lavender Brown.

"That's _beautiful_," Ginny comments when seeing Hermione's festive robes, although the latter takes the compliment with a grain of salt, because Ginny commended Luna's robes for the evening, too, and those are as odd as was to be expected. She takes another critical look at herself once she put them on. She ordered them from a catalogue and had to adjust them herself, because they were much too long, but she can't find a fault with them now. The vermillion satin falls elegantly, the seam and the high collar are embroidered with small golden ornaments – flowers, leaves and scarabs – and she's got matching golden satin shoes to go with it. Unfortunately, it turns out that she can impossibly walk on these heels, and it takes Ginny and her more than an hour to magically fix that problem by shortening the heels, too.

Taking care of her hair takes another hour before it's as smooth and shiny as she hoped it would be, and then she even puts on lipstick (courtesy of Luna's roommate Gloria, who'll accompany Terry Boot tonight) and some make-up charms, because she wants to look her best, all the more to annoy Ron and make him really sorry!

The actual ball will officially start at seven o'clock, but in the last fifteen years, the custom to entertain both students and parents in the afternoon was established; there's a bar in the Entrance Hall alongside a modest buffet, which most girls are shunning, but which is very popular with boys and fathers. Harry's muggle family is as absent as Hermione's muggle parents, though for different reasons. The Dursleys would possibly be affronted with the mere invitation, while Hermione didn't dare to inflict the necessary spells on Ben and Nicky Granger – Hogwarts is unapproachable and invisible for muggles and it takes a whole lot of spells to circumnavigate these precautions. After it has taken them so long to recover from the last spells cast on them, they're a bit wary of being subjected to magic, and their daughter has always been one of the 'Better safe than sorry' sort.

Well, at least the whole Weasley clan has come – Mr and Mrs Weasley, Bill and his wife, Percy and George, even Charlie has taken a few days off from work. And speaking of relations attending the 'big day' – Kreacher has left Number Twelve Grimmauld Place and come back to Hogwarts, too, and cried at least as much as Molly Weasley when his master was handed the venerable parchment this morning. He's even contrived a new outfit for the cause, and receives many compliments from his former colleagues for the gaudy chintz slip-cover with the slightly faded Black family crest embroidered to the front.

"My old masters had such slip-covers, too-oo-oo," his old friend Winky moaned and sniffled into her own blouse sleeve. Some things _never_ change!

Wary, Hermione lets her gaze wander – unobtrusively, she hopes – both to see where Ron is and how he looks (downcast? sad? puffy-eyed? desperate?), and also because, even in her depressed state, there's just so much to see, all the other girls in their most glorious outfits, the excited parents, and seeing Professor McGonagall in a tartan robe and Professor Trelawney in something very frilly, spangled and with a huge violet hat on top is a pretty spectacle as well.

Mrs Weasley has clad herself in brocade robes that don't flatter her figure but are very festive. Seeing the Macmillans is a bit of a surprise because they're very different from what Hermione imagined. Mr Macmillan is a shortish fellow with horn-rimmed spectacles and a friendly, impish smile; his wife looks shy and almost deferent and wears mouse-grey robes that fit perfectly to her hair. They're talking to the Finch-Flatleys who, like most Muggles, stick out because they're not dressed in wizard robes, but are otherwise quite unremarkable. The Goldsteins are easily recognisable because they look like older versions of their children – darned good, that is, and Mrs Goldstein has simply fabulous robes in dark blue and pale gold, and she's by no means the only woman here that can be counted as a 'hot mum', as Seamus calls them.

There is Mrs Malfoy, glamorous as ever, together with her son; she's dressed in very elegant dark teal robes and enough emeralds and pearls to put an end to starvation in the Third World. Goyle and his mother (who is by _no_ accounts a 'hot mum') with a hairdo that would make Marge Simpson proud; Mrs Montague wears a shade of husky pink and heels so high that Hermione feels like breaking an ankle just by looking at her. Then, there's a witch who looks thoroughly out of place because she's sexy enough to pass as one of the boys' date for tonight.

"Who's that?" she asks Luna and lightly beckons into that woman's direction.

"You mean Mrs Perkins?" Luna asks back.

"I mean the woman in the super tight black dress with the slit up the side up to her rib cage if that's enough!"

"Yes, yes, that's her."

"And who _is_ she?"

"Zabini's mum."

"Blimey!"

Seamus giggles. "I think we got ourselves a winner in the Hot Mum Competition 1999!"

Definitely, Hermione thinks and marvels. That woman has a son of almost twenty years, yet she doesn't look old enough for that. She appears almost ageless. Her skin is immaculate, not a wrinkle, not a trace of sagging despite her sun-kissed bronze complexion; her body would be the envy of high-priced strippers all over the world – slim and trim, yet _very_ voluptuous in all the right places. She's got long, shiny dark brown hair waving in a fashion that Hermione would pay a lot of money for, her eyes are slanted and shiningly light blue, and on a closer look, appear rather cold and calculating, but one hardly notices because one gets side-tracked by her lush plump lips that dominate her face entirely and are just as red as her long fingernails. Except for the shape of the eyes, she's got no whatsoever resemblance to her son, yet one can't help it but think that 'Pretty Boy' (that's how most Slytherins nickname Zabini) takes after his mother as far as good looks are concerned.

Not much later, she more or less bumps into Ron before she's got a chance to flee (in fact, it is him bumping into their little group, tipsy and so cheerful as if nothing had happened at all), and would forget all about Zabini's mother at once, if it weren't for Ronald goggling over to her stupidly and repeating all of Hermione's own questions almost verbatim.

"_That_ is Zabini's mum?" he gasps and stares with the same expression he usually reserves for his sister-in-law and her veela cousins. "Blimey!"

"And here I was thinking Mrs Zabini was really rich," Ginny remarks scornfully. "How come she cannot afford new robes, but has to wear some she grew out of when she was twelve?"

Harry laughs so hard, he snorts his butterbeer out through his nose, and Hermione grins maliciously, too. Only Ron hasn't even heard his sister. At least he perceives her boxing against his shoulder, though that doesn't make him look over either. "Hey!" he groans and rubs his shoulder. "What the heck –"

"Ron!"

"I'm here –"

"Oh, are you _really_!" Ron's only reply is a non-committal 'hum', and Ginny continues, "Is that, like, his step-mother? Did she adopt him when he was fifteen? She can't be forty, can she?"

Seamus chuckles. "In fact, she must be almost fifty. She was in me mum's year in Hogwarts."

"No way!"

"Don't let my mum hear that!" Seamus laughs even harder.

Ginny is scowling at her brother and slapping the back of his head. "Oy! Anyone at home up there?"

At least, this wakes him up from his slobbering reverie. "Can you all stop hitting me?"

"Can _you_ stop drooling at that woman there?"

"I'm not _drooling_," he mutters. "Anyone care for another drink, yes?"

And without waiting for their answers, he scurries over to the bar – straight to the spot where Zabini's mother is waiting, too. Hermione cannot _believe_ the nerve of this boy. In this moment, they're joined by Charlie, Bill and Fleur, and thereby unwittingly completing Hermione's utter misery. How come that _every_ present woman looks so bloody fantastic? Even the forty-somethings? Not to mention the Juliet Montagues and Rebecca Goldsteins, the Ginnys and Fleurs, and all the other girls looking their very, very best tonight. Everyone, _everyone_ is looking fabulous, except her, of course?

In this moment, an elf with a huge tray of champagne glasses walks past and without thinking twice, Hermione snatches one of them and drinks it with one big gulp. Instantly, she feels even sicker than before. Damn it! Damn that bloody stuff that everyone so wildly fawns about! In her fury, she stomps to the bar as well – but to the very far end from where Ron is standing in line staring stupidly at Mrs Zabini or however that wretched witch is called. Hermione would have to wait, too, because all the elves are serving somebody else, but right now, she's not in the mood for more waiting. Right here, right now, damn it! She doesn't even look around to see if somebody is watching; she just grabs the first full bottle she sees, shrinking a little when reading the label – Ogden's Firewhiskey – but she couldn't care less. Ogden's Firewhiskey it is, then! And together with her bottle, she floats out of the Entrance Hall as regally as if she were the Muggle queen herself.

Oh, if only Viktor hadn't left yesterday! If Viktor was still here, she'd know what to do! She'd grab him – like the whiskey, mind you! – she'd _grab him_ and – and... Well, she'd let him take care of the rest. He'd surely know what to do. How very, very unfortunate that he's somewhere in frigging Romania right now!

Marching the corridors aimlessly as if she were on a military patrol, she racks her head what to do. Viktor, clearly, is not an option. And neither is Ernie Macmillan, before she gets some silly ideas. Perhaps it'd suffice to make Ron jealous, too, but then again, he is so idiotically hypnotised by any other female in the school tonight, he'd probably hardly notice, and then Hermione would be stuck with _Ernie_, and who'd be the joke on, then!

While she's still thinking _very_ hard, she practically runs into another pretty girl, and it takes her a moment to recognise Susan Bones, though on a closer look, she doesn't look as good as she _could_. A great body in great robes – at least it seems so to Hermione, who's close to believing that Professor Sprout is a very attractive witch who could easily outrival _her_ – with perfect hair and perfect what-do-you-want, but her face looks not as bright and cheerful as usually. In fact, she looks like she's been crying a lot, and makes defensive moves with her hands.

"Are you okay?" Hermione asks in genuine concern.

"No – I mean yes – yes, I'm fine, thank you –"

"Come on, what is wrong? I can see you're – well – _upset_!"

"I'm not upset... Well, a little, maybe... It's just – just..." She makes a noise that sounds like a sob, but luckily, it is only a very hearty sigh. Hermione is somewhat relieved. "I'll be going away, you know, and... Gosh, I'll miss it here!"

"Yes, of course! So will I, you know?"

"But you, you'll only be leaving Hogwarts, and I... I will live in the States, and – I'll leave behind all my friends and I'll miss them, and somehow, I can't help myself but fear that they'll not miss me –"

"Of course they will!"

"But not as much as I'll be missing them!"

Hermione can't say she doesn't know the feeling. Tonight, for example. Even though _she_ broke up with her boyfriend, it's not _him_ doing the suffering, is he! She also knows the fear to lose one's friends; she had the same trepidations only yesterday, so much that she drank a whole lot of unwholesome champagne!

"We'll all miss you, Susan. But you won't be away forever, it's only two years, right?"

"So much can happen in two years," Susan gnarls darkly and only to do something, Hermione offers her the bottle of whiskey. Susan arches a quizzical brow and Hermione is forced to explain – in not so many words – that she and Ron broke up.

"Oh, I see... Let me tell you something – it doesn't help. The whiskey. It only postpones the pain." She takes the bottle nevertheless, uncorks it and takes a big sip, twisting her face. "Urgh. Disgusting, but what's it matter! I can do with some postponing!"

"So can I," Hermione murmurs and takes a swig as well. 'Urgh' doesn't nearly match the yuckiness. This tastes like dragon vomit, or what Hermione imagines _that_ to taste like, and it burns awfully in her gullet. Fire, indeed!

Susan pensively continues, "It's strange, don't you think? How come _we_ dump a guy, and it's still _us_ doing the mourning as well?"

"I'm not mourning."

"Yeah. _Right!_ I can see _that_, Granger!"

"Who are you mourning for?" Hermione asks and wants to slap herself for the stupid question.

"Draco Malfoy," Susan moans, foreseeably, but adds – not quite as foreseeably – a rather manic giggle.

The giggle is disconcerting and Hermione isn't certain how to respond, murmuring, "Yeah, well... I could never quite figure out what you ever saw in that one..."

Susan shrugs. "He's very sweet."

"Is he...?"

"He's all – all I ever wanted in a boy. Almost all. He's very smart, and very kind –"

"Kind? Malfoy?"

"He is. Trust me on that one. Caring. Generous. Thoughtful of his friends. And gosh, he looks so good, too..." Hermione would like to ask what on earth Susan is babbling about, or if they're talking about the same guy, but it'd seem oddly out of place, seeing the other girl's dreamy, sad expression. "He's got a great sense of humour too –"

Hermione can't help it; she's got to interrupt, "Sense of humour. _Malfoy_. Yeah, _right!_"

Susan totally misses the ironic tone, or chooses to ignore it. "He's everything I ever wanted but one goddamned thing – he's not in love with me."

"I so know what you mean!"

"Yes? But Ron – Ron _is_ in love with you!"

"You think so? So why do I never feel like it? Why's he ogling _every_ girl he sees. It doesn't even matter if I'm standing next to him!"

"Draco never did that. Funny, eh? He always made me feel like – I don't know. Special. Like I was the most special person in all the world. He never looked at another girl, he never gave me a reason for jealousy. And still..."

"Still?"

"Still I always knew he never meant anything by it. That's just him. He's just like that. He's all charming and thoughtful and sweet, but it doesn't _mean_ the slightest thing. I tell you what, Hermione – count your blessings with Ron Weasley. He might be a rude ruffian, but at least he means it."

"Yeah. He means to be rude, and a ruffian. _I_ must know!"

Susan cracks up. "You know him better than I, all right. I don't want to talk you into taking him back. You'll know what you're doing, I'm sure."

There's that saying about talking of the devil, or perhaps people are simply magnetically drawn to a place where other people are talking about them. For whatever reason, Hermione can see Mr 'All Sweet And Caring', otherwise known as 'The Git', turn around the corner behind Susan's shoulder, and quietly, she warns the Hufflepuff. Maybe she should have preceded a little 'Don't turn around now, but...', because Susan swivels around, making it painfully obvious that they've been talking about him. As if that boy needed to bolster his vanity!

"I was looking for you," Malfoy addresses Susan and gives a little wave to Hermione. "Hey there, Granger."

"Looking for me?"

"Yes. I thought we could have a little farewell toast." He raises the non-waving hand and produces a bottle of white wine.

"No champagne?" Hermione taunts and would like to slap herself once again. This isn't _her_ tragedy – or her place to butt in!

"I don't think I want to see another glass of champagne in this decade," Malfoy groans.

Susan smiles. "How lucky the decade is about to end in six months time!"

"Eighteen months, technically," Hermione corrects her, now close to hitting her face against the wall. Shut up, she tells herself, or if you've got to open your mouth, find an excuse for leaving at once!

"Always the correct answer," Malfoy says and smirks.

"And often enough with an awfully bad sense of timing. Which is my cue. I got to –"

"No! Please!" Susan cries and grabs her hand. "Please, stay. You can toast with us, can't you?"

It's almost a plea. Scratch that. It _is_ a plea. Susan obviously doesn't want to stay alone with Mr Charming and a bottle of wine. Point taken. Also, it might chagrin Malfoy if she's staying, and that's worth the trouble at any rate.

"Okay then. Let's have a toast."

If he's truly chagrined, he doesn't let it show, though he doesn't look too exuberant either. "Very well," he says and conjures three elegant goblets out of thin air. "What shall we drink to?"

"It was your idea. You choose," Susan whispers.

He pours the wine, distributes the glasses and intonates, "To absent-minded friends!"

He receives an upset glance from Susan for that oh-so-thoughtful remark. How charming he is, _really_, how could any girl have missed it! "Of whom we'll be thinking very much all the same!" Hermione gnarls stubbornly before taking a sip.

"I'm sorry. That was thoughtless of me, wasn't it?" Malfoy asks, looking Susan deeply in the eyes. "I am really sorry. I – actually, I was thinking of all the people I meant to have a toast with today, and who all completely forgot about it."

It doesn't need a lot to soften Susan up, clearly, because she looks reconciled already. "Right... Where is everybody? Theo was missing at the ceremony, wasn't he?"

A shadow flies over Malfoy's pale features. He casts Hermione a measuring glance, then half-shrugs and drinks a little, too. "He was indeed. He left Hogwarts last night."

"Oh! But why? He'd have gotten some medal, right? Second best of the entire year, isn't he?"

"He – he and Mil – uhm..."

Susan gasps. "No way! Who – why – it can't be! They're so perfect for each other!"

"Yes, well, apparently Mil didn't think so –"

"Millicent! No! You must be kidding me!"

"I wish I was. She's gone, too, incidentally. And before you ask – so is Greg."

"Oh. _Oh_," makes Susan and looks wisely. "Oh, I see."

"Yupp."

How happy for them to know what they're talking about. Only Hermione doesn't have a clue. 'Theo' must be Theodore Nott – he _is_ the second best this year. 'Mil' – 'Millicent' – is easy enough as well; she and Nott have been dating, even Hermione knows as much. And 'Greg' surely means Gregory Goyle, but what's _he_ got to do with it all is beyond her.

Susan raises her goblet and makes a toast of her own – "To love's labour's lost" – proving she's not all that much more considerate than her ex either. Malfoy shoots her a wry glance, but raises his goblet, too.

"To lost love," he mutters.

"To lose it, you've got to find it for a start," Hermione says in grim merriment. If everyone's determined to be tactless, so can she be! Surprisingly, both Malfoy and Susan snigger.

"Right," the latter says.

Malfoy smilingly shakes his head. "I still think it's a matter of perspective."

"No, Draco, it isn't. If anything, it's about _pro_spective!"

Hermione, feeling like the fifth wheel to an already lurching vehicle, finishes her entire goblet of wine only to do something and be spared more innuendos. It's good wine though. Seriously good wine. The most – the only – delicious alcohol she's had in the past thirty-six hours! Almost automatically, she stretches out her hand with the now empty goblet and without words, Malfoy freshens it up. Without looking, too, because his eyes are still glued to Susan, who's maybe getting a bit uneasy. That, or for some other reason, she starts fidgeting.

"You'll excuse me for a minute, right?" she suddenly says.

"Oh, come on. You'll not run away now as well, will you?"

"No, no – I just... The bathroom. You know."

And off she goes – sprints, more like, and either she's in really serious need of a pee, or Malfoy scares her. Hermione observes her speedy exit and tries to think of a pretext to do likewise, but Malfoy pours himself more wine and lifts the goblet again.

"And here's to you, Granger. My congratulations. Best student of the year. And I believe you've made it into the top one hundred of all times, didn't you?"

He sounds sincere, but she knows he can't be. "I did indeed," she snarls and puts on a defiant mien. "And you?"

"Number seven of the year, I believe, and no record-breaking in the hit list at all."

"What a pity!"

He grins, tongue in cheek. "I can see what you're up to, Missy, so let me tell you straightaway – I do not mind the slightest bit. My congratulations were genuine. I've long given up competing with you."

"Is that so!"

"It is. One's got to know one's limitations. I was in a huff about all that far too long anyhow."

This isn't what Hermione expected. Quite the opposite. "So there's something I can congratulate _you_ for, then!"

"Oh, thank you very much," he says genially, and mocks a deep bow. "How kind of you to say. No, no, it's true, I don't have any qualms to admit it freely. You're better than me. Let's drink to _that_!"

She's stopped counting the reasons for their toasting, but what the heck. After all, she fled from downstairs in order to get drunk, didn't she? The lip-services as for the whys – who cares! And hearing Malfoy of all people professing that she's better than him – which she _is_, ha! – is pretty enough an excuse for drinking. And let's not forget that this wine is better than all the other stuff she's been drinking so far.

"And what's wrong with you?" he asks when emptying the bottle into their both goblets.

"Wrong? Why should anything be wrong?"

"You look like it."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" she flares up.

He raises his hand – the one without goblet – defensively. "It was just a question that might have sounded more nosy than allowed, but was meant nothing if not politely."

She's convinced that he's being nasty about something – her robes, her hair or her over-all appearance – but too tipsy to figure it out, so she can merely scowl at him. "I am _fine_, if you must know!"

"All right then! Great!" He puts on a smile that she would call 'nice' on anyone else. "I didn't see your parents yet. I'd like to say hello."

"They're not here." He looks amazed, and she elaborates, "I thought it'd be too much of an ordeal to put all the necessary spells on them. And they are wary of being hexed, too, since... You know."

"Oh yes, I see. Mine aren't here either, though for very different reasons."

"But I saw your mother downstairs –"

"Yes, she came for the ceremony, but she's gone by now. My father couldn't leave the Manor anyhow, and my mother is never keen on balls, or parties, or any of this stuff. Also, I was not very keen – well – I'd have been looking after my mother the whole night otherwise."

"Isn't she old enough to do without a babysitter?"

He laughs. "Oh, she is. But she hates socialising with other people, and once she's talked to Mrs Goyle for ten minutes and to the Montagues for another five, she's done in the small talk department, and I'd be the only one left she'd speak with voluntarily."

That fits to Hermione's mental image of Mrs Malfoy, but astonishes her as well. There'd be a whole lot of other Slytherin purebloods for her to 'socialise' with and look down on anybody else, but apparently, she's too haughty even for those. No surprises there, if one thinks about it! Gosh, how conceited that person is! Granted, she's beautiful. _Stunning_, all right. And according to Mrs Weasley, she's also something of a genius. Well, Mrs Weasley, and that list that Hermione hit on place 68, on which Mrs Malfoy has made an incredible number three spot... But let's face it, _Tom Riddle_ is the still unbeaten number one on the list, and what's that saying about the list as such!

The top five comments on Hermione's tongue are all of more or less mean-spirited nature, so she skips straight to the next. "And what are you going to do now that it's all over?"

"Hogwarts, you mean? I'll start college in autumn."

Oh, shoot. "Are you? So what are your subjects?"

"Oh, I'll honour the family tradition," he says, and a couple of possibilities tumble through Hermione's head. He already did like his dad and became a Death Eater, so maybe he's planning to become a stunning blonde now and start dressing in equally stunning robes and jewels? Okay. Another five things for the not-to-be-spoken-out-loud list. Luckily, he's low on the mind-reading abilities and continues, "I'll read Wizard Law like my dad, Philosophies like my mum."

Oh, _shoot!_ Did it really have to be _Law_, damn it? That, in all probability, means they'll be having classes together! She suppresses a groan and gives him a little sneer instead. "Can I ask you something, Malfoy? Is there, or was there ever, a single thing you did or do that was _not_ due to something your parents wanted?"

"Ah, if it had been up to my father and his wishes, I'd be applying for a career as a Quidditch pro now."

She is astonished. "And why didn't you do that? I thought you were so fond of playing."

"I am, yes. But rather as a pastime. I mean, seriously – it's not exactly fulfilling, sitting on a broomstick eight hours a day and chasing after a Quaffle." Her jaw has dropped, making him laugh. "No offence to your ex, Granger."

How _can_ he know this? Only Ginny and Luna know – Harry, perhaps, was told by Ron, who seems to have forgotten all about it since then. Did Luna spill the beans? She _is_ friendly with Malfoy after all! "Well, let's see if he gets on some team in the first place," she mutters wryly.

"You don't get kicked off a National Team because of a little injury like that. Not to speak of the clubs."

"What?"

"He's still the best Seeker in the _world_. Knee injury or not, he'll have another twenty years at least before him. As a professional player I mean."

"Oh! Oh, I see!" she gasps in true-as-gold relief.

"Hang on," Malfoy cries and makes a smart face. "Hang on just a minute, Granger! _You_ weren't talking of Viktor Krum!" He gives a loud, swift laugh. "Still we were talking about your _ex_, which would mean... You've dumped Weasley, then? Ha! You did, didn't you? Good for you!"

"Why would that be good for me?" she asks despite herself – because it doesn't feel good. Not at all. It feels _awful_. Around here, everybody is partying, and she's the only one – because _Ron_ is bound to be having the time of his life, too, with Lavender, or god knows who! – she's the only one feeling wretched, and this just isn't fair, this is her graduation day, she's the best in her year, by any right she should feel fantastic!

As if it was the most obvious thing in the world, he replies matter-of-factly, "Because, to stay in the sportive imagery, he's not playing in your league, Granger."

"He's a pureblood!" she cries like an idiot, and that's the way he's looking back at her, too.

"What's that got to do with it? He's also a pure idiot!"

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that you can do better, and should do better, too, if you'll ask me – which you'll clearly never do, and forgive me for being so blunt, but it's just true, and you've asked for it, in a way."

This comes as close to a compliment as someone like Malfoy will ever get, and she gapes at him for a moment. Of course, he's just drunk and detests Ron, but still. "You – you – thank you," she says at last, embarrassed.

"Oh, you're welcome. In need for more pearls of wisdom? You should hook up with Krum again. He's got the hots for you, and he's a great chap, and also pretty smart. You'd drive even Brown jealous with that one."

Hermione's jaw drops to her chest. "Brown?" she asks, half dreading the answer. Has Malfoy seen Lavender, with Ron? Today? And if he has – does she _really _want to know?

"Yeah. I mean, she's always making goo-goo eyes at Weasley still, and I suppose that doesn't sit too well with you. But if you pulled Viktor Krum – well, I fancy that'd make her and every other of your roommates wild with envy, and drive Weasley crazy with jealousy."

"I do not 'pull' anybody only to make somebody else envious!"

"But wouldn't you just love to pay Weasley back in coin? Come on, Granger. You needn't tell _me_, but be honest with yourself. You know he deserves it."

"I actually like Viktor very much, and ergo, I'm not going to use him to pay back on Ron," she says sternly.

"You are such a morally upright girl; you are, Granger. Come, come, here's to you and the Gryffindor code of honour." He wants to pour her more wine, but the bottle is empty. "Well, I guess no toast to the code of honour, then."

She sighs, but then, she remembers the bottle of Firewhiskey that she's still cradling in her left arm like a baby. Or the way a distraught five-year-old would cradle a doll, rather. She lifts it up, Quidditch trophy-style. "No, I definitely want to drink to that!"

"With Firewhiskey? Glad you got your priorities all sorted, gal."

She pours herself a glass, and for courtesy, him too. After all, he did share that nice wine with her as well. "To Gryffindor honour!"

He smirks but tries to suppress it. "To Gryffindor honour, right."

Once more, she twists her face when swallowing the first sip, and so does he. "I thought this was a guy drink. You don't look as if you liked it much though."

"Granger, no one – no guy either – drinks this for the _taste_. Firewhiskey has no other purpose than getting you seriously drunk."

"Excellent. Getting seriously drunk, that's just my thing for tonight."

He opens his mouth, but closes it again and takes another sip. "I was about to ask you 'Why's that?', but hey. It's really none of my business."

"No, it isn't."

"That's what I said, isn't it? I'm amazed though. Hadn't expected you of all people to hide a bottle of Firewhiskey in your trunk for special occasions."

She grins slyly. "Oh, I nicked it. From the bar downstairs."

"You! Nicked it! Let's have another toast to the Gryffindor code of honour, please!"

"It would really kill you to once in your life stop mocking me, right?"

"I'm _not_ mocking you! For heaven's sake, Granger! I know my track record is crappy in this respect, but I assure you, I don't – look, I'm truly trying."

"Trying what!"

"Trying to be – I don't know. Friendly? Non-hostile, at any rate. Prove to you that I – that all my apologies in that quarter were meant, _are_ meant, very seriously."

She waves with her hand and almost out of habit, drinks more. "I know that you're sorry for ever joining the Death Eaters –"

"I'm very sorry, too, for ever wanting to join them!"

"Granted, yeah. I do believe you all that. But I also know that you're a nasty piece of work."

"I beg your pardon?" he cries, playing to be scandalised, or actually being scandalised; Hermione is far too tipsy to tell anymore.

"You, Malfoy, are the sort of person that enjoys making other persons miserable."

"I am not!"

Triumphantly, she trumps, "I got two words for you: Susan Bones!"

"What about her?"

"You make her cry."

"She seemed fine when I last saw her."

"Are you blind? She couldn't get away from you quick enough! And talking of her – where is she? Got lost in Myrtle's bathroom for a chat? _Died_ in there and turned into a ghost yet? Face it, man, she ran away from you."

He looks pensive, snatches the bottle from Hermione and takes a deep, long gulp straight out of the bottle, not bothering for the goblet in his hand. "She might have, but... I really don't see why. _She_ dumped _me_, you see. Shouldn't I be the one sulking?"

"She's not _sulking_, you insensitive twit!"

"Oh, you know what I mean." He drinks some more, before remembering that it's her bottle to begin with and offering it to her. She absent-mindedly drinks, too, even ignoring the ghastly taste. He's right in one respect at any rate – the stuff is good for _exactly_ one thing. One can get drunk on a moment's notice.

"Boys," she mumbles and takes another swig.

"What about us?"

"You're all the same. You make us miserable, and then you're standing there, all wide-eyed feigned innocence, 'What did I do, what did I do?' – and the most ironic bit is that you're probably truly unaware of what you've done."

"What did Weasley do, then?"

"Who says I'm talking about him?"

Malfoy arches a brow and curls his lip. "Oh, forgive me. I took it for granted that you're not bitching about the Longbottoms and Potters of this world."

"I'm not _bitching_!"

"Whatever. But instead of moaning, you should think about paying back in coin, that's all I'm saying."

"You think that's why Susan is going out with Justin Finch-Flatley tonight? To spite you by going out with a muggleborn?"

He laughs and unwillingly shakes his head. "Granger, you have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. Firstly, Susan hasn't got a spiteful bone in her body. Secondly, I could mind less whom she's going out with, and Finch-Flatley is actually one of my less unnerving dorm mates this year, so I'd got to say she could have done a lot worse. Thirdly – I forgot thirdly, but there was one. Totally profound and all that... What was it..."

To alleviate his thought process, she hands him the bottle again. He drinks, sways dangerously, leans against the wall and suggests, "Would you mind terribly if we sat down for a while?"

Out of principle, she'd mind any suggestion of his, but that would seem strangely childish. Also, Ron has no idea where she is, and he may start being concerned, which would suit him just too well. So she agrees, and they make it to the next unlocked classroom, slouching down on two desks in the back. Faintly, Hermione registers that yesterday, she still found it impossible to do anything but sitting straight in a classroom, but right now, she finds it hard enough to _look_ straight.

"It's such a pity that Greg and Mil and Theo have all left already," he says and tries speaking distinctly.

"Yeah... What was that all about?"

"Poor Theo is absolutely crashed because he caught Mil and Greg snogging."

"What?"

"Yeah. One against your pretty theory that it's always the guy's fault and always the girl suffering."

Which sensible girl on the planet would cheat on her reasonable, friendly boyfriend with such a moron like Goyle is beyond Hermione. "Must be his – I mean Goyle's – fault, then."

"Oh, c'mon on, that's ridiculous. He's been in love with her since dinosaurs roamed the earth. What should he have done? Reject her? I think not. But if it is of any consolation to you – he, Greg I mean – is totally heartbroken as well."

"Poor guy," she says before she can think better. Commiserating Goyle is a bit strong!

"I know. There goes _my_ so-called date for the evening, incidentally. Greg and I said we'd go together to evade all other awkwardness, and get so drunk until either of us would dance the Ogre Polka in front of the whole school. Or throw up. Either."

"You're halfway there. Throwing up."

"Yeah, but only halfway. Pass me the bottle."

"What's the magic word?"

"Now?" he gloats as he's snatched the bottle from her with one sudden move. "Quidditch reflexes, Granger. You can't beat 'em. Anyway – who's your replacement player for the night? I suppose Potter's already taken. What about Longbottom?"

"He's going with Luna."

"And Thomas?"

"Going there with Lisa Turpin."

"Finnegan?"

"Fawcett."

"Tough luck. What about Macmillan? I know for a fact he hasn't got himself a date."

"Ernie Macmillan is the last boy on earth whom I'll go to a ball with, Malfoy!"

"The _last_ one? Blimey." He grins and she knows what he'll say next before he's uttered a single word. "So why don't we go together? Turn some hundred heads? Drive the Weasel King insane?"

She merely sneers at him for a reply. "Pass me the whiskey, Malfoy. You've drunken too much already."

He does as he's told, but proceeds, "And you haven't drunken enough to appreciate the sheer devious genius of the plan, Granger. Just imagine... You and I, marching down the entire length of the Great Hall together. We'd hit the Daily Prophet, I swear."

"Vanity working on a weak mind produces all kinds of mischief!"

He reaches out, she hands him the bottle, which is, shockingly, half-empty by now. She remarks on this and he laughs. "Tut tut. Half-_full_, Granger. Show some spirit."

"I've got spirit," she grumbles darkly. "Tons of it. I am a very spirited person."

"Only today, on your great day, you're lacking it a little."

"Am not. Give me my whiskey back!"

"Nah, rather not. I think you've had enough."

Says it and drinks leisurely. She tries browbeating him but he just grins, so she glides from the tabletop and wants to snatch the bottle, but he's quicker. No matter how hard she tries, he holds it out of her reach – behind his back, over his head, over _her_ head, but he's a good deal taller than her. She jumps up, bouncing against him and pushing him over. At least she can save the bottle from smashing.

Sitting on his behind on the floor, he rubs his elbow. "You have a problem with alcohol, you know that, wino?"

She swallows some whiskey, then reaches out to help him up. He takes her hand, but instead of getting up, he forcefully pulls on it, making her topple and fall down as well. "Mind the whis–" he cries before she hits his chest and knocks the air out of him. She can't help herself, she has to giggle. She's got a real giggling fit, trying to get up again, but couldn't for the life of her. She's laughing just too hard.

"You're heavier than you look," he coughs, trying to push her away, but apparently having second thoughts and grabbing the whiskey instead. She loses the little balance that she got, but manages to keep her hold of the bottle at least. They begin wrestling until they're both out of breath. She couldn't say, neither in this moment nor later in retrospection, what got into her, but as they are lying there on the ground, Hermoine on top, face to face and gasping for breath –

Ron would hate this. _Really_ hate this. So she lowers her head and brushes a swift kiss on Malfoy's lips, faintly wondering who's going to be more annoyed – Malfoy, or Ron. Two birds killed with the same stone, ha! She raises her head again, grinning triumphantly. "I win across the board!"

He looks flabbergasted for a moment – stares at her in utter disbelief – but mutters then, "The game ain't over till it's over, Granger, and this game is to be played by two!"

He lets go of the bottle that they're both clinging to in this moment, reaches out for her neck and pulls her close. Now it's Hermoine who's completely floored. She thought that he'd wince back, shout at her or something. In fact, she's expected anything rather than _this_. A little, bemused smile playing around his lips, he contemplates her mouth before seizing in, and she is too astonished not to let him. She doesn't even shrink back when she feels his lips press against her own, and roughly five seconds later, she doesn't think _anything_ much any longer. She doesn't think about what she's actually _doing_ there. She doesn't think about _who_ this is, and that he's the last person on _earth_ that she would contemplate soberly – well, save for Ernie Macmillan. And that idiot McLaggen. Never forget McLaggen on any idiot list.

She doesn't think how mad she'll be with herself as soon as being clear in her head again. She thinks nothing of all that, her mind is completely blank, safe for the very faint notion that this feels better than anything she's done all day. This feels _good_. Just really _good_. Malfoy seems to know what he's doing there. No, he _definitely_ knows what he is doing. He has one hand in the small of her neck, the other ruffles through her hair as he's gently gnawing on her bottom lip. His hand wanders down her spine, his lips wander over to her ear, he's nibbling on her earlobe, then going down the sensitive skin on the side of her throat. Good heavens.

She lets the whiskey be and uses that hand to nuzzle his hair. How silky that is. Maybe he uses all these smoothening charms she employed for this night? His skin is incredibly soft, too. Plus he smells good. And speaking of soft, his lips are _very_ soft, too, and do something totally amazing down there on the side of her throat, something that makes the entire rest of her body itch and tingle.

The next time she looks – panting and gasping – their legs are entwined and the greatest part of her artful hairdo is in shambles. Judging Malfoy's face and collar, she's wearing no more lipstick either. He looks equally disheveled though, not only because the vermillion stains on his shirt. His otherwise so pale cheeks are rosy, his hair ruffled, she has opened the first five buttons of his high-necked robes – while opening them, she was murmuring that he'd look like a vicar and that she could impossibly make out with a vicar. They have been laughing a lot, perhaps because this is ridiculous, perhaps because laughing defeats awkwardness, perhaps because they're both completely sloshed and simply in the mood for giggling.

"Granger, I had entirely misjudged you," he groans, stroking a strand of hair out of her temple. "The uniform tie – your habitual McGonagall imitation – not a _hint_ of _this_."

His hand fumbles for the whiskey, finds it and offers her a swig. "Open your mouth, Granger." She is lying on her back, her head bedded on his left arm, and she lets him drip whiskey into her mouth. She nearly spits out the last gulp though with his next remark. "Just how badly did Weasley behave this time?"

She coughs. "What…?"

"Oh, come on! I might be drunk, but I'm not stupid! You, by nature, are Little Miss Happy Thoughts, and then you turn up here all grumpy with two quarts of Firewhiskey and the next thing I know – oh, _well_. He must have done something really idiotic for you to –"

"I – don't – I really rather not –"

"Have a bit more whiskey, Granger." He holds the bottle to her lips, and she drinks, rather out of embarrassment than anything else. For the first time in the last half an hour, she feels awkward – mentioning Ron has returned some of her normal self, and this normal self is _appalled_! Not only has she got that terribly drunk, but she has been making out with _Draco_ _Malfoy_ of all persons? Only _more_ whiskey can help her _now_! She takes the bottle and empties it with six big gulps, passing out with the last one.

* * *

'Vanity working...' – Loosely quoted from Jane Austen's Emma

* * *

**_I would like to thank all the readers who actually managed to read until here, who were so patient to wait for my neglectful updates, and most of all, everyone so kind to leave a review for me. Thank you all soooo much. I'd have abandoned this story a long time ago if it weren't for you, which would be a pity because I'm having so much fun doing this. Thank you, thank you, thank you!_**


	155. First Aid

Whom to turn to in the hour of need...?

* * *

**_- 4.29. -_**

First Aid

* * *

_Must I hold a candle to my shames?_

_WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE – The Merchant of Venice_

* * *

"Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!"

He shook the lifeless girl, softly first, more vigorously then. Nope. She had passed out. Merlin! He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the picture would change when he looked again, but his hopes in this respect were let down. She was still there, still motionless, possibly down with alcohol poisoning. _Great_.

"Granger," he groaned. "Granger! Hey! Come on, open your eyes, just for a second!"

Nothing happened.

"Or what about this – if you can hear me, wrinkle your nose or something! – Blast it."

No discernible reaction. He grabbed for her wrist to feel her pulse – alive and kicking, at least. He felt disaster coming towards him, but couldn't think of anything he could do. Learn a spell or two to prevent Weasel King from killing him tomorrow, yes, _obviously_, but how should that help Granger now…?

He didn't want to start contemplating how he had got here – no use if they were both sinking to the ground, one with alcohol poisoning, the other with shame. For now, he had to _do_ something. Get her to the Infirmary, probably. But how was he supposed to do that? There were some four hundred people in the castle tonight! He shook her some more, but she wouldn't wake up, so he began with restoring both their appearances. He rearranged her robes, buttoned up his own – '_don't_ think about this!' – and used his wand to restore her hairdo to his best possibilities. He noticed a red mark on her throat, which on a second look turned out to be a hickey – Salazar, he was _doomed_ – so he used his wand again to conceal it at least. _If_ he came across anyone while getting her elsewhere, it mustn't be so blatantly obvious what had been going on here. What the hell _had_ been going on here…? 'No, no, _don't_ think about it!'

She wouldn't leave this classroom on her own two feet, at least not today, so much was sure. He could levitate her. On a second thought – seeing that he was so loaded that he hardly managed a proper concealing charm on her neck, a charm that he was more than accustomed to because Panse had had that strange habit of biting him, he should perhaps cancel the idea of using magic to transport her through a three-floored staircase. He'd have to carry her. Oh Salazar, what had he done to deserve this? Oh, all right, _that's_ what he had done, but still!

Luckily, this was another thing he had got used to in the course of his relationship with Pansy. Another nasty habit of hers was drinking more than she could take, and he had carried her out of the Common Room on various occasions. A stroke of luck, too, was that Granger was considerably shorter than Pansy, and consequently lighter, as he found out when trying to drag her to her feet. No way. She couldn't even do as much as _stand_ straight, and shaking his head, he lifted her up, bent her over his right shoulder (banning the frightening thought that she might wake up only to throw up over the back of his robes like this) and made his way downstairs. He tried not to pant too loudly – she weighed not much more than fifty kilos if he should make a guess, but he was no mule – hearing dancing music from the Great Hall, with ample of guests threatening to step into the hallway at any given moment.

He almost envied Granger for the coma that was offering her serene oblivion in this moment. What the hell had he done! What had he been _thinking_! _Granger!_ He wouldn't hear the end of this! _If_ Weasel Bee didn't try to kill him straightaway – for a sound thrashing he was in anyway. Not that he was seriously scared of so much – Draco knew his curses and counter-curses, and better than the Weasel, hopefully. But that hardly mattered now – he had little liking to get into a brawl in the first place – and certainly not because of something like _this_!

And what had gotten into Granger, anyway? Okay, so she had been pissed off by Weasel King. And she had decided to pay him back by making out with the one person that would mortify Weasley most. Girls would go a _long_ way for revenge, wouldn't they! Funny, he had given her credit to be much more proud. But just for the record – _she_ had started this. _She_ had kissed _him_ first. Okay, okay. So he needn't have kissed her back. But he wanted it noted that, if one wanted to portion the blame, _she_ was guiltier than _he_! In that moment, he hadn't seen a single reason why they should not have a bit of fun, but he had been drunk too, mind you, and this was his graduation party! She had looked good, she had smelled good, she had tasted good, she had felt good, she had practically thrown herself at him – god, he was just a guy after all!

Draco wasn't like his father in this regard. He didn't go out with girls only to shag them. He didn't make out with whoever came his way either. He had never before done such a thing like with Granger just now. And that it had been _Granger_ of all people truly shocked him. For years on end, he had genuinely detested her. Her being a Gryffindor – her smart aleck attitude – the lack of any discernible sense of humour – her being so chummy with Potter and Weasley – _that_ had been what had riled him first, and most. That prissy know-it-all and know-it-all-better demeanour, so humourless, so sour… And then had come his first record, and his father's incredulous look when gasping, 'She's done her first bit of magic ten months ago, and my own son lets her beat him in each and every subject?' – which hadn't been a hundred percent true, he had been better in Potions, but not much. Her being Muggle-born had simply been the cherry on top, and the easiest way to deride her. And that she was so goddamned insecure had made it all the easier yet.

And even if all this was over, and he couldn't say he really minded her still – now that he was truly grateful to her for a number of things even – she still reminded him of things he had said and done that he would rather not think of. Letting her kiss him had appeared like the drunken equivalent of accepting a friendly handshake in the moment when it had happened. It seemed like the crowning glory of idiocy in hindsight!

And that break-up with Weasel Bee… He was uncomfortable with kissing anybody on the rebound who had dumped her boyfriend an hour ago. It was no good for his own self-respect to think of himself as such a replacement activity, it was even worse to think of himself as the means to an end of vengeance. On the other hand – it was revenge on _Weasley_, and Draco still harboured enough of his own dislike for that guy not to feel too sore about this aspect. Nevertheless, he thought that if some guy had picked up Susan, twenty-four hours after _their_ split-up, he would have been outraged, and he wasn't sufficiently bigoted not to grant even Weasley the same privilege.

When he heard a group of chattering, laughing students enter the staircase, his last scrap of courage deserted him, and he hurried sideways into the next best classroom carefully putting the unconscious girl on a chair. She threatened to drop to the floor at once though, and he grabbed her shoulders to keep her upright.

What should he do? What _could_ he do? He couldn't abandon her like this. He couldn't carry her to the Infirmary without half of the school noticing either. He didn't dare using magic in case it'd make things worse still. And – last but not least – he must not talk himself into a panic attack either because that's what he was aiming for right now and it just wouldn't do. 'Keep calm, boy,' he told himself, still digging his fingers into Granger's shoulder to keep her from falling off that chair. Now what would a calm and composed person do in such a scrape? What would – say – Theo do? Pity he couldn't ask him. Or Mil. Pity, too, that Draco's mum had gone back home an hour ago. _She_ would know what to do, wouldn't she?

In his crazed state, weird thoughts rushed through his head, like that thing he had read in a book about the muggles for his exam in Muggle Studies. They had tiny devices to get in contact with other muggles with tiny devices; they could actually conduct entire conversations that way... It didn't happen often that Draco Malfoy wished he were a muggle, but this dire sure fitted the bill. If only he could ask his mum –

But he could! He strengthened his left hand grip on Granger and whipped out his wand with his right, until remembering that sending a Patronus to get his mother here would require much too much information. Oh, damn it! But then a brainwave hit him. A house-elf. He'd summon one and tell him everything, and the elf would return to the Manor and grab Narcissa and apparate straight back with her. So that was what he did.

Izzy's confusion didn't nearly match Narcissa Malfoy's mien of scandalised bewilderment when she showed up.

"What on earth..." she groaned when taking in the whole picture. She was in dress robes still but most of the jewellery was gone and her hair was no longer tied up strictly and elegantly, but hanging loosely over her shoulders. If Draco should have made a guess, he'd say his call hadn't come at the most convenient of times, but he had no nerve to ponder that question, gross as it was. He had gross problems on a whole different scale.

"Which spell knocked her out?" Narcissa asked with a hard-to-read expression.

"A spell going by the name of Ogden's," he croaked and shrugged helplessly, still stabilising Granger with his left arm.

"I just hope she hasn't sustained alcohol poisoning or something. Did you check already?"

"I wouldn't know _how_. I meant to take her to the Infirmary, but –"

She flashed an angry face at him. "You've made her so drunk, now take the responsibility as well, Draco!" she snapped, and he thought she was really annoyed for having been interrupted in the middle of Draco-really-didn't want-to-know-what.

"Look, Mum, I'm sorry, I didn't think – I didn't mean to disturb you –"

"Disturb! Me!" She laughed derisively. "This isn't about _me_, Draco! What on earth did you _do_!"

"_I_ didn't make her drunk!" he defended himself lamely and received a scowl in return.

"Bite your tongue, Draco," she said coldly, so that was what he did for the time being, feeling too dizzy to argue and not entirely sure what she was imputing on him in the first place. Was she truly that bigoted that she minded her son making out with a muggleborn? His dad, alright; Draco wouldn't have been surprised if _Lucius_ had made a big deal about it, and already braced himself for the upbraiding inevitably bound to follow from his father – but since when was Narcissa the sort of person to fuss about people's pedigree, she who was always going on and on about people's brains, or more often: the lack of it – and did girls come brainier than _this_ one?

Narcissa stepped closer, checking the girl's pulse with her hand and still glaring at her son. Next, she ordered Izzy to go back home to the Manor and fetch her some potions and the elf disappeared in earnest amazement. Draco thought this was the opportune moment to set things right.

"Mum, much as I appreciate your instant rushing to my rescue, could we please clarify why you're in such a huff?"

"_Huff!_ A huff, eh? Okay, a huff. Let's see – why could a mother be a little _upset_ finding her only son in a situation like _this_!"

"And what you so mysteriously call 'a situation' –" He crooked his fingers to emphasize the last words. "Would be...?"

She threw back her head in a gesture of more fury even than the one time she'd actually slapped him. "What about the lipstick on your collar? Last time I saw you, you weren't wearing any."

This was heaving embarrassment on awkwardness and he squeezed his eyes shut. "Yes, there was – hum – a little bit of... But it wasn't _my_ fault and –"

"Not _your fault_, I see! But you had no qualms of taking advantage of the fact that she's comatose?"

He gasped, mortified. "Mum! Oh, I don't believe this!"

"Oh, shut up, Draco, will you!"

In this second, Izzy reappeared, handing his mistress the requested phials.

"Mum, I _swear_ –"

Her look silenced him, and in silence he observed her following manoeuvres. She trickled a thick, green liquid into the girl's throat, touched her temples with her wand tip, her stomach next, before turning back to her sullen son who was still holding Granger's shoulders to keep her from keeling over.

"She'll be all right again in some minutes," she snarled. "Make sure though she's seeing Madam Pomfrey, and the second you've done _that_, I expect you straight at home, you get that, Mister?"

"Mum!"

"You heard me, Draco," she said icily and grabbed the mutely embarrassed house-elf's hand to disapparate with him on the spot again. Draco stared at the spot where his mother had been standing a second ago yet, speechless with incredulous mortification. Not only that he had to call for _his mother_ for help in a situation like _this_ – oh no! His mum actually believed he'd stoop to making a girl drunk in order to _take advantage_ of her, which was so scandalising a thought that he couldn't but snort with fury. What did she _think_ of him! His own _mother_! Ph!

At least, Granger slowly came back to her senses at last. He experimentally let go off her shoulder to see if she could hold herself, and only then she seemed to notice him. She gave a bad start and stared at him like a rabbit would stare at a snake.

"All right there, Granger?" he asked wryly.

"What –"

"You passed out. No more booze for _you_, Miss. Look, I'm going to take you to the Infirmary now, okay?"

"What –"

"You should be examined by Madam Pomfrey, just to make sure. I just thought it'd be better if you could walk in there on your own two feet." He tried to give her a smile, but wasn't sure if he succeeded. "Come, come, Granger. Once Madam Pomfrey's patched you up, you'll be capable to do your show dance."

"What?"

"If I'm not mistaken, the four best students are supposed to dance alongside Head Boy and Girl, to open the whole bloody thing."

"The dance!" she moaned, and he could see that she had forgotten all about it.

"Yeah, _that _dance."

"I can't – I can't do it!" She had tried to get up, swayed a little, and collapsed on the chair again. "I cannot even stand up straight!"

"We'll take care of that, Granger. Come. Up, up, to the Infirmary."

Well, the best student of the year did _not_ dance with Anthony Goldstein – the number three – because Madam Pomfrey resentfully wouldn't allow her to leave the bed. The numbers two and four weren't there either. So if nothing else about their graduation day would stick in the minds of the Hogwarts graduation class of 1999, Head Boy Ernie Macmillan's clumsy opening dance during which he incessantly stepped on his partner's feet and nearly strangled her during a daring dance variation, surely did.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to _quantumspork_ who must have broken the Guiness record for fastest review EVER. Thank you SO MUCH!**


	156. Independence

Draco has decided that it is time for a drastic change, and receives support from an unexpected quarter.

* * *

– _**4.30. – **_

Independence

* * *

_Nullus locus domestica sede iucundior.  
_

_CICERO – Ad familiares _

* * *

Two days after his graduation, during which he had slept off one of his life's worst hangovers and unsuccessfully tried to call on both Theo and Greg, and also bravely fought his way through a very bad argument with his mother regarding _her_ appraisal of his alleged ways with helpless girls, Draco seized his chance over breakfast to talk to his parents about the one topic which he had been considering for a long time now thoroughly unbeknownst to either of them.

"Mum, Dad," he began, feeling exceedingly uncomfortable. He could easily imagine how his mum was going to take the following. "I have made up my mind –"

Lucius smiled knowingly. "Ah, yes. The grand tour. I'm glad you'll go. I've always regretted not doing it myself after my graduation. My life should have taken _very_ different turns if I had gone away from England then."

"Is this some kind of midlife crisis, chéri?" Narcissa mocked gently.

Lucius might have given a facetious answer, but Draco interjected quickly, "This isn't about travelling, Dad. I will have to finish my social hours over the summer anyhow. No, I – I'll start college soon, and I – I want to take a flat of my own then..."

Narcissa gasped. "I beg your pardon?"

"I want to live in Dad's old place," he said in a firmer voice, belying his insecurity. He scarcely dared looking at his mother who had blanched.

"But why?"

"I'm a grown-up and I want a place for myself."

Noticing Narcissa's dismay, Lucius snapped, "You want a place to yourself, move to the Tudor wing! Not even the servants ever go there if they can avoid it!"

An assertion close enough to the truth. Occasional cleansing aside, that particular wing wasn't much of a favourite with anyone – even insect life shunned it. According to the era it had been designed in, it was a cold dark edifice with tiny windows if any, prone to hefty drafts. Draco wouldn't have desired living there even if it had not defeated his purpose in the first place.

"It's not the same. I'm nineteen, I'm of age, and I don't want to live together with my parents."

Narcissa took that comment as offensively as it sounded. If Draco had told the exact truth, she'd have taken it even worse, because truth was that he did want to get away from them for a start. He'd had time to think everything over and while he still cared as much for his parents as ever (or he wouldn't have resorted to distorting the facts like that), he also found he couldn't look them in the eyes, or endure their idle conversations over dinner.

His father was a murderer. He had murdered more than twenty people, not counting werewolves and goblins and trolls, in cold blood and without remorse. It had taken Draco a very long time to even wrap his mind around this horror, to fully _understand_ what it really meant, and the more he had grasped, the less he had been capable to deal with his father. And his mother? His mother had never harmed a fly, and that was, ironically, partly what was bothering her son. Narcissa would not eat meat, or use insecticide. She had not spared other people's lives out of humanity but because it didn't sit well with her principles. These principles, however, were of a shallow, dogmatic sort, and had never induced her to stand up to the Dark Lord, or made her resent his father or persuade him to abandon his wicked ways. She adored her husband and her son, she was very fond of Aunt Andy, Lennart and Teddy, and that was it. The rest of the world could drop dead for all Narcissa Malfoy cared.

He was their son. He had this propensity in himself, too, hadn't he? He definitely had a share of his mother's temper; for the greatest part of his life, he hadn't given a damn about anyone else, either. Even now, despite all his most earnest efforts, he couldn't even care for his girlfriend sufficiently – which was a kind of inferiority to his parents, even, who at least managed to deeply care for each other. Draco knew he had a solid share of their genes and he was insanely scared that they'd rub off even more, that he was contaminated enough already and that – that...

How was he supposed to live together with them like this? He didn't want to hurt them, no, and he would have if he stayed, because looking at his father, he simply couldn't dispel the accusations going through his head. He could hardly look at his mother and keep his lip from curling up in contemptuous anger. He dreaded Aunt Andy's next visit, wondering how he should sit still and not scream at her to get out of the cursed house which would not have had her for more than ten years because of the man she had married and who was dead now. How _could_ she forgive them! Didn't she see she was besmirching her loved ones' memory by sitting together with Narcissa and Lucius and have a cup of tea as if nothing had ever happened?

Naturally, once his mother had recovered from the shock, she tried talking him out of it, and at first, Lucius supported her, but Draco did not sway. Monosyllabically staring at his own clenched fingers, he repeated his resolutions over and over again. Lucius gave up quickly. He cast his son a sharp glance, then nodded in defeat.

"You can have it. The flat," he said, upsetting his wife beyond words.

"Are you out of your head, Lucius?" she cried.

"No, I believe I've hardly ever been more sober. He has made his decision, a sensible decision regarding all –"

"Sensible?"

"Let us talk about this later, Narcissa, when you've calmed down again and –"

"I will not calm down! This is the most absurd nonsense I've ever heard!" She turned around to her son with a fiery look, making her look almost dangerous. If she'd had a wand in her hand in this moment, Draco would have taken quite a couple of steps backwards! "Is this still about your little – _faux-pas_ – on Saturday night?"

"What? No!"

Lucius bit his lip to remain from smirking. Contrary to his son's belief, he hadn't thrown a tantrum that the last scion of the inescapably noble Malfoy bloodline had made out with a muggleborn girl. Instead, he had nearly suffocated from a laughing fit. His son might be scared to be like his father, but that father thought his son was astonishingly much like himself at that age. He only needed to stock up on the suave, remorseless ease.

"Because if it is," Narcissa went on with pink cheeks, "I can assure you that I got the message, alright? I will _not_ meddle with your personal affairs again, I promise, and I also told you at great length that I do _not_ impute on you in general –"

"It's _not_ about that, Mum!"

"So why are you so desperate to leave us, eh?"

"I am not –" He caught his father's gaze and fell silent, but defiantly raised his chin an inch.

"Because he cannot bear to live with a murderer," Lucius said quietly. Draco's stomach flipped. Narcissa's jaw dropped. Only Lucius remained unmoved, almost content with his own astuteness of mind.

It took his son a minute or two to understand that this would have been the opportune moment to contradict that claim, and that he could have tried being as discreet as he pleased, he had blown it when not protesting just now. Narcissa seemed to wait with bated breath and wide eyes, but the longer he was silent, the more unsettling the glint in her eyes became, until she jumped up and fled the room. Lucius watched her go, threw his son a last, undecipherable look, then followed her straight.

"No matter what else you want to do," he told his son over his shoulder, "don't leave just yet. Please."

Well, this had gone even worse than Draco had imagined in is most pessimistic forecasts. He had foreseen some heated argument with his father, and a certain amount of hurt from his mother's side, but actually being supported by Lucius, and Narcissa on the verge of tears – whoa, no, he hadn't reckoned with that. He _hated_ to be arguing with his mother, really, _hated_ it. He kind of despised himself for doing it, for causing her such anguish. Where would he be, after all, if it weren't for his mother! Still, there didn't seem to be a way evading that argument either. He had to get out of here, and it inevitably meant to mortify Narcissa.

Lucius returned an hour or so later, looking hassled and older. Disagreeing with Narcissa had that effect on him always, and Draco could tell his father – of all people! – had backed him up by the troubled expression of Lucius' otherwise so smooth features.

"How's Mum?" he asked timidly.

"What do you expect. She's out of herself," Lucius replied, trying to sound stern but missing strict for defeated. "Listen, Draco, I've been thinking. I didn't have a lot of time for doing so, but it crossed my mind that you might be induced staying –"

"No, Dad."

"Staying with your mother if _I_ left the house," Lucius went on regardless. "I'm sure it can be arranged with the authorities. I can just as well stay in the London flat – or any other house. I guess it'd please people even. I got the notion that it never sat well with the masses that instead of Azkaban, I'm residing in the Manor."

"That's rubbish, Dad. About you moving out, I mean. You've got to stay with Mum."

"Well, _you_ have got to stay with her in the first place."

"No – yes – _no_. It wouldn't change anything. She is desperate without you, and I need to get away. Look, is that so hard to understand? You did the same when you went to college –"

Lucius smirked and smacked his lips. "I did indeed. Because I couldn't get away from your grandfather quick enough. Or far enough."

"Dad, I don't..." Draco took a deep breath, shook his head as well as himself and proceeded, "I don't want to talk about this, can you understand that?"

"Oh, as a matter of fact, I can. I'm not all that keen on debating it either."

"Can I have the flat?"

"Do you really want it?"

"Yes. I could move into one of the dorms, too, but..."

Lucius snorted, laughing. "We both know that a college dorm isn't much of an alternative, don't we? So when will you go?"

"Soon as possible. I don't know how much time it'll take to prepare the place and pack my stuff and all that, but – but I'd start packing today if that's okay."

"It sure is." Lucius snapped his fingers impatiently, called for his personal butlering elf, Nobby, who appeared by his side in a split second, and received his instructions gracefully, if ever so disbelievingly. "Nobby, I want you to pick some helpers and go over to my old London apartment. See it's cleansed and prepared, stock up the booze and all the rest. Also, I want you to arrange that Master Draco's possessions are packed and taken over there as soon as possible. Whatever you do, do not disturb your mistress. Don't ask her anything, don't get in her way, in fact, try to remain as unnoticed by her as you possibly can."

"Yes, Sir," Nobby muttered and shot Draco an apprehensive look. He clearly feared that the young master had been kicked out of the house by his father, possibly because of his gross over-stepping of _the line_ when humiliating himself with that unsuitable girl. From a house-elf's perspective, a house-elf no less whose forefathers in ancient times had already served the noble family and imbibed the rules as well as the haughtiness – from _this_ perspective, young master Draco had committed a heinous, punishable crime. Nobby couldn't think of any reason for anyone at all leaving this heavenly place by their own volition.

Before he disapparated, Lucius added, "And while you're picking your crew, you can ask who's going to accompany Master Draco to London."

Nobby was a withered old creature, with swarthy, leathery skin and far more wrinkles than hairs on his pate, but Draco thought he saw him turn pale, so he cried quickly, "No, Dad. That's all right. I don't need a servant –"

Now Nobby looked positively offended and Lucius burst out laughing. "Don't be absurd, Draco. You'd starve in front of the open fridge. You aren't fit to boil water for a cup of tea. You've never touched a duster in your entire life –"

"That's not true. I did a lot of detentions dust wiping in school! And cleansing, before you ask! And cooking cannot be that different from potion-making either, and –"

Only the highest amount of self-constraint could stop Nobby from wildly objecting to any of these claims. Lucius shrugged his shoulders. "Have it your way. But please, don't hesitate out of pride to ask if you realise you cannot do it yourself."

So, the bottom line was that not twenty-four hours later, Draco was ready to move to his first own place. His excitement however was diminished considerably by his pangs of conscience, and his mother's silent sullenness. He and Lucius had agreed he'd have breakfast with his parents before leaving, but he could just as well have left before, going by his mum's scowls.

"Mum, please! Don't make such a big deal out of this!"

"Draco," Lucius said warningly.

"_Everyone_ I know moves out from their parents when leaving school!"

"Because they're living in puny little suburban houses on ten square metres," Narcissa snapped back.

"Oh, come off it! Theo isn't living in a suburban house –"

"He's going to Greece if I'm not mistaken," Lucius threw in. "That's different; he'd have difficulties commuting. These customs wizards aren't to be made fun of."

Draco had been on the verge of arguing that Greg and Zabini and Pansy and Millicent weren't exactly living in dumps either, but the remark about Theo puzzled him. "What makes you think he'd go to Greece?"

"His father does. Didn't you hear?"

"No, I didn't. I called on him the day before yesterday but nobody was home –"

"Yes, because Thelonius accompanied him to Thessaloniki for enrolling."

"What's he want to do in frigging Greece?"

Narcissa opened her mouth for a reprimand but remembered she tried ignoring her son for punishment. Lucius shook his head. "Studying, I suppose? I did not ask Thelonius any further. I thought you'd know."

"First thing I ever heard of it! He always said he'd read Philosophy and Linguistics at Artemis! Are you sure you didn't mistake Mr Nott –"

"Positive. He came here because I happen to know the Greek ambassador. There's not much to mistake in the statement 'I don't have much time, junior is going to Thessaloniki to enrol there', don't you think?"

What on earth was Theo doing in Greece? When had he made _that_ weird plan? But never mind now; Draco had his own moving out to manage! Under Narcissa's reproachful, dead-silent stares, he left the breakfast parlour and went up to his room to grab his trunk. Actually, he had to wrestle the trunk out of Iggy's grip.

He remembered the first time packing his trunks to leave home when he'd gone to Hogwarts then. Smiling, he recalled how he'd packed pictures of his parents, his dad's Quidditch trophies, why, even poor Emma – Emma... Remembering his beloved cat strengthened his resolution though, remembering her loving warmth, the bristling self-confidence, remembering how that wretched beast had torn her to pieces. He had to get out of the house where all of this had happened!

The flat was fabulous. Strictly seen, it didn't qualify as a 'bachelor pad' because it had a hundred and ninety square metres and three guest rooms. Draco, before doing _anything_ else, spent an hour walking to and fro, so overwhelmed by the thought that this was his first place of his own that he even forgot to think of his mother and feel guilty. The mix of furniture was eclectic, too. Loads of nice, tasteful antiques that Draco supposed to have been bought by Narcissa in her newly-wedded days, alongside funny seventies-style stuff of the 'stripped to all essentials but coming to you in chrome and frog-green' sort. There was nothing that Draco could call 'his' because there really hadn't been the time to get something, and face it, the flat was pretty complete anyway. All the same, Lucius had insisted on pushing a key into his son's hand this morning before breakfast, which would open a Gringotts vault. Draco found this wasn't exactly the way moving out and away from one's parents to gain independence was supposed to be. But then again, it had seemed like a doable compromise; he really hadn't been keen on fighting with his father, and he was grown-up enough to understand that living didn't come for free either, even if one didn't have to pay rent. He'd just try taking as little of his father's money as possible, right?

When he was done with marvelling at the interiors, he wanted to unpack his trunks, only to see that Iggy had already done so illicitly before vanishing. All the books, all the clothes, were neatly stored away, and _someone_ had framed Draco's Hogwarts Graduation charter and put it on the wall behind the huge, antique desk that had once belonged to Lucius. Draco opened one drawer after the other, seeing perfectly ordered, empty files, tons of parchment, quills, paper-clips, ink in five different colours, some mechanical devices that he couldn't make anything of but which jammed his fingers severely when he tried what they might be doing, and shutting one of the drawers after his inspection round, he saw a little slip of paper falling out from underneath the bottom.

It was a love-letter from his mother addressing his dad, written in German; Draco's German was a little rusty but he thought he could figure out the contents of the note, blushed duly and hastily stashed the offensive piece of paper back into the nearest drawer. Theoretically, he was touched by the ongoing devotion his parents displayed even after twenty-seven years of being married – in reality though, it was a subject of pink-cheeked awkwardness for their son. Also, it was strange. These two people, infamous for liking virtually nobody else in the whole wide world, excepting him, their only son, who'd just broken their hearts by moving out, these people seemed to have reserved their entire capacity for loving someone into loving each other. And now, they were on their own utterly.

This disconcerting reminder of family tragedies in the very near past made him jump up, determined to do something to counteract such gloomy thoughts, and what would a healthy nineteen-year-old do on the first day in his brand-new first own place? He'd go out to celebrate, of course!

The plan was sound enough, but the guest list proved to be a little more problematic. Theo was in _Greece_. Millicent, he had learnt, had left for her New Zealand trip early, and Greg, as his mum kindly informed his frigging _best friend_ when he tried to call on him, was in _Japan_ trying out for a place on the Okinawa Orcas.

Draco was sort of impressed. The Okinawa Orcas had won the All-Asian Championship this year, beating such hefty contesters like the Kamchatka Kelpies or the Mumbai Tusks. They were among the top five teams in the world at present, and that Greg had managed to even be invited seemed miraculous. He congratulated the mother, who didn't look all too happy by the perspective of her only child being big in Japan either, and left in rather dampened spirits.

How come he hadn't known of this? Why hadn't Greg told him personally? Why had Theo overthrown all prior plans and left the _country_ without informing one of his closest friends? Why hadn't Millicent even said her goodbyes before vanishing? What was _wrong_ with him that all his friends abandoned him like this?

The gloom, that had threatened to overwhelm him all day, came back with a vengeance and he had to give himself a fierce shake not to succumb to it. He willfully turned his thoughts elsewhere and asked himself what to do next. With his three best friends god-knows-where in some Eastern venues, Draco actually shortly (very shortly though) contemplated to visit Myrtle and ask her to celebrate his new flat with him, but soon saw that she was prone to get the wrong end of the stick. She always did. He actually liked her a lot, but he could scarcely show that for she always interpreted things the wrong way. So he decided to visit his second-best set of friends and went to the Montagues' stately mansion, only to realise he'd walked into some family gathering.

A quarter of an hour later, he was accompanied back to his apartment by both Goldsteins, both Montague siblings and their rather beautiful American cousin Bernie (Bernadette, actually, but she found that name odious) who'd been shanghaied by her parents to attend the event only to realise that her family had decided that life as she'd known it was destined to come to an end.

Draco couldn't but marvel when hearing the whole story. The narrators themselves seemed to be pretty incredulous still, too! As it was, the Montagues had _not_ reacted kindly to their daughter's public coming out of the closet, and as they'd been revising their two children's chosen way of life, Mr Montague had decided that he was just as unhappy with Damian's preferred career as a Quidditch pro slash party-animal. A quick conversation with Mrs Montague's sister living in New Mexico had turned out similarly unsatisfying results; their daughter had spent the year after her graduation with parties, young men unfit to be presented to the elders and making herself a name in that certain kind of gazettes that people like the Montagues didn't care at least to be mentioned in. The equation had been simple enough, from _their _point of view.

They'd see to Juliet being taken care of, and if nothing else helped, there was still her recent lover's brother Anthony, son of their old family friends, the Goldsteins, to be married off to – and as far as Damian was concerned, things were a whole lot easier yet. He and his cousin Bernadette were going to be married in the very near future, taking care of _both_ their reputations – and their families'. A simple plan.

What none of the elders had considered though was the recalcitrant nature of their offspring. None of the children had any ideas to be married off to anybody, and they made no bones about their discontent, not even when a hundred of their closest relations were present to toast to the supposed engagements. Instead, they had fled, leaving behind them a partly puzzled, partly incensed bunch, threatening them with being disinherited and not even meriting any sort of response because the kids had long gone already.

Draco couldn't but stare at them as they were retelling their story over the first round of gin tonics. "They'd ask you to marry your own cousins?"

"Don't act so scandalised. In _your_ family that practise is even more common than in ours," replied Juliet smoothly and downed her drink in one huge sip.

"No way! My great-uncle Orion married a second cousin, alright, but otherwise – yuck!"

"Lucky you," Damian grumbled before shooting a sympathetic glance at Cousin Bernie. "No offence, honey, but I'd rather not marry in the next ten years, and certainly I won't marry someone tripling the chances of my children being born with more fingers than necessary!"

"No offence taken, hon. Cheers to that, eh? No children with extra limbs!"

"Cheers!" they all cried and Draco opened the next bottle.

"I don't get what's their freaking problem!" Bernie continued with a cute line between her immaculate eyebrows. "I've been having _some_ fun lately, but seriously, who wouldn't have? I'm out of school, college is going rather well – what's the point in going to college if not having a good time?"

Draco could only nod, feeling rather taken by his new acquaintance's attitude. She was very pretty with her long blonde hair, her sun-kissed New Mexican tan and the sparkling green eyes. She was tall, trim, and would have made a marvellous bathing costume advert. She turned out to be pretty smart too, as easy-going as her European relations (the younger generation, anyway), and possessed the sort of humour that Draco regarded to be a major turn-on in a girl.

* * *

_Nullus locus… – There's no place like home._

* * *

_**This chapter goes out to Lady Arbalest, who's been very kind in her reviews and whom, I believe, I didn't thank sufficiently yet, and to quantumspork who's helped me with my grammar troubles :)**  
_


	157. The Doppelgänger

**Please note:** due to my constant re-writing of this stuff, I accidentally left out a chapter - it's called "Eight-fold" - it is new and might be advisable to read in order to explain later events - and I had to insert it as Chapter 141 in the story, meaning: all following chapters come one number later now. I am SO SORRY! More explanations in the header of #141... :(

* * *

Family ties aren't what they used to be.

* * *

– _**4.31. – **_

The Doppelgänger

* * *

_Extorquere est plus quam semel rogare._

_SENTENTIAE VARRONIS_

* * *

"What are you up to?"

"None of your business, kiddo, none of your business."

"Hey! For all I can see, _I'm_ the one doing most of the dirty work for you! I think I –"

He shrank back under that withering glance that followed this assessment. "And who's brewing your Polyjuice Potion for you? Who makes sure your little arse isn't put in prison?"

"I did the same for you for _ages_!"

"Yes, and now I'm repaying you by doing the same for _you_, and for all _I_ can see, I'm doing the job brilliantly, am I not?"

"I merely want to know what's going on here!"

"And I'm telling you that it's better if you don't know, is that really so hard for you to understand? But if you don't trust me – fine. Have it your way. But you should remember to buy the potions ingredients before your stock runs out. I wouldn't walk into Diagon Alley with your own face if I were you."

He understood that threat just too well and deflated visibly. Living on the flight was no walk in the park, even for a wizard. _Especially_ for a wizard, perhaps – because the people he was fleeing from were wizards, too, and had much more effective means of investigation than Muggles could ever think of. So far, however, he hadn't managed half-bad, he thought proudly, and the way things were looking at present, he nurtured some hopes that it was only a matter of time until he might be able to return to his old life, or if not that, a life more deserving than he was leading now, at any rate.

Of course, this perspective came with a price. Nothing ever came without, right? Tonight, for example, he had two missions to accomplish, one more perilous than the other, but he was quite confident that neither should present a serious difficulty for him if he did it the right way. For a start, he changed his appearance – not with Polyjuice Potion, it'd take too long to wear off again – so far that he wouldn't instantly be recognised, then he hid in the vicinity of Aldous Montague's house and monitored the couple going to bed at last. He then levitated himself carefully up to the first floor, balancing on the window sill and peeking through the bedroom window. One well-aimed, non-verbal spell later, Jeannie Montague was deeply asleep and wouldn't be woken up by an explosion next to her. The next spell hit her husband – Elias had decided to use the Imperius Curse, it was the most reliable in such a situation – and two minutes later, the aboulic wizard got up and sleepwalked to his own entrance door downstairs, letting in the intruder.

The rest was even easier. Elias took Aldous' wand away, locked the man up in the cellar and put another, mighty sleeping charm on him, the same that his wife was subjugated to. Elias plucked some of his hairs, then sauntered upstairs and crammed through his victim's wardrobe, choosing a stylish set of robes that would make him look his most impressing. He had been intimate with the Ministry's customs long enough to know what would work best.

He had to wait some longer, at least until half past five, so he sat down in the bedroom, contemplating the comatose witch on the bed. She was still every bit as pretty as she had been in school. Elias himself had been going out with her for a while in his Seventh Year – after he had realised that his own ever-lasting crush would _never_ give in to his wooing. Her roommate Jeannie herself had just been dumped by his own dorm-mate Lucius, after a very swift affair, that Lucius had doubtlessly conducted for the mere reason to make prissy Cissy jealous.

Jeannie had dumped him after seven months – shortly after his graduation from Hogwarts – because she had met old Aldous here, the oldest of the Montague brothers, loaded with gold and on his way to make a great career in the Ministry. Elias had been furious then. Not that he had been overly fond of his girlfriend, but being ditched by that silly cow had grated his pride nevertheless. As she was lying there now, the thought to have his vengeance on her briefly crossed his mind, but he decided to let it be. Jeannie had been a disappointment in bed then (frankly, one would have thought that Lucius had taught her better, but on the other hand, they had been going out for merely a week), and he wasn't overly keen on renewing that drab experience. She had possibly got cellulite in the twenty years in-between, too.

Time ticked away slowly, and he took his time to prepare the Polyjuice Potion with Aldous' hairs, put on the robes already, practise the finger moves with Aldous' unfamiliar hands, and take a good, long look around the house. The Montagues lived in style, there was no way denying it. It displayed an expensive, though not by all accounts tasteful variety of inherited antiques and modern design pieces that, surely, Jeannie must have chosen, because all male Montagues were mentally stuck in the Eighteenth Century. Elias sipped some of Aldous' oldest whiskey, looked through the Ministry documents on the man's desk, and honestly, was quite bored with what he found. He had imagined old Aldous' life a little more interesting than _that_. Nevertheless, it seemed far more pleasant than his own life at present.

For a moment, he thought about taking over his entire life – it'd be easy to keep Aldous locked up in the cellar, Imperiused, and go to work in the morning. Elias had worked in the trade long enough to grasp easily what Aldous was doing for a living. However, after some more pondering, he discarded this plan. Jeannie might notice that her husband was acting strange. Colleagues were patient and unsuspecting, but _wives_… It was too risky. And if he killed Jeannie just to make sure, it'd be even more risky. Investigations might follow, and Elias was scared to come across a whole Auror squad too closely. There were better possibilities; Ministry employees that had little to do with Aurors, and who were single and childless. Vivi had got herself one, so could he.

At twenty past five it was finally time; he drank the Polyjuice Potion and filled the little flask he had brought, put his own wand and the spare replacement up his sleeves and pocketed Aldous Montague's, then he used the Floo Network to get into the Ministry. The Watch Wizard there was sleepy – his night shift was almost over – and merely nodded at the early employee, who showed 'his' wand in passing and grunted, just like Aldous would, "Morning, Alf!"

"Good morning, Mr Montague. You're up really early, aren't you?"

"Early bird catches the worm, Alf," Elias gnarled contemptuously and cast him a smirk. "That's why I am the Head of the Department for International Cooperation, and you'll sit at this desk for the rest of your life."

Alf said something that Elias couldn't quite hear, perhaps a muffled retort, perhaps a question, and to be on the safe side, Elias added haughtily, "Not that it was any of your business, Alf, but in Hong Kong, it's already half past one in the afternoon. Our friends there do appreciate it if we accustom to their business hours."

He used the lift to the Fifth Floor and walked nonchalantly into Aldous' office, where he cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself without further delay and continued his way – through the staircase this time – down to the Department of Mysteries. It was fairly complicated to get inside and further to the right room – the room where wandlore was researched, and where particularly significant wands were kept for further scientific use. It didn't take long to find the wand in question – walnut, dragon heartstring core, twelve ¾ inches, and practising the move once more, Elias aptly swapped the wand with the replacement he had hidden in his sleeve. No alarm set off, but nevertheless he felt the sweat in the scruff of his neck. Phew… The most dangerous part was over, and it hadn't been half as bad as he had feared.

His gaze glided over another, significant wand – two wands, to be quite precise. The Dark Lord's wand… Broken, yes, and quite possibly unfixable – but alluring all the same. He read the little sign underneath – yew, phoenix feather core, thirteen and a half inches, and a crazy idea took shape in his head… He scratched his beard – well, Aldous' beard, anyway – and began rummaging through a chest of drawers where other, less interesting wands were stored. He used a tape measure to determine the length of those that seemed suitable, finding two that appeared good. He broke them and with the same deft, swift movement replaced the Dark Lord's with its doppelgänger, then repeated the trick with the other interesting, broken wand on the left side.

He couldn't help it but give a loud laugh, quickly clasping his mouth again. He was invisible, but nobody must hear him either. He had got three of the mightiest wands of their time in his hands there… Oh, good heavens! If the owners of these wands had known this… Well, two out of three of them were dead. They would surely have minded that he got their wands, but what could they do, after all? He sniggered again, softer this time, then recomposed himself and slipped out as unnoticed as he'd come in, and hurried back to Aldous' office, where he undid the Disillusionment Charm, drank some more Polyjuice Potion, and checking his watch, hastened back to the Entrance Hall again. It'd be better if he could leave again before Alf's colleague arrived for shift changeover.

He was lucky – the morning Watch Wizard hadn't arrived just yet, and after some more condescending remarks for Alf, he was on his way back to Montague Mansion, where he freed the still sleeping, Imperiused patron of the house from his own cellar and made him return to his bedroom, before vanquishing all traces of his own presence, undoing the last spells on his victims and leaving the place quietly, under the cover of another Disillusionment Charm.

"There you go," he muttered when handing over the requested wand, and trying hard to refrain from grinning. She'd got her secrets, he'd got his – no way he'd tell her that this wasn't the only wand he had nicked tonight. He didn't know what to do with those yet, but it couldn't hurt having them.

"How did it go?"

He made a dismissive gesture. "No probs, sis."

"I hate it when you talk like that."

"I hate it when you call me 'kiddo'."

She arched her brows but dismissed the remark without further commenting. "I've got another assignment for you."

He groaned. "Oh, come on! This is getting a bit out of hand! Every other week you have me –"

"It's not as if you had any other – _better_ – thing to do, is it?"

"Actually, I got the idea to get a job in the Ministry –"

"I beg your pardon?" She stared at him, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I see! But mark my words – you'll do no such thing, kiddo! It's much too dangerous!"

For a moment, he was touched, thinking she was actually worried for his safety, but her next remark put him right on the sentimentality scale. "You walk into the lion's den, you might get caught. And then you might start blabbing, telling them all about your helpers –"

"It's not illegal to help a family member, first grade, to escape from justice –"

"Don't give me the Law Wizard talk, Lee. You know as well as I do that I didn't simply help you escape, and I know enough of you to know, too, that you'd trade me for a few years less in Azkaban."

"Vi –"

Her otherwise so smooth, pretty face adapted a fierce, almost devilish expression. "You'll do as I say, kiddo!"

He was startled, sensing a strange presence of danger, and took an instinctive step back. "Listen, Vivi –"

"I can help you getting something that resembles a life, Lee, _but you'll do as I tell you_, make no mistake! For if I do get the impression that you're – _disobedient_ – I've got the means to keep you from foiling my plans. You get me…?"

"What _are_ these plans?"

"Still none of your business." She recomposed her face and grinned, though that didn't make her look much less unfriendly. "Now let us talk about your next mission."

* * *

_Extorquere est ... __Asking more than once means blackmail._


	158. An Unexpected Disaster

This chapter begins with a bit of a disaster indeed, but continues to be rather hopeful and ends on a pretty lucky note.

* * *

_**– 4.32. –**_

An Unexpected Disaster

* * *

_But still the corn,_

_At dawn of morn,_

_Our fatal steps that bore,_

_At eve lies waste,_

_A trampled paste_

_Of blackening mud and gore._

_Wheel the wild dance_

_While lightnings glance,_

_And thunders rattle loud,_

_And call the brave_

_To bloody grave,_

_To sleep without a shroud._

_SIR WALTER SCOTT_

* * *

The Daily Prophet headline that announced the end of an era – for some generations of his students anyhow – read rather laconically "TEACHER KILLED IN FATAL ACCIDENT". The teacher in question was the honourable Horace Walther Egidius Slughorn, who aged 98, met a very gruesome end in the shape of a more than ordinarily exotic beast trampling him to death, as the feature writer held forth about with thinly veiled pleasure. Said beast was an illegally-bred crossbreed between an erumpent and a megalligator, misspelled by the writer as megalimpent (note the missing 'l'), but known among his anxious acquaintances as 'Herman'.

"I knew it," moans Ron and covers his eyes with his hands.

"Hagrid would _never_ have –" Harry stops in mid-sentence, looking helpless. All of them know full well that Hagrid _would_, oh boy, he would! Not intentionally, of course – no gentler soul than Hagrid, but… Of course he'd breed some new species, and it's not the first time either that he both underestimated the danger, _and_ neglected his duties to make sure these beasts cannot harm anyone.

"That's it," Hermione murmurs tonelessly. "This will land him in Azkaban once and for all!"

"Oh, no! You think?"

"He's responsible for someone's _death_, Ron!"

"But they didn't put him away when they believed Aragog had killed Moaning Myrtle either..."

"Because he was a minor then, and probably Dumbledore spoke up for him, too. This is different!"

"It'll kill him to go to Azkaban," says Harry darkly, and the sheer idea makes Hermione tear up. It's not that they weren't sorry for Slughorn's death – although he _was_ very old and 98 doesn't appear like a bad time for passing on, as George put it when he heard the news. But the reasons for this death, and even more its effects – that is what puts them truly into stunned despair. Poor Hagrid! Poor Slughorn, of course, yes, but – poor, poor Hagrid!

"He'd never," Harry says once more, shaking his head as if that could negate what has happened.

Hermione feels like wanting to strangle Hagrid for being so careless – so irresponsible – so – _argh!_ Idiot! On the other hand though, she doesn't _want_ to believe that Hagrid is to blame. It must not be true.

"Mate, he would have," Ron mutters and wipes his nose with his sleeve. "One word: Aragog!"

"Oh, that's different!"

"And the Blast-Ended Skrewts? Sending us into the Forest to meet his spidery friends? Norbert? Grawp?"

"_Shut up_, Ron!"

"But he's got a point there…" Hermione murmurs thoughtfully. "_Aragog!_"

Ron nods in a 'see? Even Hermione agrees!' way, and Harry groans, "But Aragog only became dangerous in years and years in the Forbidden Forest, he wasn't even that big when –"

Hermione nods frantically. "Exactly – that's what I mean _exactly_! Hagrid was foiled, then!"

"You mean he's been foiled again?" he asks hopefully.

Hermione shrugs, but Ron cries, "Oh, come on! We all know and love Hagrid, all right – but he's said it himself! He's _bred_ the darned thing, he's hatched it and fed it, thinking it was all fuzzy and sweet-tempered – and then he forgot to seal the blithering kennel!"

"Perhaps he didn't really forget?"

"And imagines things?"

"And feels so guilty that he says he did even though he doesn't know for sure," Hermione says breathlessly, hoping against hope. Fact was that Hagrid, being questioned, had almost instantly admitted that he might have been negligent in locking up the kennel that fateful day.

"Hermione, let's get this clear – who right in their minds would voluntarily go _near_ that monster? And why? To have a little look?"

"Maybe Slughorn himself tried to take a look – because he was anxious – and the bloody beast plunged at him?"

"Slughorn? Seriously, the guy was so lazy, he wasn't the _type_ to get his behind off the couch only to take a little stroll and take a peek into some kennel in the middle of the Forbidden Forest."

"So how did he get there, then?"

"I suppose he tried getting something for his potions stock. He always did that," Harry says, remembering how their old teacher once milked the just deceased Aragog for Acromatula venom.

"What's he supposed to have gotten out of a Megallimpent, though?"

"Perhaps he didn't know what it was before opening the door. Perhaps he'd just noticed the kennel and decided to have a look later, you know, during the holidays when he was less likely noticed..."

"In the middle of the night!"

"You don't know that. For all we know, he might have gone there at any time between four o'clock in the afternoon and midnight!"

Shortly after midnight, on his last round, Hagrid himself discovered the empty kennel and the bloody heap of bones before it, and alerted the Ministry at once. Hermione can only hope they're going to count that in his favour. On a rather disconcerting side-note – _Herman_ has fled the scene and hasn't been seen since, although if one thinks of all the ghastly, life-threatening animals roaming the Forbidden Forest, it might not matter so much.

Hermione cannot help it but weep, pressing her face against Ron's chest, who's gently patting her back. "I know," he mutters softly. She clings to him almost desperately, sobbing, gasping for breath, and a bit dizzy in the head. This is due to her terrible dreads regarding poor Hagrid's fate, yes, but even more to the fact that this is _Ron_. She hasn't talked to him since that – _awful_ – day, since their break-up, and oh god, how badly she has missed him. She's almost forgotten how angry she was with him, and the bit she couldn't forget was knocked out cold by her own guilty conscience. Ginny and Harry said that Ron _swears_ he didn't do anything – except ogling every pretty witch on the party. How much worse is what _she_ did! It's a whole different _league_ of wickedness! Of course, she's not told a soul, and she's not going to, either. She's fairly sure that Malfoy won't blab – he'd rather drop dead than admit he's been making out with a mudblood, right? Right. At least that's what she hopes, because Ron would never speak to her again if he knew –

Ron… He's started to stroke her back, still making soothing noises, and her sobbing has turned into quiet weeping again. It feels so good; despite the terrible, terrible accident and all the fears and trepidations for Hagrid's sake, Hermione feels truly good in his arms, like this. She's been idiotic to break up with him; really, what has she been thinking! She was a bit angry with him – well, she often enough is, but that's no reason to _break up_! Her parents argue now and then, too, not to mention Mr and Mrs Weasley (Mrs Weasley is chronically critical of her husband's many whims and follies) – that's no proper ground to question the whole relationship!

Once she's calmed herself, she notices that Harry and Ginny have tactfully disappeared, and they begin a timid conversation. It turns out that Ron went to two try-outs already, but messed both of them up – he felt 'just too heartbroken', he said, and she feels even guiltier.

"It's fate," he professes and suddenly beams again. "Because I've got another try-out tomorrow, for the Chudley Cannons!"

She knows that they're his favourites and probably the team he'd want to play for most. "That's – that's _great_, Ron! I'm so happy for you!"

"Wish me luck. I haven't got the job yet…"

She does wish him luck – she's crossing all her fingers for him, thinking she's never been nearly as anxious about a tryout in her entire life so far. She fears that Ron's chances are going to be diminished by the all-too-recent catastrophe, whereas the contrary is true. In the very minute when he heard about Professor Slughorn's demise and Hagrid's arrest, and realised he was going to have the most important tryout the next day, he decided that he'd dedicate this one to Hagrid. Consequently, he plays like he's never played before. He even catches a Quaffle that not even great Felino, arguably the best Keeper in the world, would have caught. He's not even asked to wait for them getting back to him. Instead, he is presented with a two-season contract, prolongable at all times. His father and Percy will later blanch that when hearing that he signed on the spot, without even consulting a law wizard, or them at least, but the youngest Weasley has no such concerns. A yearly salary of eight thousand Galleons seems like a fortune to him, and that each of the substitute players earns only seven hundred Galleons less than him doesn't make him think twice either.

He's got a place in the starting team of the Chudley Canons. In his wildest dreams, he didn't dare hoping to ever get here. His joy is so complete and comprehensive, he even forgets about poor Hagrid. In fact, his felicity is _so_ great, he trusts his good luck to take him a little further yet.

* * *

Sorry to **bother** you once more, but for those not knowing it: due to my constant re-writing of this stuff, I accidentally left out a chapter - it's called "**Eight-fold**" - it is new and might be advisable to read in order to explain later events - and I had to insert it as Chapter 141 in the story.


	159. Some Breakfasts And A Funeral

Draco has been a little side-tracked of late, and his distraught state of mind isn't bettered by all the people he keeps on running into.

* * *

_**– 4.33. –**_

Some Breakfasts And A Funeral

* * *

_Das giebt dem Golde die Farbe der Sonne, dass man ins Feuer es wirft! Das, das giebt erst dem Menschen seine ganze Jugend, dass er die Fesseln zerreißt._

_FRIEDRICH HÖLDERLIN – Hyperion _

* * *

Living on one's own wasn't _quite_ as simple as Draco had expected. His capabilities in the realms of dust-wiping could be as admirable as he pleased, his skills as a potioneer nearly unrivalled among his peers, but a week into his newly-gained independence he had also realised that these talents had nothing to do with it all.

"What are you calling this?" Bernie put down her cup of tea with a disgusted expression.

"Oolong –"

"Ah, I see. But, you see, Oolong is supposed to be kind of tea, you know, the stuff made from _tea_ _leaves_. You needn't have caught and cooked an _actual_ black dragon –"

He burst out laughing and poured both their cups into the sink. "How is it possible to make a mistake in brewing _tea_?"

"You tell me, my darling little homemaker," she said and bruised a kiss on his cheek. "Come, come, I'll take you out for breakfast. Or what you Brits believe breakfast to be, anyhow."

They got dressed – Draco had to take off the first two t-shirts he had chosen because these had mysteriously shrunken and adopted an ominous shade of bluish grey, while Bernie put on the most alluring apparel, allowing her long, tanned legs to show as much as her lovely cleavage, half-prompting Draco to suggest staying in and going back to bed, but that was no option with Bernie, who made a point of not leaving out any meal. Her main aim, however, was in mocking these meals, whether they be home-cooked by her boyfriend, or prepared in the Leaky Cauldron. Despite having an English mother, she couldn't accustom to the English way of preparing food.

That was what she did this morning, too, although Tom, the bartender, had warily remembered her last visit and tried the 'continental' variation this time. She even found fault with the orange juice.

"That's not fresh," she judged and grinned. Draco knew enough of her by now to know that back home in New Mexico, she was used to having her orange juice prepared from freshly picked fruits, despising the bottled stuff. He grinned back at her.

"You better get used to this, princess. England is infamously lacking orange trees."

"Ah, I find that charming. Old Europe is just so – _old_."

He was on the verge of giving a facetious reply, but in this moment, the door was opened and in stepped the whole Bones family including Susan's younger siblings. Draco almost choked on the piece of crispbread with cream cheese that Bernie had just fed him with, a fact of which she did not remain oblivious, following his sheepish look curiously. Susan in turn looked like wanting to turn on her heels at once, but couldn't because her parents behind her were blocking her exit strategy.

"Enter the ex," Bernie muttered under her breath, then put on her brightest smile and waved. Draco could have strangled her in this second, all the more when registering Susan's shocked expression. This was beyond awkwardness, and got worse still when the Boneses felt obliged to come over.

"Draco! How nice to see you," mumbled Mrs Bones unenthusiastically.

"Good morning, Mrs Bones. Mr Bones. Hey there, Susan." He only gestured at the small children he merely knew from hearsay, but remembered his good manners after all – Bernie stepping on his toes underneath the table might have got something to do with it. "Allow me to introduce you to my – friend Bernie – I mean Bernadette Jacoby. Bernadette, these are Mr and Mrs Bones, their daughter Susan whom I went to school with, and her brother Ed and her sister Kathy – I mean Karen – sorry..."

Everybody exclaimed how pleased they were to meet each other, with only Bernie sounding as if she actually meant it. In these painful minutes, Draco actually regretted his new girlfriend being as pretty as she was, and what was more, being all that blonde and leggy and every other thing that Susan had always imputed on him admiring in his mother. Some embarrassed phrases later, containing no less than seven mentions of the untypically fine weather, Susan finally managed to make her family move over to a table of their own, taking her leave by asking if they'd see each other at the funeral.

"What funeral?" Draco asked in genuine astonishment. His present preoccupation with Bernie had kept him out of touch with the real world.

Susan didn't hide her surprise. "Professor Slughorn's, of course."

"What?"

"Didn't you hear? It was all over the papers yesterday –"

"He's dead?"

"He'd better be," injected Bernie, "or it'd be very unkind to bury him."

Draco shot her a despaired side-glance. "What did he die of? He seemed so – so –" He didn't know what to add; as a matter of fact, Professor Slughorn had been both old and so overweight that one had to worry for his heart all the time, even more when exposed to such physical strains like walking, or lifting his wand.

"He was killed," Susan said and bit her lip. "It – it seems some of Hagrid's creatures – erm – well... It stomped him to death, actually."

"_What?_"

"How very Roman of him," remarked Bernie, but even her good humour failed to make out a bright side in all this. She had no idea who that Professor Slughorn was, but it was obvious that Draco and his former girlfriend there – who wasn't anything as Bernie had imagined her to be – appeared rather upset by his demise.

Susan stared at her for a second, before looking back at Draco, shrugging helplessly. "Yeah, well... Must have been an accident... Anyway, Hagrid was arrested."

"That fool," Draco muttered and shook his head. "Oh my god, the _fool_..."

"I'm sure it was a silly accident!" Susan said defensively, and he couldn't but nod his consent. Of course it was. Nevertheless, it was exactly the sort of accident that could only happen with Hagrid's involvement!

"When's the funeral, then?"

"Tomorrow."

He furrowed his brow. "I thought you'd be gone by then?"

"Postponed the departure in order to attend," Susan replied curtly. "Anyway... I got to go... Last big outing with the kids and all that..."

"Yes... Yes, of course. Er – see you tomorrow, then..."

"You should have asked her about the time while you were at it," said Bernie once Susan was out of earshot.

"Sorry?"

"The time. The beginning of the funeral. Jesus." She rolled her eyes. "I didn't know you were still fancying her so much."

"What?"

"You. Fancying that Susan person. Still."

"I don't fancy her still," he defended himself in hushed tones. "I'm just embarrassed to meet her like this!"

"With me, you mean? Me, the unassuming little person you so charmingly deign to call 'a friend'?" She sniggered and patted his arm. "Oh, get off it, Draco. I'm not so much in love with you either."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. I'm just trying to tell you that you needn't worry about me. Which, on a second thought, you weren't about to do in the first place, right?"

She seemed to find all this terribly amusing, because she nearly succumbed to a quiet laughing fit.

"I fail to see what's so funny," he gnarled, anxiously looking over to the Bones' table to check whether they were privy to Bernie's little outbreak of merriment.

She shook her head, tears of laughter in her eyes, then got up and pulled him up with her. "Come on, let's get you out of here before you're pulling a muscle wincing so much with embarrassment," she gasped and put some coins on the table.

He shoved back the coins and tried paying himself, but she didn't let him. "Save your last pennies, hon."

"I could say the same to you."

"Ah, bah. I withdrew thirty thousand dollars before daddy dearest barred the account."

"And now you want to spend it all on food you don't like in the first place?"

She shook her head as if he were extremely thick-headed and marched him out of the pub. "You don't get it," she explained on the way. "_I_ behaved like a very naughty girl, at least that's what my parents think, and was consequently disowned, in turn allowing me, without losing face, to do whatever I like and spend as much of their money as I possibly can. You on the other hand tried behaving like a man by telling your parents you want nothing to do with them –"

"I said no such thing!"

She ignored him and continued, "Which means you can't seriously accept their money either, which consequently means that you ought to start scraping. And getting a job, in all probability."

"You're totally nuts, you know that?" he asked affectionately, and since they were out on the street already – out of Susan's field of vision, that was – he bent over to kiss her very playfully.

"Glad you finally start regaining focus," she whispered when their lips parted, grabbed his arm and apparated back to his flat. It was already four o'clock in the afternoon when Draco, exhausted and breathless, finally had enough blood back in his brains in order to contemplate the morning's events.

"You were serious, weren't you, with the thing you said about my dad's money."

"Not quite as serious as you're looking now, but basically – yeah. I'm the last person on earth to propagate the virtues of self-earned money, you know _that_, still I find you should try to get by on your own. Otherwise, you could just as well have stayed at home."

"How am I supposed to earn money, though? It's not like there's anything I'm good at –"

She sniggered. "I beg to differ!"

"Something _useful_ that would induce anyone to pay me good money for."

"Ph! Since when has _that_ got anything to do with it!"

"What about the other thing you said..."

She waited for him to continue but he couldn't think of any nice way to phrase it, and she gave a heartfelt groan. "About me not being so much in love with you either?"

"Uh – yeah."

"Does it bother you?"

He thought about it for a minute, then shook his head lightly. "No. As a matter of fact, it doesn't. Seems rather convenient, just that..."

"Just that you don't believe me."

"No! I just..."

"You're not very good in cloaking your vanity as humble modesty, you know that, Draco? _You_ think you're just irresistible, likely enough because your exes still cry their eyes out for you, and because you know you're quite a handsome fellow, and the sort of guy that my mother regards as a good catch. Tell you what? I don't give a damn. I like you. You're fun – at least most of the time if we're not bumping into any of your former girlfriends. That's enough for me."

She smiled at him like a satiated cat, her long fingers stroking up and down his chest, but getting slower and slower, until she was asleep. Her head was resting on his shoulder, her long legs were entangled with his own, her silky blonde hair was tickling his chest, and he caught himself thinking how very lucky a fellow he was, which in turn, ironically, dampened the good feeling quite a bit.

How shallow, how mindless was it of him to actually prefer a relationship like this over the one he had had with Susan? Why did he feel so very much relieved by Bernie's assurance that she wasn't in love with him? Shouldn't it be the other way round? Shouldn't he feel downcast? He revised his feelings when actually meeting Susan today, he once more winced with the embarrassment, shrank away in shame – but truth be told, he hadn't thought of Susan a single time since first meeting Bernie. In the past months, he had almost talked himself into believing that he had loved Susan after all, as much as a guy like he was capable of loving, anyway. So how come he had forgotten her so completely in merely a week? He had _talked_ about her with Bernie – he had talked about all his friends, everybody signifying in his life, past or present, he had talked of Greg, Vince, Theo, Mil and Pansy, Susan and Aida, he had even talked about Moaning Myrtle and Neville Longbottom – but he had not thought of Susan in any other way than he had thought of all the rest of them, not in the way a heartbroken lover should be thinking of his lost love.

He angrily shook his head at himself. Where the hell had he gotten all these harebrained notions from? Heartbroken? Lost love? Oh, yes, right. From his parents. Who were a very dubious set of role models to begin with. He once again looked at Bernie, smiling even in her sleep, enjoying herself, enjoying life and everything that came with it, without much thinking about it, or worrying, or making a big thing out of it. Perhaps Millicent had been right when she had kept on mocking him and Theo, always theorising about pretty much everything.

He made the resolution to start seeing things her way, a thought that instantly put a smile on his face, too, accompanied by a genuinely serene feeling that lasted until the next day. He had bought a Daily Prophet early that morning in order to find out when that cursed burial was to take place – and where – and entering the ancient cemetery in Deeping St Nicholas, Professor Slughorn's place of birth, that sunny afternoon at two o'clock, he had to remind himself to wipe off that very inappropriate grin.

Looking around, he saw that half of the English wizarding community had decided to pay their last respects. The place was teeming with people, few of which had turned up early enough to gather a seat, so he found himself a stance in one of the many back rows. Bernie didn't accompany him; she hadn't known the deceased and in her own valid logic, she found that her coming here would have lessened her attendance of funerals of people she had actually known, and cared for.

"If I went to _every_ freaking funeral, I might as well stop going at all," she had said. "Also, my presence might distract some of the real mourners."

She had meant Susan and Pansy – whom they had come across some evenings ago on a concert, and who had reacted much less kindly than Susan, staring at Bernie with that sort of hatred she normally reserved for large spiders and her little brother Powell the Pighead. Pansy, alongside her parents and said Pighead had managed to get a seat in the middle. He recognised the back of her head by the stylish, very accurate haircut. Susan he spotted as well, sitting a little further back, together with her parents, but without her younger siblings. Every Slytherin he knew was here, so were most members of other houses. He saw Longbottom accompanying his sturdy grandmother, who was watching the scene with a stony expression; he saw, almost at the same time, Theo and his dad standing on the left side, and Greg and his mum sitting somewhere in the middle. He felt elated for a minute, before realising how difficult it'd be to catch up with _both_ of them after the service. Millicent he saw not, but her parents and three of four brothers were there.

Nearby were his own parents – so Lucius had actually been permitted leaving the house for the occasion, eh? He wasn't surprised though to see no less than six Ministry wizards sitting before his father, behind him and on both sides as well. He also spotted the Weasley clan in its entirety, and inevitably, Potter and Granger among them, making him shrink back physically and slightly bumping into his neighbour Mr Bobbin. Who'd figure that a funeral could turn out to be such a delicate affair, after all?

"Sorry," he murmured, but Mr Bobbin just patted his back.

"It's a very tough day for all of us, son," he said mildly. "Old Slughorn – where would I be if it weren't for him?"

Draco arched a brow before making the connection. Mr Bobbin was an apothecary; Professor Slughorn's teaching must have had a considerable impact on him and his life. Thinking of it... Before realising that _this_ was not a good occasion for socialising, he found himself asking the man for a job. Predictably, Mr Bobbin looked rather stumped by the demand, but misunderstanding Draco's intentions completely, he instead recommended the young man for 'following the Professor's path' and offered him to come over the next day for a proper interview. Draco felt the sweat in his back and tried keeping an appropriately solemn mien, although he'd have felt rather like running away with shame for his blunder – or laughing out loud with elation. If there was one job in the world he was faintly qualified for, it must working in an apothecary!

Finally, the service in itself began. The Professors McGonagall and Grubbly-Plank held a speech each, before it was time to lower the coffin and walk past. Most attendants conjured flowers to put on the coffin; others were more thoughtful. When it was Draco's turn (him being among the unimaginative kind, throwing in a green tulip), he saw a dozen boxes of candied pineapples, some candy canes striped in green and silver, a Quidditch pennant displaying the house colours, too, a children's potions set and, oddly, a bottle of butterbeer. Walking away from the gravesite, he realised only too late that he was actually heading straight towards his parents with no more chance of avoiding them, and put on a brave face.

"Mother," he greeted politely if ever so coolly, "Father."

"Draco," Lucius said in return, whereas Narcissa merely beckoned at him.

"How do you do?" he asked in an awkward attempt of small talking.

"How do you do?" Lucius returned equally caught in the crunch. "How do you like the flat?"

Narcissa winced back with that question, making Lucius' cheeks redden, and Draco count his blessings in regard to Bernie not having come with him today. He was grateful for every chance of minimising the potential embarrassment hazards today. And Narcissa would have _hated_ the girl, so much her son was sure of.

"It's excellent, yes, thank you. And you?"

"Fine, fine. I'm glad I could come." Lucius looked over to the Ministry wizards observing them with suspicious miens, their wand hands in their pockets ready to strike. What they thought might happen remained a mystery to Draco, but he couldn't blame them either.

"Oh, yes. Very good – nice – you know."

There was a minute of silence _not_ prompted by the particular occasion, and Lucius, always far more lissom than his son, ended it by remarking lightly, "You should come for supper on Sunday."

"Oh, yes! Thank you! I... I'll come gladly." Which was a lie, and he hated being caught lying, which both of his parents just did. Narcissa actually gave the impression of being on the verge of saying something – and not something charming, possibly – but remembered quickly enough that this wasn't the time for snappiness (in public! Tsk!) and that she wasn't talking to her child in the first place.

"I think I saw Theo," Draco continued the path of disingenuousness. "I think I better... You will excuse me."

"Of course, yes."

Draco hastened off, drenched in cold sweat by now, and rather desperate to catch up with either of his friends, he didn't care which one.

* * *

_Das giebt dem Golde... That is what endows gold with the colour of the sun – that it is thrown into the fire! That, only that endows man with his complete youth – that he breaks his fetters. _


	160. Reconciliation

As a rule, funerals aren't the merriest of occasions, but there can be certain exceptions

* * *

_**– 4.34. –**_

Reconciliation

* * *

_An engagement should come on a young girl as a surprise, pleasant or unpleasant as the case may be._

_OSCAR WILDE – The Importance of Being Earnest_

* * *

Professor Slughorn's funeral takes place three days after his violent end. It seems a matter of honour for all and sundry to attend the event, and their old teacher, so conscious of social bonding and so anxious to be remembered by his students (well, not all of them, alright), would surely have appreciated that very satisfactory outcome of his final party on this fair earth.

One can see in Professor McGonagall's face that she can hardly believe she's forced to read yet another eulogy, and the speech in itself is touchingly different from what Hermione had expected. Apparently, McGonagall was truly fond of her colleague. The same goes for the Headmistress Professor Grubbly-Plank, who in spite of her otherwise so gruff demeanour, sheds some tears and she's by no means the only one.

Even Hermione, who wasn't much fond of her old Potions teacher, must blink away the tears, though for very different reasons. Upon first hearing the news, she was rather devastated for poor Hagrid's sake, but by now, the guilt has caught up with her. They could have prevented this. They ought to have prevented this. It was their blind loyalty to Hagrid that partly brought this disaster about, she is painfully clearly aware of this. Harry feels the same way, and even Ron, usually not the most responsible of them, has sighed his agreement. Telling Professor McGonagall about Herman wouldn't have been the equivalent of snitching. Oh, well, it would have been, but it would have kept Hagrid out of prison. More – it would have saved a life.

Looking around in dismay, Hermione sees every single Slytherin she knows, and the older ones among them, much like the younger ones during Professor Snape's burial, look very upset. Really, _everyone_ is here, even Lucius Malfoy – shouldn't he be prohibited from leaving his house or something? Only then, it hits her, possibly because Malfoy senior in this second raises his eyes and looks more or less straight at her. Oh Lord! She quickly averts her gaze, but not before catching a very strange, almost amused kind of look from old Lucius.

She can feel herself flushing and lowers her head a little deeper still. He can't know. Of course not. He just looks at her like this because he feels oh-so-superior to her, the little mudblood. Oh, if _he_ knew! Ha! It's the first time – and the last, and altogether only – that she feels almost satisfied with her own doing that whiskey-sodden afternoon, and if only because it'd give Lucius Malfoy a heart attack to hear what his darling son was doing there!

Ron mistakes her crouched posture and supportively puts his arm around her shoulder, making soothing noises and at last even taking and pressing her hands. This makes her feel _so_ guilty, her next sigh is very honest indeed, making Ron fasten his grip on her still.

Personally, she never really liked Slughorn – she didn't mind him, but she didn't like him either – and finds it astonishing to see how much other people clearly cared for him. Her pangs of guilt get the better of her once more, and even if genuine grief for the Potions Master still won't come, the shame and remorse make her stifle a sob or two.

"Are you alright?" Ron asks her under his breath.

"Yes – no – yes, I am. A little shaken, that's all..."

After paying their respects to the coffin, he leads her to a bench nearby where she takes her time to heartily blow her nose a couple of times, though that is rather due to a light summer cold. She is rather startled to see that there is still a long row of mourners to make their condolences. She sees the entire McLaggen family, the Browns, with Lavender carefully avoiding to look over to her and Ron, Justin Finch-Flatley together with Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones, then there's the Patils, Aberforth Dumbledore and Professor Flitwick who both look as if they're still in denial of what has happened. She gives a start when spotting Malfoy in the queue and instantly looks into the very opposite direction only to find that instead, she's looking at his mother, who's standing there in line together with her husband.

"C'mon, let's go," she ushers the others, but they're still waiting for Percy and George, who haven't disposed of their flowers yet.

"Look who's there." Ron nudges her and points straight into the direction where Malfoy is, and Hermione practically forces herself to look over. The row has moved on though, and it's not Malfoy she's looking at, but Rita Skeeter, Quick-Quill at the ready and all.

"Well, I suppose she's got herself another 'biography' to write."

Everybody laughs at Harry's joke until realising they're at a funeral and surely not supposed to laugh.

"I _hate_ that woman," Hermione gnarls with real feeling, eyeing the reporter in disdain. "And I'm sure she'll make the most of this, and write all kind of vile things about Hagrid!"

"Gosh, I hadn't even thought of _that_ yet!"

Maybe they'd talk about this aspect a little longer while waiting for George and Percy, but they're distracted by a weird little scene right in front of them. Even Hermione watches in something like perverse curiosity. Only ten yards away, they're privy to the entire Malfoy family walking into each other – but they're acting as if they had hardly ever met before. Draco makes a kind of stiff bow towards his parents while his mother hardly acknowledges he's even there. A funeral might not be the adequate occasion to exchange hearty words, but one needn't pretend to have never before seen one's own mother, right?

"What's wrong with _them_?"

"I've no idea."

"Mrs Malfoy is angry because Draco moved to London," says Luna, who came out of nowhere; at any rate, Hermione didn't notice her coming.

"Why, did he come down for breakfast one morning and realised what kind of people his parents are?" Ginny remarks, and once again, they all cannot but snigger.

From the corner of her eyes, Hermione watches Malfoy leaving the cemetery, and privately exhales. However, when next glancing over to his formidable mother, she finds Mrs Malfoy looking straight back at her. She's not imagining things – their eyes meet, and while Hermione immediately looks away, she registers the other woman's expression nonetheless. There's curiosity in that look, a little puzzlement, and a certain kind of knowing that makes the girl flush.

'Calm yourself,' she tells herself angrily, 'she _can't_ know.' No, Malfoy would never have told his parents of all people about his downfall. Or would he? Perhaps there was some argument when he told them he'd leave home, and to spite them, he'd hurled into their faces how he had sullied the family name...? Oh, now she's getting paranoid!

Nevertheless, she moves a little closer towards Ron, and the next time she dares gazing over they're all gone, including the Aurors guarding Mr Malfoy. Once more, Hermione exhales, but doesn't move away from Ron again. His closeness is oddly thrilling; she huddles closer into his embrace of her shoulders, relishing the familiar scent of his aftershave, the familiar warmth of his body, and the sense of belonging she feels with him.

George and Percy finally arrive, too, and they decide unanimously to make the best of the fair weather and have a drink in memoriam of old Slughorn in the beer garden of the Three Broomsticks. Rarely was a funeral wake merrier than this one. They're swapping their favourite stories of the Potions Master, fond, or hilarious as may be the case, memories, often-repeated jokes, and Ginny gives a jolly good imitation of his comical faces when making one of his pompous speeches. Their high spirits are only dampened when Harry mentions Hagrid.

"You think we can visit him?"

"I'm not sure I want to," Percy replies darkly. "The _idiot_ – I mean – honestly!"

"We believe he's innocent," Ron says, pressing Hermione's hand under the table.

"Oh, do you!"

"Who's 'we', anyhow?" Bill asks.

"Ron, Hermione and me," Harry answers hotly, and receiving a mortified look from his girlfriend, he adds, "And Ginny, too."

"Kids, I know you love Hagrid, but this isn't a matter of sheer loyalty. He _confessed_, you know? Oh, for heaven's sake, we just went to old Horace's _funeral_ because of his irresponsibility!" Bill's face has flushed during that little speech; he takes a long sip from his beer and proceeds more quietly, "I'm sorry it had to come like this, but..."

"I still don't understand what he zought he was doing." Fleur shakes her head. "Why would aneeone keep such a monster?"

"He likes monsters," Harry, Ron and George say in unison and burst out laughing.

"Jinx! Jinx! Jinx" Ron and George shout at each other, linking their little fingers and shaking them wildly. George is the first to withdraw, shooting his younger brother a significant smile.

"You make a wish, Ronnikins. Next time it's my turn," he says and nudges Percy and Bill. "Come on, guys. It's time for us."

Hermione is astonished to see that everybody else is on their feet almost instantaneously. She's almost disappointed that they're breaking up so early, but takes a good deal of solace in the fact that Ron offers to take her home. He's never visited her family before.

They apparate not directly to the Granger's house – that'd be too obvious anyway, but also, they've decided to take a little walk. Her neighbourhood isn't the prettiest of walks, but she hardly notices and neither does he. In mute agreement, they've linked arms, and either they're still too wrapped up in their grief (or the pretence of grief, more likely) – or they're both feeling a bit nervous in each other's company. After all, they're no longer a couple, are they?

Passing a small patch of green with a couple of benches, Ron suggests to sit down there for a while. Hermione's heart pounds faster, almost certain that he is going to kiss her now. He does. Very passionately so, and only breaks free to gasp for air.

"I missed you so much," he pants, squeezing her hands with his left and searching his pockets with his right hand.

"I've missed you, too..."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Badly. Very badly. Gosh, Ron, I'm so sorry!"

"Shhh," he makes and places another little kiss on her lips. "Nothing to be sorry about. I was my usual moronic self, but I swear, that's not going to happen again!"

"Don't make promises you can't keep," she jokes feebly and gives him a wry smile, which he returns amicably.

"I'm going to make you _one_ big promise, Hermione, one that'll include all the other more little ones..."

She'd be mystified by that reply, but he's already pushed a small box into her hands. It's the kind of small box that comes with exactly one kind of gift; one needn't be best in the year to figure out what's inside. She gasps.

"Marry me," he whispers.


	161. Symbiosis

Who's scratching whose back here, anyway?

* * *

**_– 4.35. –_**

Symbiosis

* * *

"_Life is done, but what is death?"_

_Then in answer to the king_

_Fell a sunbeam on his ring,_

_Showing by a heavenly ray:_

"_Even this shall pass away."_

_THEODORE TILTON_

* * *

In life, he had some very pronounced opinions about women. Starting with his own mother – that weak, submissive person without a backbone, or any self-esteem. Then, there had been these dreadful females working in the orphanage he had grown up in – bent on abusing their power over the children in their care and yet more keen on booze. Not to mention the legions of girls he had been forced to go to school with, and who had made fools of themselves only to please him. The harder they had tried, the more he had detested them, those stupid, _stupid_ geese! Getting older, he had strained to steer clear of their entire sex, they were just useless – and that he partly owed his defeat to two other witches – oh, he mustn't think of it, it riled him just too much. That they were going to pay for their impertinence was his only consolation.

So – what could one say about females? They were either weak, or silly, or driven by lower instincts (be it maternity, or lack of self-control) or vain, or all of it at once. Like the one he used these days. Not unintelligent by nature, her better qualities were overpowered by love once more, and excessive vanity, and in this one case, he wouldn't begrudge her. Her weaknesses were his blessing. Her love had made her call him, her vanity was what enabled him to use her as a vehicle to carry out his plans.

"I said it before – succeed with my orders, and in turn I will help you. Quid pro quo," he had told her more than once.

"Very well. I took care of half of your little list so far, I believe it's your turn now. Since you're speaking of 'quid pro quo'!" she had replied with a challenging glance.

To be quite frank – he naturally hadn't got any inclination to fulfil his part of the bargain anyway, so he had tried to play for time, and spat, "Pah! You know what I want!"

"All in due time. The last attempt turned too many heads for my liking."

"I want their bloody heads!"

"You mean that literally?"

He had given a high-pitched laugh. "Oh, I should love to see their heads on a silver plate! But as long as you just kill these shoddy traitors, I don't care where their _heads_ are…" Watching her scribbling down some notes, he had cried out, "Not _him_, stupid! Oh well, I don't mind if you do him in along the way, but first I want _her_, who had the guts to lie to me! _Me!_ The greatest Legillimens in the world!"

"In fairness – she succeeded, great Legillimens or not."

He had seen her scorn and cast her his most intimidating look. "You wouldn't have dared to talk to me like this in life."

She hadn't been impressed though. Perhaps it was due to the fact that he had been, at this point, not more than an apparition. "No, I surely wouldn't have. But _now_ you're _dead_, and dependent on _my_ help to have your revenge."

"_You_ depend on _me_!"

"I believe it is called _symbiosis_, hm? At least, I'm alive – gives me a bit of an advantage, don't you think?"

The translucent spirit had bitten down a malevolent chuckle. "Symbiosis indeed," he had whispered inaudibly. She had seen to have done what he had ordered her, and brought upon her own fate. To each their own.


	162. Inside The Ministry

Many Hogwarts graduates choose to do an internship over the summer, still Hermione didn't expect to run into half a dozen of her former school mates

* * *

_**– 4.36. –**_

Inside The Ministry

* * *

_The different ranks and hierarchies of the court are endless, and even someone who knows his way around them cannot always tell what's going to happen. But even for the junior officials, the proceedings in the courtrooms are usually kept secret, so they are hardly able to see how the cases they work with proceed, court affairs appear in their range of vision often without their knowing where they come from and they move on further without their learning where they go. So civil servants like this are not able to learn the things you can learn from studying the successive stages that individual trials go through, the final verdict or the reasons for it. They're only allowed to deal with that part of the trial which the law allocates them, and they usually know less about the results of their work after it's left them than the defence does, even though the defence will usually stay in contact with the accused until the trial is nearly at its end, so that the court officials can learn many useful things from the defence._

_FRANZ KAFKA – The Trial_

* * *

She gives her reflection a last, critical look. Well… It'll have to do, anyway. At any rate, she looks responsible. 'Responsible' is good. She smoothes the front of her most 'responsible'-looking robes, notices how very flashy her engagement ring is, and feeling only slightly guilty, turns it around so that the large red gem is seen no longer. She turns her head this way and that, to make sure her hairdo passes as tidy, then puts on her most forced smile and practices her lines one last time.

"How do you do?" Stretching out her hand. "So pleased to meet you, Mr – my name is Hermione Granger, I'm an intern for the summer. I'm going to start reading Administrative Law in Artemis College in September."

Oh Lord. She shuts her eyes, takes a deep breath and counts to ten. When she opens them again, she feels dizzy from not breathing, and grabs the towel rail to stabilise herself. She hears her mum calling for her, and reluctantly, she finally leaves the bathroom at last, with slightly trembling and decidedly sweaty hands.

"Nervous, darling? You needn't be, I'm sure."

Hermione smiles faintly. "I'm fine, Mum."

Nicky Granger appraises her child and that child can tell that her mum isn't too enthusiastic. Nicky rejects wearing uniforms, she's very critical of a lot of things, among them conservatism, and even though she hasn't much of a clue about wizarding robes, she recognises a conservative outfit when she sees it.

"Is it really necessary you're wearing a tie, darling?"

"I think it looks good."

"I think it looks tight and uncomfortable," Nicky says and tilts her head.

"I'm going to work, Mum!"

"That's what I'm saying! You're dressed as if you were going to have the five o'clock tea with the Queen."

"Mum!"

"Scratch that. You look as if you were going to serve the Queen her five o'clock tea."

"_Mum!_"

"Sorry, darling, sorry. You look swell. A little nervous, perhaps, but that's only to be expected, I suppose. Now hurry up. It's ten past eight."

"I can Apparate there, Mum. I won't be too late."

"You should be a little _earlier_ than expected. Makes a good impression."

Don't wear a tie, but be half an hour early, that's Hermione's mum, who, despite all her bourgeois demeanour had a very strict mother herself and can't always shake off that posh upbringing in an all-girls boarding school. She's right though. Being early won't hurt. Plus it gets Hermione out of the house before her mum can drive her completely nuts.

In the wild, flourishing garden (Ben and Nicky believe in letting _anything_ grow as it likes), Hermione instantly Disapparates. She re-emerges in front of the Ministry, visitor's entrance, and is so over-excited that she's got trouble to open the phone box door. At last, she's managed and finds herself in the Entrance Hall, gets her bearings from the wizard at the information desk and goes down to the Fourth Floor, the Department for Magical Law Enforcement.

"Excuse me," she shrieks, wondering what's wrong with her voice and clearing her throat. "Excuse me," she repeats in a more normal voice, addressing the next best witch she encounters. "My name is Herm-"

"Hermione Granger!" the witch cries, looking as delighted as she sounds. "Oh, what a pleasure to make your acquaintance! Please, allow me to take you to Mr Oakby's office!"

Hermione is stumped. Her well-rehearsed line seems useless, but she mutters it nonetheless, too quietly though for the gaily chattering witch to hear. Mr Oakby's office is at the end of the long corridor and empty when Hermione and her guide enter. The witch bustles off again, insisting to fetch Hermione a cup of tea 'for the beginning', and then she's on her own. Shall she sit down? Would that be impertinent? Insecurely, she gazes around, but scarcely taking in what she sees. A number of photos and clippings from the Daily Prophet. A large WANTED poster, featuring the well-known pictures of notorious Death Eaters still on the flight – Alecto Carrows, Fenrir Greyback, Elias Yaxley, Rabastan Lestrange and others. In a small glass case, there's a golden medal that Hermione instantly recognises – it's an award for those resisting Voldemort's regime. Mr Oakby, too, was a member of the Order of the Phoenix; they all got one. Hermione got the same one at home.

The office in itself is far from inviting; not that Hermione could be bothered to pay attention to this, but if she did, she'd notice that half of her uneasiness stems from the atmosphere of this room. The walls are painted in some unpleasant shade of khaki, the carpet is sickly greenish and the single window is so narrow it hardly leaves in the light of day, additionally obscured by grotesque tulle curtains that are in desperate need of a washing. The air is stale and thick, and a single glance at the overflowing ashtray on the huge desk which takes up half of the room, is sufficient to explain why. Next to it, there's a little rack with five different pipes on display.

The witch returns with a cup of tea that is much too sweet for Hermione's taste, but she politely sips it and says thanks. The next time when that door is opened, she expects to finally see Mr Oakby, because it's nearly half past eight by now. Instead, and not to her exact delight, she sees the witch return with Ernie Macmillan who smiles his habitual complacent smile and greets Hermione like the old acquaintance that she actually is, even if this particular acquaintance isn't one she entertains with much enthusiasm. Like that witch, whose name is still unknown to Hermione, Ernie keeps on chatting away like a waterfall – he'll start his training in St Mungo's on August 1st, but thought he'd have to do something useful until then, that's why he applied for the internship, and what a pleasant surprise now... – not stopping once to give Hermione a chance to answer, which is good, because she isn't in the mood for chit-chatting anyway.

The door opens once more, and instantly, Hermione takes a deep breath, but once more, it is _not_ Mr Oakby. It's three more interns, it seems. There's Slytherin's Ariel Saunders, Hufflepuff's Zacharias Smith and some girl that she doesn't recognise and who is rather good-looking, tall, athletic, blonde, bronze-tanned, but if her companions are anything to go by, she's bound to be a bore. Well, Hermione's here to work, not to enjoy herself, so what does she care about the others!

"Are we all supposed to take the same position, or what?"

"I don't think we're here for the same position, Macmillan," Smith answers coolly. "For all I know, Mr Oakby is simply in charge of all interns."

One can see Ernie exhaling. The room is overcrowded now; the others are standing shoulder by shoulder, the witch fetches them all more tea, and still – not a trace of Mr Oakby. An indifferent conversation ensues, figuring out that Smith and Saunders are going to spend a month in the Department for International Cooperation, while Hermione and Ernie will be stationed in all major divisions for a few days each, to get a bit of an overview.

She stifles a groan. Of all present people, she's inflicted with _Ernie_? What did she do to deserve _that_? Why couldn't she be stuck with Saunders or that mysterious blonde? Even that arrogant arse Smith looks like pleasurable company, compared with Ernie! Ron will be so displeased, when he hears that she's sharing a station with _Ernie_, as unfounded as his suspects in that quarter are.

A quarter to nine – and yet no sign of Mr Oakby. Smith, Saunders and that girl quietly talk about some concert they've been to, while Ernie keeps on bugging Hermione and very loudly so. Five to nine. No Mr Oakby. And Ernie has managed to exhaust _every_ topic that could remotely interest her, and continues with some story about his cousin Josh who takes great delight in his new cauldron. Or _something_. Hermione cannot bring herself to listen.

At five past nine (by now, Ernie is debating the quality of the full English breakfast compared to the continental one he had during his holidays in Italy), Mr Oakby finally strolls into his office, quite at his leisure, and squeezes his way through his new charges to slump into his chair. "So," he sighs in resignation and picks one of his many pipes. "You're a lot of eager beavers, are you not, kiddos… I needn't ask who Mr Smith is – tell your father hello for me, will you? And go to room 14; that's straight across the corridor. Mrs Willoughby is already waiting for you."

Smith leaves, Mr Oakby stuffs his pipe, ignites it and continues, "Miss Jacoby – your Uncle Aldous thinks very highly of you, eh? You go to the second floor and ask for Miss Jones. No – no wait…" He searches his desk and fishes out a small piece of paper. "No, you've got to ask for Claudius McLaggen. You, too, Mr Saunders. And hurry up, you two, you're half an hour late already – nothing old Claudius hates so much as unpunctuality."

Aldous, Aldous… That would be Aldous Montague then, the Head of the Department of International Cooperation? So the pretty blonde is just another Montague offspring, even though Hermione's never seen her before, as far as she can remember. Oh well, they're all blonde and attractive, they're easily mixed up, aren't they?

Taking some deep drags from his pipe that do their bit to worsen the air, he finally turns to address Hermione and Ernie. "So you two must be Miss Granger and Mr Macmillan, yes? Yes, of course. _You_ I recognise from the press photos, Miss Granger. – Is your father all right, Mr Macmillan? He was very insistent, the last time we talked… So, have either of you any special wishes? Miss Granger?"

She's not prepared for that question and falters for a second, but before she can open her mouth for a reply, Ernie has already butted in and announces _his_ wishes. He's interested in pretty much _everything_, starting with the Auror division, the law enforcement bureau, the commission for this and the board for that, and a completely unnerved Mr Oakby ushers them both out of his office, gnarling that they should better talk to some Miss Jones, and just come back to him for lunch.

"Ernie," Hermione whispers once they're out in the corridor. "Do me _one_ favour, will you, just _one_, and _shut up_ every once in a while!"

"Only because _you_ said nothing!"

"I would have – I was waiting for you to catch your breath for a second!"

Miss Jones turns out to be a comparatively young witch with a healthy tan and a friendly demeanour, that heartily shakes hand with them. "Delighted to make your acquaintance at last, Miss Granger! My name is Trudie Jones – not related to either Gwenog or Hestia, sadly. If you have any questions, or trouble, just come to me, please. I'm head clerk for the Law Enforcement section. Now let me see… I suggest we split up. Miss Granger, you can seize the rest of the morning to familiarise yourself with the office, if you like. Mr Macmillan, please follow me."

Hermione is deeply grateful to have shaken Ernie off, and genuinely interested in the machinations of the busy office. Miss Jones returns after some time and explains everything to her – where what is done, who's responsible for what, the interrelations between the different sections and so on.

"This is Mr Perkins, who's in charge of the Restriction of Underaged Wizardry. Mr Perkins – Miss Granger, one of our new interns. You don't mind that she stays with you for this morning, do you? Excellent, excellent. Good bye, Miss Granger. I see you after lunch."

Mr Perkins is a kind, elderly gentleman with little hair, rosy cheeks, twinkling light-green eyes and a _very_ distraught air. He shows Hermione the volumes containing the names of every underaged witch and wizard in the whole of Great Britain, containing addresses, short descriptions, and maps. "These dots," he says and points to a golden dot on a map of Aberdeen, "stand for known wizards and witches in the area. We need to ascertain that it's been the child in question, not another wizard, who cast a spell. It's quite complex, in fact, and prone for blunders –"

"Oh, yes. The same happened to a friend of mine. A house-elf did some magic, and my friend was told off for it."

Mr Perkins looks dismayed. "Yes, these things happen, sadly… Didn't your friend complain?"

"Complain?"

"These things can be sorted out, naturally. You only need to veto the warning." He indicates at a booth nearby, where a witch in yellow robes is sitting, half buried under towering piles of paper. "That's Mrs Simmons, she takes care of the complaints. When a veto is uttered, she checks it and sends a team to check the child's wand for a start. If that yields no clear result, they check on the magic atmosphere next. Elfish magic, for example, is very distinct from human, and simple to detect. Such a case takes not twenty minutes to clarify."

Hermione is bewildered to hear this, wondering why nothing of this ever happened in Dobby's pudding case then. Harry never knew that he had a chance to complain, did he? And nobody complained on his behalf. The Dursleys surely didn't, and would never have. And who else should have? But then she thinks that McGonagall, or perhaps even Dumbledore himself, knowing that Harry was friendless in the place where he lived, might have done something for him then. Not even Mr Weasley –

Poor, over-worked Mrs Simmons is joined by a kind of assistant, carrying such a huge pile of files that Hermione can't see his face until he's put his charge down, and a jolt of such utter shock and embarrassment hits her that she physically shrinks back. Mrs Simmons' help is none other than Draco Malfoy, who spots Hermione in this moment, too, smiles, nods, and continues with his work.

She jerks her head away and stares at some piece of paper on the desk before her. _What the hell_ is _he_ doing here? Oh no! No, no, no! After that – _thing_ – happening on their graduation day, how is she supposed to ever look him in the face again? To ever be in the same room with him again? Oh, dear God, this must not be happening!

"Look at this map," Mr Perkins interrupts her frantic musings, stabbing his thick forefinger onto a page which goes under the heading '_CARSTONE - Tiffany_ _& Jeremy_'. "This one is for a Hogwarts student – recognisable by the blue dot, of course. The other one shows a seven-year-old child. As you see, the dot is still white. Magic performed by so young a child is yet un-punishable. In the moment when the child turns eleven – old enough to obtain a wand, that is – the dot turns silver-grey. It remains so in case the parents do not send their child to Hogwarts, otherwise they automatically adapt the house colours once the child is sorted. These dots disappear as soon as the child in question turns eighteen. Then the dots turn golden, but do merely indicate the person's residence, not their actual location. It's not permissible to keep track of adult wizards, naturally. There _were_ repeated attempts to enforce a continued observation, but not even the Dark Regime prevailed in this. Technically, it was and is possible, of course – it's just completely _impractical_. We could never employ enough wizards to keep track of everyone."

Hermione wonders what happens when a child does perform magic, but her question is soon enough answered. Mr Perkins is still explaining the catalogue of measures that can be taken, when a faint buzz indicates a violation of the rule. She doesn't know how he does it, but Mr Perkins knows at once from which volume the sound comes, and opens the book on the right page. The white dot is blinking, and on the opposite page, a scripture appears – '_Hiding charm_', it says.

"Ah, you see – this happened in a muggle shop. Maybe the child played hide and seek – maybe it was running away from someone. We cannot know. In any case, I'll now send a memo to an officer to go and check it out, and if necessary, put a memory charm on muggle witnesses, so we're on the safe side."

That's what he does, scribbling a quick note, folding it with his wand and sending it off to fly away. Hermione would be fascinated by all this, if it weren't for the fact that Malfoy is still brooding over some papers in the booth next to Mrs. Perkins'. For all she knows, he's utterly careless of her presence and she wishes she could claim the same, but the awkward memories put her to shame in a way that she's hardly felt in her entirely life before. What's he doing here of all places? Then it hits her. He's still got the rest of his punishment to fulfil. Some hundred hours of useful work for society. Apparently, he picked the Ministry now that Hogwarts castle is more or less complete again. Damn it!

Suddenly, another sound tingles from the book in front of her and Mr Perkins, like a set of very small bells, and the old wizard beams radiantly.

"Oh, how lucky you are, Miss Granger! This is a very, very special occasion! It means a child with magical capabilities has just been delivered!"

He is very excited, and so is Hermione once again, watching him with caught breath. He opens one of the books on the last page, the heading says '_LEWIS – Jonathan(?)_' and on the little chart appear the names of the parents, the fact that the child is muggleborn, and observing the map a little closer, she gasps.

"Twickenham! Oh, that's not far away from where my parents live!"

Mr Perkins laughs as brightly as the tingling bells, taking as much delight in that piece of news as in the happy occasion in itself. '_Jonathan Lewis_', she repeats to herself in her head, '_Jonathan Lewis_', and resolves to keep an eye on the child – a muggleborn, just like herself – and living not ten minutes away from her parents by car. As it is, there is nothing else to be seen there just now. That baby is but five minutes old, and while it's surely enchanting its parents in this very moment, it uses only the magic that is unique to such little beings.

There are more notices about underaged magic; all of them take place in magical households though, and Mr Perkins just shrugs. "Might be a child, might be an adult, might be anything. As long as no muggles are involved, it's none of our business."

"But I thought it's prohibited under all circumstances!"

Again, Mr Perkins chuckles, distractedly scratching his chin. "Yes, well. But whoever obeys that rule, hm?"

She did! "_I_ did! Always!"

"Did you?" He arches his brows. "Nah, you needn't think only because I work on this station, you have to pretend to me, Miss – er – Archer."

"Granger – my name is _Granger_. And I pretend nothing! I obeyed to that rule!"

"Yes, but you must have been the only one, then, no?"

Taken aback, she glowers at him, but Mr Perkins seems to be on his own plane of perception, because he keeps on smiling serenely. In the end, she is almost glad to be sent away for lunch. In Mr Oakby's office – the man is absent like always, it seems – she meets the other interns again. Ernie is chattering away like mad, though no one except Saunders is listening, and when Mr Oakby doesn't show up, and they only got twenty minutes left of their official lunch break, they decide to look for the canteen without him.

No longer as nervous as she was in the morning, Hermione suddenly registers a whole lot of people staring at her on their way downstairs, or waving. A few witches even clap their hands. At first, she thinks they mean someone else – surely not her – until someone cries, "Look! Look! It's Hermione Granger!"

She gives a start and blushes badly. "What's the matter with these people?" she asks timidly.

"You're _famous_, Granger," a voice behind her says. A voice which she recognises at once and which gives her the willies!

The blonde girl says unconcerned, "They're seeing a celebrity and behave accordingly."

"Celebrity? Famous? What're you talking about?"

"You're one third of the Golden Trio! You defeated the Dark Lord. Geez, girl."

Hermione blushes even worse and keeps her eyes fixed on the floor until they've reached the canteen. "This is _ridiculous_," she gnarls when half a dozen people crane their necks to catch a look of her walking by.

"Could be worse."

"Yeah?" She sincerely doubts that there's much – in peaceful times like these – that can equal the level of awfulness that she's going through since ten o' clock this morning. Perfect strangers applauding her. The one person she ever stepped out of line with residing in the cubicle next to her first and now standing directly behind her. Oh, well, look at the bright side – it _could_ be worse. She could be forced to face him.

"Mark my words, it _could_ be worse," Malfoy says casually and gently pushes her forth to the counter. "I'd quite fancy not to be recognised by everyone and their brother."

He speaks so matter-of-factly, she involuntarily turns around and looks straight into his face with surprise, for the first time since… She quickly looks away again.

"Oh, hey, look who's sitting over there – it's the elusive Mr Oakby."

They all turn around and see their mentor nearby, huddled over a huge bowl of soup and engaged in a fiery debate with some other wizards. He pays no attention to them, and not to bother him, they simply choose another, free table once they've got their food. In this respect, incidentally, the canteen fulfils everyone's expectations – it's truly as bad as people claim. Hermione sips her soup and tries to ignore the distasteful flavour, greatly amused by Malfoy's utter disgust with his dish.

"I expect the slaves in Malfoy Manor do a better job at cooking?" she says and sneers.

"You bet. – What _is_ this?"

Riled that he doesn't even defy the slavery reproach, she spats, "Goulash soup!"

"I can certainly see where the ghoul comes in here," he returns languidly, scooping a bit of soup with his spoon and letting it drip back into the bowl. The others burst out laughing with the retort, and Hermione glowers at them all, mortified. Does nobody, _nobody_, care for the situation of the house elves?

"Oh, come on, Draco," the blonde girl now says with an impish smile that makes her look even prettier. "This soup is a master piece, compared to the one _you_ cooked on Saturday!"

She gets a conspiratorial grin in return for that remark, puzzling Hermione even more. She doesn't know where to start with her bewilderment. That the pretty blonde and Malfoy know each other – oh, well. All purebloods do, possibly. That Malfoy's _cooking_ is more shocking, that Miss Montague knows how bad his cookery is seems a surprise, too, and –

"I would like to ask you to be a little more discreet about my household accidents," Malfoy says amicably.

"Why, I told nobody how you set the stove on fire, did I?" she replies just as fondly and looks him deeply in the eyes. All right. So this should be Malfoy's new girlfriend. Hermione hasn't decided yet whether that piece of news makes her more or less uncomfortable around the both of them.

"How's it going, anyway?" Saunders asks Malfoy. "Settled in yet?"

"Oh, yes. I have to work on my household spells, admittedly, and – as Bernie already mentioned so delicately – my cooking is still in need of some refinery, but otherwise, everything's splendid."

Hermione's heart gets light with the idea that Malfoy is forced to do the chores himself now. Serves him right! She's so smugly satisfied with the notion, she doesn't even refrain from addressing him.

"How can you, master of potion-making that you supposedly are, actually set a stove on fire?"

"Ah, see, that's what _I_ thought, too. It's very easily done, however. You put on a pan with some oil – you completely forget about it – and one hour later, half of the kitchen is going up in flames."

"You _forgot_ about it?"

The blonde tries stifling a guilty little smile and Hermione is embarrassed for asking in the first place. Malfoy on the other hand doesn't mind cracking a whole lot of self-deprecating jokes that she hadn't believed him capable of. After hearing about a little dusting experiment gone wrong and taking down an antique grandfather clock, the washing that shrank half of his clothes and discoloured the other half, and a mild food poisoning sustained after his stab on boiled trout, not even she has it in herself not to join the general laughter.

"See, now you'll have to acknowledge after all what a fabulous job your house elves are doing!"

"Far be it from me to ever deny it."

"Oh, and since when!"

"You do your own washing, then?"

"What?" Actually, Hermione has never much washed anything in her whole life, if one discounts her attempts at washing her own stuff in the time on the flight from Voldemort, but she only had cold river water then and the results weren't exactly grand.

"Who's doing it?" he persists.

"My mother," she's forced to admit, although she'd much rather not.

"And when did you last thank her for her invaluable services, and gave her some flowers in return?"

"Oh, please, that's different!"

"Is it?"

"Also, I do thank her on a regular basis!" Which is a lie, but he can't know that. Truth is, Hermione hardly ever thinks of any of this, save for Mother's Day with its mandatory flower bouquets. At least, there _is_ a Mother's Day! There's no such thing as a House Elf's day, is there?

At least, this lunch, if not entirely stilling her hunger, relieves her of her worries to be in the same room like Malfoy. He's civil enough, he treats her as if nothing ever happened between them, and that is good enough for her. A week into her internship, she'd go as far as claiming that he's one of her more pleasant colleagues, at least as far as the interns are concerned. Ariel Saunders and Ernie are each a little trying, but together, they're _unbearable_. Zacharias Smith must be one of the haughtiest guys she has ever encountered in her whole life, and yes, she does count in Malfoy there. Next to Smith, he is humble and well-mannered! Malfoy's new flame Bernie, while overall friendly and genial, has a sense of blunt humour that Hermione doesn't get half of the time. As for the actual employees – Mr Oakby shuns them whenever he can. Mr Perkins is so distraught, most of the time he doesn't even seem aware of her presence. Bernie's Uncle Aldous is a forbidding, unsympathetic man that induces that kind of uneasiness in her that makes her want to run away whenever she comes across him. Miss Jones is a terrible gossip and Hermione feels embarrassed as soon as that woman opens her mouth to leave out yet another torrent of ill-informed office hearsay.

"How're things going in 'the Ministry'?" Hermione's dad asks with crooked fingers and a winking smile one evening when her daughter returns home.

"I'm getting serious doubts about my chosen occupation, I'm telling you!"


	163. The Class Of '99

Phineas and his colleagues take their time to give out the last updates on several characters

* * *

_**– Phineas' Narration –**_

The Class Of '99

* * *

_Coelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt._

_HORACE – Epistulae_

* * *

The first week in Artemis College is, traditionally, an orientation period. The new students are shown around the campus, to familiarise themselves with the different places. There is Bragge Hall, housing the Great Hall and the cantina. There is Podsnap Mansion, where most theoretical classes take place. Over there, half-hidden by the ludicrous pomposity of Bragge Hall, is the Montague and Cassiopeia Knightley Philosophical Institute (shortened, and not only in student-speak, to Magpie House), where you can find the library and a few more classrooms. The smaller building just here is commonly called Dean's Hideout. Its real name is Chthmusllwllyn Mansion, which was shortened to Thomas Mansion for obvious reasons, but not even this name prevailed. This is where you can find the Dean (or not), just like the Professors' studies, and all official offices.

Please, follow me around this corner – the edifice with the charred roof – _yes_, there where a few windows are shattered – that is the place where the practical classes take place. The name is Coodle Hall. _Coodle_, not _Boodle_, not _Doodle_, it's simply _Coodle Hall_. And don't you think you were the first to make this joke, you rascals! Now can I have your attention again? Thank you! Next to Coodle Hall, you see Haddon House which half of you already know, of course, and which is the place where most of the male, younger students are living. You see, many older semesters prefer to live outside of the campus, but never mind that now. The small pavilion in front of it is one of the only places where you can Apparate or Disapparate on the college premises, but this one is reserved for the inhabitants and their guests.

Oh, wipe off that sappy grin, young miss! Haddon House if for young gentlemen only. You just try getting in! You'll have to try getting past the Matron, and the students don't call her Dragonia for nothing! Which brings me to Montague House – the equivalent to Haddon House – for the young ladies, but for that, we'll have to walk a little further. Females weren't allowed in Artemis College until 1448 – a most memorable year –

– _Phineas, I doubt they care for an historical excursion. – _

What do these youngsters care for in the first place these days? Well, never mind now, never mind. As I just said, Montague House is a little off-campus because it was added much later than most other edifices, and because the founders believed it more prudent to keep their young wardens out of temptation's way. There, you spot another pavilion where the Anti-Apparition magic is disabled. But the main Apparition pavilion is the one you saw first, directly before Bragge Hall. If in doubt, use that one. Or dare the Matrons' wrath!

– _I think they got the picture. – _

You think so?

– _Oh, yes. – _

~ Just go _on_, for good gracious' sake! ~

Ah, _there_ you are, Snape! Dare showing your face again?

~ Oh, shut up! ~

Because, you must know, our good Snape here is still bashful. Being forced to reveal his innermost thoughts and secrets to Harry Potter of all people – who had nothing better to do than blab them around and tell anybody who would listen that his old teacher had a soft spot for his mummy –

~ SHUT UP I SAID! ~

Aww. See him blushing? That's because of the torch he's been carrying for Mrs Potter for so long. In the first year after his demise, he didn't show up at all.

~ Not true! I only stayed away from _you_ lot here, and with good reason! ~

Right. He just deigned being absent from his portrait in the Headmaster's Office, but had no such qualms about the painting hanging in Malfoy Manor – my dearest darling's Music Chamber to be precise.

~ You know, it's just so much nicer to listen to Narcissa playing the piano, than your useless chit-chat! ~

Yes, my pet is a marvellous performer indeed –

– _Phineas, I believe his point is that you are deviating. – _

You're just so boring and prosaic, Dumbledore. Really, what happened to you? In life, you were so cheerful and eccentric. Inappropriately so, I may say! And now you're always –

– _Please, Phineas. Just go ahead. – _

Hum! Really, I… Oh, all right. As I was saying, my dearest child's son graduated from Hogwarts, seventh best in his year, and enrolled in Artemis College. He was a little disappointed to be almost the only one among his old school friends doing so. His oldest buddy Gregory Goyle – inspired by an unforeseen romantic success on the previous day – played like he never had before during a try-out, and was instantly admitted to the Okinawa Orcas. Without foreclosing too much, I might tell you that scarcely half a year into his time on the team, he was poached away by the Shanghai Shenanigans –

~ That isn't their real name either – he just can't pronounce that one properly! ~

Oh, shoo! Gregory Goyle, unlikely as it seems, found his real vocation at last, which consists of wielding a club harder, faster, fiercer than anybody else. And he's only at the beginning of his career. Some murmur that he'll be appointed for the English Team before long. He is compared to the young Ludo Bagman even.

~ Which isn't exactly a compliment if you'll ask _me_... ~

– _Ludo Bagman was one of the best players the English team has had this century, Severus._ –

~ He's also one of the greatest morons the century has seen. ~

Quidditch players hardly ever stand out to be among the world's great thinkers.

~ True! ~

– _Shouldn't we be telling a story or something?_ –

Oh, yes, you're quite right, Albus! The other boy, who had in time become young Draco's other best friend, enrolled, against his prior plans, in Pergamon University to 'polish up his Greek' he claimed, and 'pursue the noble aim of Paideia'. Truth is that he was jilted in love – by the same young lady that had caused young Gregory's flash of inspiration, incidentally – and simply fled the country in order to make a new start, and not to accidentally run into his rival again, not knowing that said Gregory was heading for Japan.

– _Oh to be young and in love..._ –

You see, Dumbledore, I don't think I'm the right kind of person to dwell much on romantic issues. _My_ field of expertise are plain facts, not to recount the misfortunes of some puppy love! But perhaps good Snape can help us out there. I believe _he_ is the true romantic –

~ If you don't shut up _at once_, I'll come over to your portrait and show you what my _true_ area of expertise is! ~

Dumbledore!

– _I'm no expert for romance either, Phineas. I was never lucky in that respect! – _

Not as unlucky though as young Snape, eh?

~ I'll kill him. I'll just kill him! He wouldn't be the first Headmaster I finish off! ~

– Calm, Severus, calm yourself. He only means to wind you up. –

~ That's it. I'm out. Goodbye, Dumbledore! ~

Desertion! A Hogwarts Headmaster does not abandon his post like that! That's why you didn't get a portrait then! You always run away!

– _Leave him alone, Phineas! Why do you have to tease him so? He ran away, then, because he had a mission to accomplish, for the good of the entire English wizarding world! He couldn't have fulfilled it if he had let dear Minerva kill him! – _

You only defend him because you still feel guilty that he's dead.

– _Yes, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. – _

Where were we before Snape interrupted us?

– _I forgot. But you might want to continue by recounting the fate of poor Hagrid and his unfortunate court case! – _

Oh, yes, Rubeus Hagrid's obsession for unseemly monsters caught up with him after all. I for once am not alone in thinking that poor Horace's death could well have been prevented, if Hagrid had, much earlier, been properly checked upon –

– _Oh, so now I am supposed to be guilty of _that_ death, too?_ –

~ If the shoe fits... ~

Back again, Snape? Done your pouting, yes?

~ I'm backing you up, in case you haven't noticed! ~

– _If you don't leave him alone, Phineas, he'll be gone again in a second._ –

But winding him up is so much fun! Anyway... Hagrid was sentenced to seven years of Azkaban because of his negligence, and because of him hatching that beast in the first place. In fact, he got off quite mildly, seeing his track records. The person he had bought that fateful egg from, one Miranda Crabbe, was sentenced to one year, but her sentence was suspended and because the recent practise had been so successful, she was bent over to three hundred hours of charity instead. It was counted in her favour that she had a highly overstrung teenage daughter to look after – what was not accounted for, however, was that her influence over that girl was non-existent to begin with, and the girl herself almost beyond reach by then.

~ Poor Belinda, indeed. Her brother's death, her father's imprisonment, combined with her mother's negligence and self-pity; it was all a bit much for her. ~

Which brings me back to the fates of some of these other children. Young Mr Goyle wasn't the only one who snatched a place on a professional Quidditch Team. The same was true for Molly and Arthur Weasley's youngest son Ronald. He became the starting Keeper for the Chudley Cannons, and was off his head with happiness, thinking this would impress _his_ queen of hearts –

– _And you dare claiming you had no poetic streak, Phineas. – _

Excuse me, but I can be very poetic, when poetry is called for! Now let me continue, please! Harry Potter, you won't be surprised to hear it, was admitted to become an Auror without passing the usual entrance examinations even. He did take and pass them – but he had been given the position already anyway. His friend and comrade Hermione Granger enrolled for College, too. Her major subjects were Wizard Law and Administrative Sciences, and her aim was to revolutionise the entire system. That's your Gryffindors, they're just never content, other than with themselves.

– _Oh, the bitterness, my dear old colleague!_ –

Pah. Let me continue with Neville Longbottom, the witless wonder –

– _Now you're being unfair. Neville Longbottom is a most deserving young man, and I expect nothing but great things from him. No heroics, hopefully – I hope there'll be not much more reason for these in the future – but great he's bound to be. Got his heart in the right spot, that one! Stop sneering, Severus! –_

~ I didn't say a thing, did I? ~

– _Don't think I hadn't seen your face though! Despite his status as a war hero and a real celebrity, Neville Longbottom remained a modest, almost timid young lad. He wished to become a simple gardener, but bent to his grandmother's wishes and started at Artemis College, too, for majoring in Herbology. In fact, I think this was a compromise – Augusta Longbottom wanted him to step in his father's shoes and become an Auror as well. At any rate, she was satisfied with an academic career. – _

The Patil twins – now, what's their names – well, never mind. The Patil girls decided to go to College, too, mainly because they hadn't yet made up their mind what to do with their lives. So did young Mr Thomas, the Misses Bletchley, Montague (only distantly related to the donators of Magpie House, but a direct descendant of Titus Montague, founder of Montague House) and Abbott, Ravenclaw's Mr Goldstein and Mr Boot, and never forget Ernie Macmillan. Well, how _can_ you forget him, no matter how hard you strain!

– _He can be a little – erm – _trying_ for one's nerves, yes… – _

Did I forget anyone?

– _What about Miss Parkinson? – _

Oh, yes. Miss Parkinson couldn't quite decide which career to choose. Her dearest ambition had always been to marry a rich heir, but her principal target – my great-great-grandson – would hardly _talk_ to her these days if he could avoid it, let alone do anything else. Well, she did not quite give up; she merely decided to widen her scope, and make herself interesting to _more_ possible candidates. She would have liked to become a singer, but was deplorably tone-deaf. There are no mannequins among witches – not in England, anyway – so her only chance was taking up an acting career, in which, I am told, she wasn't doing half-bad. If she can conquer her weakness for overdoing it, she might become a good actress after all. Another Slytherin student with similar wishes and difficulties was the handsome Mr Zabini. He, however, had inherited not only his attractive father's face, but also the musical genes from that side, was already an accomplished violinist, and since _money_ really does not matter (his mother took care of that), he decided to follow his father's suit, found himself a band, starting on the violin, passing on to the lead guitar next, and soon taking over the voice department, too. It's likely you've heard of them. I believe they're called ESBAT – isn't that right? Being him, he greatly enjoyed the wide public admiration and the legions of witches throwing themselves at him.

– _Poor Mr Zabini had a lot of shadows to escape from. – _

Indeed. But he's by no means the only one, is he? – So summer turned into autumn, and all these young people were well accommodated. My great-great-grandson had taken a flat of his own close to College (actually, he simply moved into his father's old bachelor apartment). His poor mother did _not_ take to it kindly. My dear girl was afraid that this step away from home was just a way to avoid a confrontation with the boy's Idiot father, and as scared as she was of such a confrontation, she dreaded the possible alienation between father and son even more.

Young Draco argued that it was all not such a big deal – and was backed up by his father in this respect, both insisting in unison that leaving school for College was a proper, almost traditional, moment for a young person to leave home. When Lucius had started in Artemis College, he had taken an apartment of his own as well. When Narcissa had enrolled, she had left her parents' house, too. "To become the mistress of _this_ house!" my sweet girl replied angrily. She argued that Malfoy Manor was huge enough to comfortably house a thousand people, and her son retorted that it was surely big enough for so many, but too small for a set of parents and their adult son. She in turn snorted and informed him that he was hardly an _adult_.

The Idiot tried to soothe her concerns and told her that, whether Draco was in boarding school nine months a year, or moved to a flat for college and came home now and then, hardly made a difference, but to my dearest child it made all the difference. Why had the Idiot moved out of Malfoy Manor, then, after all? Because he couldn't stand the sight of his own father. And had these two ever made up? No, even after the moron had returned to live there constantly with his young wife, they had not. Abraxas had had a wing of the house to himself, and they had avoided talking to each other if they could help it.

Which brought up a strange reminiscence of Bellatrix, who had fled from the house of my noble descendants at the soonest occasion, too, and had only ever returned home for Christmas and some other big family events. She and my grandson Cygnus had not even argued; they had been too estranged to do as much. My darling was frightened that it could come like this between her husband and son, too. Too much was unresolved between them. It ached her to think that the Idiot had given up hope to come to a satisfying resolution, and that he and _his_ son would end up like Bellatrix and Cygnus, like her idiotic husband and Abraxas Malfoy, though she did not dare speaking it out loud.

As much as the boy venerated his mother, he remained firm and did prevail. He took things a little too far though and virtually stopped talking to his parents at all.

– _Oh, don't be so melodramatic, Phineas. It did him good to become independent, and for once not to be swimming in money didn't hurt him either! – _

~ Quite the opposite, in fact. But let's not forget that, as ostensible as his loud rejection of his father's money was, he still lived in a palace of a flat for free, his college fees were tacitly taken care of. Lucius even went so far to use his influence over two of his employees to ensure that these employees' sons turned to young Draco to ask him for private tutoring, and paid for these services handsomely, too! ~

A Galleon per hour for tutoring a dimwit in Latin is the opposite of being overpaid, Severus, as you and me know perfectly well! Anyway, Draco took great delight in his chosen subjects, and if his grades in Hogwarts had rarely been a cause for much celebration, he did excel once he went to college.

– _I find it curious how much delight young Draco Malfoy took in that. Curious, and delightful. As his Headmaster, I always had the impression that his only interest in laws consisted in a curiosity how to dodge them. – _

You are confusing things, Dumbledore. _Your_ protégé Potter was the one who liked dodging the rules as much as he could.

~ I can testify to that! ~

– _Why are you two always so severe with Harry Potter? – _

~ Oh, the pun, Dumbledore! ~

We are _not_ too severe, Dumbledore! We're just trying to give an honest account of the past, and not gloss it over like you prefer to do!

– _Oh, yes, I can see _that_! Are you trying to deny that Mr Malfoy – and every other member of his family, come to that – had a more than questionable approach to anything concerning justice, legality, laws in general –_

~ Let us not go there now, Dumbledore. I got to say a whole lot of things on the matter, but for now, let us continue with the _narration_. I think we're taking up too much time as it is, already. ~

* * *

_Coelum_… Those who hurry cross the sea change the sky [upon them], not their souls or state of mind.


	164. The Sculptor

**Please note:** Due to the aforementioned difficulties of re-writing and re-organising chapters, I had to insert another chapter and re-upload all the following. The new one is called 'Worse Than Death', it was inserted between 'Guys And Girls' and 'Outside', it is entirely possible that I made mistakes during the re-uploading process (and if so, I'd be eternally grateful for someone pointing those out to me). Please forgive me for being so slow-witted, my only excuse is that I meant to upload updates asap... Sorry! Oh, there's something else - if any of you felt inclined to leave a review for me now and then, I'd be eternally indebted to you as well... Sorry, and: Thank you!

* * *

In some cases, extraordinary talent can be a burden, and a curse

* * *

**_- 4.37. -_**

The Sculptor

* * *

_Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. All art is at once surface and symbol._

_OSCAR WILDE – The Picture Of Dorian Gray_

* * *

The little boy looks around in a suspicious way, and once he is sure that nobody is watching, a smirk twists his thin mouth. Another look over the shoulder to make sure, and with a weird movement of his wrist, he's suddenly holding a huge candy cane in his hand. The smirk turns into a wild smile. "Ha!"

He opens his mouth and puts out his tongue, but before he can lick on the candy, he suddenly stops – just like that, he stops, every movement stills, and the tongue still halfway out of his mouth, his eyes and face frozen, he keels over, cane and face and tongue in the sand.

What a pity that little Sasha was so keen on being alone for performing his strange new trick. Otherwise, somebody might have noticed what happened, and what's happening still, and have called the Police, perhaps. The small body lies there, perfectly motionless, when another figure appears – a man, dressed rather eccentrically given the surroundings. He's wearing a wide, plum-coloured cloak with silver spangles and the sort of hat that one would suspect on a vicar's head from the nineteenth century. He quickly heads for the child, and without turning around, the man stoops, grabs the kid's arm, and in the next second he and the child are both gone without a trace.

When Sasha awakes again, he's lost all sense of orientation, and notices with growing bewilderment that he's strapped to a wooden plank, in a narrow, sombre room with a low ceiling and no windows. Where is he? How did he come here? But he feels too dizzy to come to some conclusion, and his increasing fear and upset keep him from grasping any rational thought at all. He tries to scream – but no sound will come, so he tries harder and harder – but he's mute. _That_ is the last straw. Sasha begins to sob frantically, and even though he can't make a sound, he screams and screams until he's out of breath.

He's heard of these things. It's on the telly all the time, innit? And his mum always said he got to be careful, too. Now it happened to him! Oh, how anxious his mum will be! Perhaps even his dad will be worried – perhaps he'll be worried enough to come back – but Sasha won't be there then! He is crazed with fear, and makes holy pledges to never try any of his tricks again, but please, God, _please_, help him! He wants to go home! He wants his mummy!

He isn't aware – and he'll never know it, either – that he's not as alone as he thinks. In the adjoining room, there is a handsome young man, in his mid-twenties, with unkempt blonde hair and a fading tan that makes his blue eyes shine all the more, even in these gloomy surroundings. He, too, thinks he's all alone and wonders how he got here, though he's decidedly less clueless than Sasha next door. At least he knows what he's doing here! Well, partly, anyhow. He's here because he inherited his father's talent as an artist, and because these weird people want a magical sculpture. A magical sculpture is hard to come by, and even though the young man should feel flattered with the implicated compliment to his skills, he's far from it. He wonders if he'll ever get out of here alive again. They treat him all right so far – forgetting about the locking up in this dump for a moment – but that's only because they want something out of him, right?

He initially tried to refuse – said he wouldn't do it – that they're sick wankers for even doing all this to him. The only answer he's got was a photo of his mum, with his little nephew in her arms. They needn't say anything else. He understood _exactly_ what they meant. So he's doing what they demand, and hopes it's enough. The conditions are less than optimal. He's working with a weird sort of clay – only that it isn't really clay. He can't say what it is exactly, only that it's really disgusting to touch, and tough to work with. And his access to that stuff is _pretty_ limited, too. He cannot really estimate how long he's been here, some months he'd gauge; every three weeks or so, he's given two buckets full of the – well, let's call it clay for the purpose – to work with. Despite those weird intervals, it's coming along, yeah. He twists his face, just thinking of it. Because he is absolutely sure that they'll kill him, once he has finished. He tries procrastinating as good as he can, without making them suspicious. He doesn't dare thinking what might happen to his remaining family otherwise.

In this moment, the door is opened, and one of his gaolers steps in, clumsily pushing the little cart on which the budding statue is transported. "Is it that time of the month again?" the artist jokes feebly.

The man gives no answer but blankly stares right through the prisoner, giving the young man once more the distinct impression that he's not here by his own volition either. Lenny's got no experience with the curse, but he strongly suspects that this man has been imperiused. Which makes his own situation even less hopeful. No pleading, no nothing, will keep this man from doing what he's told to do.

He screws up his left eye and squints at the structure with the other. "I need better light, guys!" The man gives no reply. "And a better template, damn it!"

"This will do for the time being," the man mutters tonelessly.

He leaves, and comes back half an hour later, during which time Lenny glowers alternately at the statue, and the photo. It's not even a real photo, but a faded poster of a very attractive man in some offbeat Seventies outfit, with the sort of large whiskers that were fashionable at the time, and an idiotic little beard. It's no very good picture, and that it is so faded doesn't make the artist's work easier. So far though, Lenny is fairly satisfied. Well, as _satisfied_ as he can be with a commission like _this one_!

In the room next door, little Sasha has lost his consciousness, out of fear and exhaustion, and from the loss of blood. The last thing he's seen was how a strange woman broke a piece of wood, and inside the wood was a silvery substance – like wire, or rather hair, just silver. The woman fumbled with the hair and started cutting it up into tiny pieces, collecting the bits in a small jar. Silently, she twists and squeezes the child's arms, under the indifferent observation of an eerie entity. It was the appearance of that entity that frightened Sasha so badly that he fainted – out of a little thingy on a table nearby, that ghost, or whatever it is, rose, while the woman used a silver dagger to slice open the child's arms. The pain, the sniggering appearance – it was too much for Sasha. He could no longer see what came next, how the strange woman held the little jar under the child's bleeding arm to collect the blood, how the menacing spirit bowed forth and held his own hand in between the arm and the jar, so that the blood would drip through the appearance… If Sasha had seen it, it might have destroyed his mind. He's not the first child here in this damp cellar, and some of his predecessors lost their sanity before they lost their lives as well.


	165. You Gotta Fight For Your Right

When one is considered to be something of a genius, it is hard to realise that one's got a lot to learn yet

* * *

**_– 4.38. –_**

You Gotta Fight For Your Right

* * *

_Many have imagined republics and principalities which have never been seen or known to exist in reality; for how we live is so far removed from how we ought to live, that he who abandons what is done for what ought to be done, will rather bring about his own ruin than his preservation._

_NICCOLÒ MACHIAVELLI – Il Principe_

* * *

"All I'm saying is that Wizard Law isn't automatically superior to the laws of other beings."

Malfoy shrugs and grins. "One day, when your future in-laws are dead, and a bunch of goblins demands the jewellery old Molly Weasley gave you for your wedding – I'd like to see your face _then_."

"But that's not the point!"

"In a way, that's the _only_ material point. The question isn't one of _superiority_. The question is how to protect your own interests best, or your clients'."

"But – look, they clearly only want to _lend_ the objects in question –"

"But they're paid for _selling_ them, not for lending. We're not talking about library books here, Granger. Goblin-wrought jewellery is usually purchased for very special occasions, the human owners are bound to want keeping it for sentimental reasons as much as for the actual value."

"But who says that our approach is more rightful than theirs?"

"The magic in itself. Take the case of Godric Gryffindor's sword. Even _if_ a goblin has secured himself the bloody thing, any wizard in need can get it back –"

"Because human magic is superior!"

"And now _you_ were the one to use that term – 'superior'." He cocks up a brow in that typical, smug fashion, but she won't have it.

"Only because we _can_, it doesn't follow that it is _right_ what we're doing!"

His air gets even more complacent. "Doesn't it? I would say it's an entirely different question – what it truly is that constitutes 'right'. I'd love to discuss it, but it's a far cry away from the matter of goblin rights."

"You are easily the most boring lot I ever had lunch with," Dean interjects and rolls his eyes, before taking a hearty bite of his burger.

Hermione ignores the remark and, her arms crossed, glares at Malfoy. "Are you _seriously_ trying to tell me that something is right only because the one doing it has the power to do it…?"

"I'm not trying to tell you anything, Granger. It is, however, one traditional take on the subject indeed. Hobbes, Machiavelli –"

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me!"

"Absolutely not." He crosses his arms as well, though unlike her, he appears utterly relaxed, and tilts his head. "If you tried to find any common denominator of what constitutes 'right', for every person in every society at all times – you wouldn't find any. What we call 'right' is an entirely subjective perception and _especially_ someone who's professionally dealing with politics and laws should at least be aware of the initial emptiness of the term in itself." She gasps and stares at him, but he continues just as merrily, "_We_ are the ones defining what is 'right', here and now, for our society, and _we_ fill the term with the meaning we want. And why are we capable of doing that? Of imposing _our_ interpretation of the term on others who might think differently? Because we have the power, because we are _in_ power. If goblin magic was stronger than human magic, we'd be submitted to _their_ interpretations, just as totally, just as effectual."

Dean has finished his burger and gets up. "Are you coming, Hermione?"

"In a minute," she gnarls, not even looking up, but scowling at Malfoy. "I'm glad you put it like that, because _if_ that was the case – _if_ we were subjected to the goblins' will and power, you'd be hoping they went about this fairly, too, wouldn't you?"

"Of course I would."

Triumphantly, she cries, "And there you go! With the same entitlement, the goblins have every right to demand _us_ treating _them_ fairly, too!"

"Ah, and that's where we don't come to the same conclusions, Granger. For a start, there's a difference between what I would hope for, and what I could reasonably expect. Secondly, it isn't a question of _fairness_ to simply submit to a minority opinion only because they're in a weaker position. In fact, that smacks of belittling, if you'll ask me. As far as entitlement is concerned, the goblins have just as much right to see things their way as we have the right to see them differently, but when it comes to enforcing either view, I can see absolutely no reason why we should act against our own better interests."

Saying this, he shoves a spoonful of his dessert into his mouth, as if the matter was settled, and sadly enough, for the time being, it _is_ – because Hermione cannot come up with a suitable answer. If Malfoy were a muggle, he'd be the darkest of Tories! So conservative it's bordering on reactionary! The natural result of centuries of upper-crusting!

Utterly annoyed, she gives him the evil eye and follows Dean. "The _nerve_ of that guy," she snaps. "Can you _believe_ it?"

"I'm not pretending I had the faintest notion what you were even talking about, but from what I heard, I thought he had a good point," Dean says, unconcerned.

"What?"

He points at her engagement ring. "You'd be willing to part with that if something happened to Ron, who was the one purchasing it, after all?"

"But this isn't about what I'd want or not!"

"Well, why isn't it? Why should it only be about what the goblin manufacturing it, wants?"

She opens her mouth for a reply, but once again, she cannot think of any. She is a hundred percent sure that Malfoy is wrong – she's simply got to find the proper angle to argue against it. And she will. She'll consider the question carefully, and then she'll come up with the right counter-argument. One a side note – god, Malfoy will make an excellent law wizard one day, he's got a knack for making his points. If he ever works in the trade, that is. Which is, of course, unlikely. Because guys like Malfoy do not _work_, why should they? As far as she is concerned, he's only studying law to give her a hard time and continue their old tradition of one-upmanship.

That evening, she meets up with Ron at his place, and after a dubious meal cooked by Ron whose household skills still leave something to be desired, they're settling on the equally dubious couch, which makes squeaky noises whenever one makes the slightest move, and be it only to scratch one's chin.

"Was this ring goblin-made?" she asks, pointing at her ring and trying to sound casual.

Ron beams at her. "It is," he admits in feigned modesty. "I bought it from my first advance payment after getting on the team!"

She smiles, half-moved, half-sceptical. "But that – that would mean I'd have to give the ring back one day –"

All colour drains from his face. "What?"

"Not to you!" she hurries to cry. "The goblins would demand it back if something happened to you –"

"In that case we can only hope that I'll survive you," he mutters wryly and not as jocular as he'd probably wish for.

"In that case, they'd demand it from our children…"

He makes a few jokes about those non-existent children, and it's hard for her to get him back on the topic, but at last, he mutters, "Seriously, Hermione – _if_ the goblins wanted the ring back, you, or our children, simply needn't give it to them."

"But that would be theft – no, hang on. It'd be defalcation." Yes, because the present ownership would not be violated; the rightful state would simply remain unfulfilled. She's got to learn these for her next test…

"It would be neither!" Ron cries and stares at her. The couch cries out as well because of his sudden move.

"Yes, it would be. Technically –"

"Technically? Technically that is _your engagement ring_! The visible sign of our life together! _And_ it has cost one thousand five hundred galleons! And you want to throw it into the greedy gobs of those goblins?"

"_I_ want no such thing! And could you please curb that shocking display of chauvinism?"

"Of what?"

They're in the midst of a heated argument when she finally realises that she's gone about this all idiotically. Ron doesn't know the first thing about the stuff she learns in her law classes. He clearly has no appreciation for the subtleties of both goblin, and human law-making – and that bit, she could have known _before_ getting into this fight. Furthermore, he is mortified because he's completely misunderstood her. She _doesn't_ want to return her engagement ring to _anybody_, she definitely wants to keep it, and pass it on to her own children, and… She's simply not sure that it'd be the _right_ thing to do – the morally irreproachable thing. Because, and that much she _is_ sure of, Malfoy was wrong, wrong, wrong! These questions are not to be decided on the basis of what she, or anyone else, would personally prefer.

There has got to be some higher law – some unambiguous guideline – to orient oneself. What was it that Malfoy said? That the term 'right' had no solid core and had always been filled by the ones in power according to their individual needs? She instinctively dismissed that remark, but now that she thinks about it, she does think there _is_ some truth to it. But the really important point is that it shouldn't be that way. Only because something has been done in a certain way since the world's started turning, it doesn't follow it is the only way – or the _right_ way. Only reactionaries such as Malfoy, who always sat at the profiting end of such arrangements, perpetuate that system. It _can_ be done better and fairer. It _ought_ to be done fairer and better.

She's got the opportunity to ponder these questions because Ron isn't talking to her that night. She's got half a mind to go home, but she's aware that this would be the worst she could do. They've got to reconcile, and after her eighth apology or so, he finally softens up.

"Let's go to bed," he mutters wryly and grabs her hand.

"One must not go to bed in anger," she replies very earnestly, longing for his forgiveness, and elated by his following mischievous grin.

"We won't."

No, they don't, even though the reconciliation is a whole lot less vocal than she had imagined. They don't talk things through, instead he starts kissing her, and they haven't reached the bedroom yet when she's down to her underwear already. She barely just so manages to turn off the lights and then they have what Pavarti and Padma call 'reconciliatory sex'. Afterwards, when Ron has long fallen asleep while she's still staring into the dark nothingness of his bedroom, she has the vague notion that 'reconciliatory sex' isn't as thrilling as the Patil twins claim. At least not for her. Half her mind still occupied with the argument while they're at it – that's far from romantic, or even satisfying, both on the emotional, and the physical level.

'Well, that's what you get for listening to Pavarti and Padma,' she thinks and sighs and cuddles up closer to her fiancé.

* * *

... And the price for the quickest review goes, once again, to dear **quantumspork**! Thank you sooo much!


	166. From Riches To Rags

Christmas is a sentimental season, and a great pretext to see people one has professed not wanting to see during the rest of the year

* * *

_**– 4.39. –**_

From Riches To Rags

* * *

_Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of our childish days; that can recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth; that can transport the sailor and the traveller, thousands of miles away, back to his own fireside and his quiet home!_

_CHARLES DICKENS – The Pickwick Papers_

* * *

Bernie hadn't taken to it kindly when he had told her that he wasn't going to take her along to his parents' Christmas party. He had tried to reason that it'd do her good to spend that time of year with her own parents, he had explained how his mother was strongly averse to strangers in her house, all the more at Christmas, he had shared his most pessimistic forecasts with her of how awfully awkward the whole affair was going to be. Still, she had been smitten with the idea to accompany him, and door-bangingly left the flat when he had not surrendered to her urgings.

As he was standing in front of the gatehouse of the Manor now, half-expecting that his parents had removed the magical permission for their son to enter at will, he wondered whether it wouldn't have been more prudent to take his girlfriend along after all, and if only to spite his mother and keep her at bay, as she would never have made a scene 'in public'. He sighed. Alas. He had said he'd come, there was no way back _now_, so he reached out for the iron bars and felt a little wave of relief when seeing that his worries had been unfounded – at least in regard to the gates.

He trudged through the masses of snow covering the path towards the house, and perhaps because he hadn't seen it for so long, for the first time in many years realised what a beautiful place it was, how wondrous the gardens, how homely the warm lights emerging from the windows... Home. He could reel as much as he liked, Malfoy Manor was his home and would always be, a sad thought even sadder because he hadn't set a foot here in five months. He had always found some excuse to circumnavigate his father's invitations, which had become fewer and fewer in time, so that it had come almost as a surprise when Martial, Lucius' majestic if aged eagle-owl, had pecked on his window a week ago and delivered the letter asking him to come home for Christmas. He hadn't had it in himself to recline this time, even though he had stalled in writing back to accept.

This was going to be a disaster, he could tell. For too long had he refused to talk to them, and the more time had passed, the less he had to say. Oh Merlin, what _should_ he say? Why _hadn't_ he taken Bernie, who never ran out of conversational material or, if occasionally strange, bouts of humour? He dreaded his father's reproachful glances, but not nearly as much as his mother's silence. They'd be three discontent adults sitting around a much too large table, each either determined not to open their mouths, or too tongue-tied to say something useful, over the entirety of a twelve-course-meal!

He inhaled deeply before taking the last of the steps, finding the door jerked open by Elsie, beaming at him with wide eyes. "Master Draco!" she screeched and made a bow so deep that her nose touched the marble tiles. "Merry Christmas, Master Draco!"

"Merry Christmas to you, Elsie!"

Well, at least _someone_ seemed pleased by his coming, he thought, only to be surprised by the sound of unsteady steps, and in the next second, he saw little Teddy lumbering towards him with a wild grin and his nose constantly changing. That always happened when the boy was excited about something, and Draco counted his blessings. He'd almost forgotten that his aunt and Teddy would be there, too. In fact, it had been Andromeda's incessant urgings to go and see his mother that had contributed to more than half of his guilty conscience prompting him to come here tonight. She stepped into the hall behind her grandson, smiling nicely, waiting for Elsie to take his cloak and taking him into her arms while Teddy clang around his calves likewise.

"Ago!" Teddy brawled.

"Hey there, Teddy," he greeted his cousin and kneeled down to hug the child.

"Well, well, the lost son's come home," snarled the voice of his grandfather from his portrait and cast the boy a look of exasperation. "Only the half-blood said you would. Now he's won the pot."

Draco wondered what such a 'pot' might contain if all the betters were portraits to begin with, but straightened up to take a bow and greet his grandfather politely. The old man was in no mood for courtesy though.

"How dare you treat your dear mother like that, child!" he chided.

"Grandfather, please, I –"

"Have you any idea how miserable she is because of you?"

"That's enough, sir! My sister, last time I checked, was quite capable of fighting her own battles!" Aunt Andromeda cried, adding in a low voice, "It's good you've come, sweetheart."

Equally quietly, he asked back, "How bad is it in there?"

She just shook her head, linking arms with him and pulling him along, all the while Teddy was still clinging to his legs and taking utter delight in being dragged all the way to the Grand Parlour. That one was decorated as it had always been, a beautiful tree hung with exquisite crystal in silver and amber, and before it stood his parents with undecipherable miens. Draco plucked up all his courage and approached them.

"Merry Christmas, Mum, Dad," he said, a tad too highly, a little too quickly, and unsure whether to shake their hands. He'd always hugged them, but hugging seemed utterly uncalled for.

"Merry Christmas, Draco," Lucius returned with a warm smile, and his son could tell that he really meant it. All the more anxious he felt about his mother, who clearly forced herself to smile, but whose eyes seemed almost sad.

"Merry Christmas, honey," she said quietly, lowering her gaze and gesturing at him to sit down. He was equipped with a drink by the still radiant Elsie and settled in an armchair. His parents sat down opposite of him on a sofa, and Aunt Andy was sitting on his right, Teddy on her lap.

An uncomfortable silence had ensued, during which Draco found his mother examining his robes and clearly disapproving. Oh well. That was the best set he actually had, after destroying all his old ones when trying to clean them; these were made of simple, black cotton and the best that could be said about them was that they didn't look _quite_ as cheap as they had actually been. He earned fifteen Galleons per week, ten in the apothecary, five for tutoring other students in Latin, and fifteen Galleons were the exact equivalent of three average books for his classes, two loaves of bread, seven pounds of seasonal fruits and vegetables, two Steaks (or two pounds of minced meat), six eggs, a small trout, two bottles of milk, and the usual butter, tea and jam. To his great delight and self-righteousness, he had found out that one could live rather comfortable of all that (and, admittedly, the college cantina, whose meals were far from satisfying, but at least were included in the college fees and needn't be paid separately). One could _not_, however, buy velvet robes and silk shirts – or costly Christmas presents, which was another source of uneasiness for him. He had actually been forced to make the gifts himself this year, in other words – he had, quite a while ago when running out of wearable socks, taken up knitting and was reasonably accomplished in this discipline by now, sufficiently for his socks and sweaters and scarves not to fall apart at any rate. Therefore, Teddy received a hand-knitted little animal (it had supposed to be a salamander, but rather looked like a mutated fish), Aunt Andy was to get a bobble cap, his father a set of mittens and his mother the only object passing muster, because he was really good with scarves. Hers had black, grey and teal stripes, loads of fringes (though not all of them had been added voluntarily) and she was bound to never wear it, but he had consoled himself thinking that it was the good will that mattered after all.

As a matter of fact, his entire family pretended to be _delighted_, or perhaps they were. One could never tell for sure with his parents, who were accomplished actors in their own right if they cared to be, and who had clearly resolved to play the happy family game this evening. His own gifts turned out much grander, and he felt pangs of guilt – why, oh why, hadn't he at least used _some_ of his father's money to purchase them some proper presents? Oh, right. Because it weren't real _presents_ if he took their own money to get those, although this idea had never deterred him in the past. In fact, it had never occurred to him before. Aunt Andy must have given her sister some pointers, because he got: four pairs of robes, a cashmere cloak, a pair of very fine boots, two pairs of equally elegant shoes, a voucher from Flourish & Blott's worth of 500 Galleons (which should neatly cover the expenses for every book he'd need for the rest of his time in college), another voucher from Twilfit & Tattling, a crate of excellent wine, a first edition of Elfrida Clagg's Codex of English Wizard Laws and a very beautiful edition of Friedrich Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil. His aunt had thrown in an annual season-ticket for the Tutshill Tornados and, knowing of his new way of getting clothes, two dozen knitting needles, as he kept on breaking the darned things.

Afterwards, they went over to the breakfast parlour to have lunch; Draco was slightly amazed, as his parents generally preferred this room for their mealtimes, but had never used it on such festive occasions like Christmas before. At any rate, it was much nicer to sit together on a reasonably sized table, and even with the food in itself, they had been far more restrained than in past years. Only four courses – Broccoli cream soup with prawns, raw tuna Carpaccio with mangos and pomegranates, roast saddle of venison with saffron dumplings and an eclectic mix of desserts served on ice-sculptured dishes formed like orchids. Impressive but subtle, Draco thought and wondered for a minute if his parents might actually have understood his chosen way of life, but looking at his mother wearing five rows of pearls and turning up her nose when hearing him speak of his job in the apothecary, and his father dressing down poor Bobby because he'd filled little Teddy's plate with a slice of rum-soaked cake, too, he decided that nothing at all had changed. Of course it hadn't.

After dinner, they kept sitting together for a couple of glasses, but then, Aunt Andromeda got up to go because Teddy needed to sleep, and Draco followed her example, glad for the pretext and very uneasy with the perspective of being stuck with his parents without her.

"Why don't you stay here for the night?" Lucius suggested, but sounding as if he already knew the futility of that question.

"Erm – yes, well – thanks for the invitation, but – I can't," he muttered, and lying more boldly, "I promised my girlfriend to come back – come home I mean."

Of course he had done no such thing, and dear Bernie had made it perfectly clear when leaving him that afternoon that she was going to spend the night in a hotel, _if_ she ever came back to him in the first place, but not even his aunt knew this and therefore, he didn't feel too uncomfortable lying.

"You're still going out with that –" Lucius cast his sister-in-law a quizzical glance, making it clear that he received all information from her these days, because Draco did visit her every other week. "That niece of Aldous Montague, right?"

"Her name is Bernie. Yes, I'm still with her." Though perhaps not much longer? "As a matter of fact, we're living together."

"Ah, how nice."

"Yes, well..." He allowed himself to look as he felt about this. Fact was that living together with a girl, and if only because she'd been disowned by her folks, wasn't exactly a walk in the park, and he sometimes stayed in the library until closing time only to have some time to himself.

"And what are you going to do on New Year?"

"Get over my hangover?" he joked half-heartedly.

Lucius nodded as if he had expected nothing else. "Well – don't be a stranger."

"Yes, of course, thank you. And thank you for inviting me tonight!" He gave his mother a very genuinely-meant smile, which she returned, taking a little step forward and moving her arms as if she were going to embrace him, but refraining on a second thought.

"Good night, dar-..." She cleared her throat. "Good night, Draco. Take care. And a Happy New Year."

He had a lump in his throat, too, when replying, "Thank you, Mum. And a Happy New Year for the two of you."

He almost ran away after this. Wishing his parents a Happy New Year made it sound – made him _feel_ – as if he weren't going to see them again in that entire year, and while his abstinence was self-imposed, he was utterly miserable all the same.


	167. History Repeating

Does ANYONE round here remember the Y2K craze...?

* * *

_**– 4.40. –**_

History Repeating

* * *

_Sex alleviates tension. Love causes it._

_WOODY ALLEN_

* * *

Draco was more than grateful for his job in Mr Bobbin's apothecary. Most of the time, he was performing mind-bogglingly boring tasks such as labelling phials, grinding scarabs or cutting up flobberworms, but now and then, he also got to brew one or the other interesting potion, and sometimes, if he was unlucky, he landed himself in the sales department as well, though he wouldn't complain, because he could do with the money, and Mr Bobbin, sympathetic to a young student wanting to earn his own money without neglecting his college assignments, didn't insist on fixed working times, so he could more or less come and go as he pleased.

For the time between Christmas and New Year, however, they had a different arrangement. Mr Bobbin wanted to spend time with his children coming home from school for the holidays, and his assistant Mrs Baldoon only worked part-time, so he had asked Draco if he could look after the shop instead. The boy was delighted, and making thirty Galleons in one strike didn't displease him either.

Thirty Galleons! Not too long ago, Draco would have scoffed at such a comparably small amount of money – he'd spent more in a single night going out, ten times as much when playing poker with Damian, Marcus, Ivor and Greg – but nowadays, it seemed like a little fortune to him. Bernie on the other hand couldn't see what he was making such a fuss about, and also bemoaned him being away even in the holidays, which she regarded as time rightfully belonging to her.

"You want thirty quid? I'll give you thirty quid! Fifty! A hundred!"

"I don't want _your_ money, Bernie."

"Oh please. You're not going to sell to me the infinite wonders of labouring, are you?"

"I'm selling you the simple fact that I'm not going to take any money from you."

She was sulking after this, resulting in not talking to him _again_, even though she had only started doing so again on Boxing Day after their little Christmas fallout. It was almost a relief going to work instead, where he had little enough to do, because hardly anyone popped in between the holidays, except for purchasing something to relieve stomach aches and sickness from too much turkey, mixed with candies and Christmas punch. On December, 30th, he had two customers to serve during the entire morning. After lunch, he got three more, one of them being his fellow student Granger.

She did a bit of a double take when recognising him. "What on earth are _you_ doing here?"

"I work here," he replied matter-of-factly, wondering if she imputed on him having broken in here or something, judging her critically-knitted brows.

"You. Work. Here," she echoed, incredulous.

"Yes, I do indeed. So – how can I help you, Miss? Something for the tummy?"

"Sorry?"

"Most people coming in these days have digestive problems because of too much rich food."

"No – no, I haven't. Actually..."

"Actually...?"

"Excuse me, but... Why are you working here? I thought your other subject was Philosophies?"

"It is."

"So what are you doing here, then?"

"I _work_ here," he repeated slowly as if talking to a very slow-witted child, starting to find the situation quite funny.

"Because..."

"Because?"

"Because of your potions book project?"

"No."

She seemed to feel rather silly, and to say something, she asked into the blue, "How's that coming along, anyway?"

"Slowly but steady. We're happy about every participant, so if you're in the mood to pop in – we meet every Thursday in Magpie House." He smiled at her broadly, _quite_ enjoying seeing her so stumped.

"Who's 'we'?"

"Presently? Anthony Goldstein, Juliet Montague, Terry Boot, Esther Bobbin, Magnus Abbott, oh, and your old mate Seamus Finnegan, but I suppose you knew that."

"No... I didn't – haven't seen him in a while yet. How is he?"

"Oh, fine, as far as I can tell. So – are you coming?"

She arched a brow at him. "Of course not."

"Of course...?"

She shot him a dagger look and snapped, "Haven't you got some work to do, or do you always pester the customers?"

"Ah, you see, that _is_ my workload for today. It is called _service_. I'm standing here, asking you what you want and selling it to you then, unless you can't make up your mind, in which case I try to make some innocuous small talk, until you've either left under a pretext, or admitted that you wanted to buy whatever embarrassing article you had in mind, and can now not bring yourself to speak out loud because you actually know me."

She blushed so badly, he almost pitied her. Also, she got a coughing fit.

"Come on, Granger. I promise not to laugh. What is it? Some vile venereal disease?"

"What?"

"It must be _very_ embarrassing, if the colour of your cheeks is anything to go by!"

"Oh, shut up!"

"As you wish. So... Had a pleasant Christmas?"

"Yes."

"Got some nice presents?"

"Oh yes."

"How are your parents?"

"Fine."

"Say hello to them for me, will you?"

"Yeah... Erm..." She looked confused, but then made a cunning face. "I will, yes! But when I tell them that I met you here, they're bound to be asking what you're doing here, to which I will reply that you work here, which will in turn prompt _them_ to ask me, why on earth someone like you would be working in a frigging apothecary!"

"Someone like me...?"

"Someone putting the 'filthy' in the rich," she retorted like a shot, grinning triumphantly.

"Hey!"

"So what shall I tell them?"

"You _are_ pretty nosy."

"Yes. Every now and then."

"That's a pretty euphemism!"

"Spit it out, Malfoy. What's the matter here?"

"I work here because Mr Bobbin pays me one Galleon per hour, and because it was either this, or baby-sitting, and let's face it, who'd let _me_ come near their children?"

He had spoken very facetiously and meant it exactly like that, but her reaction was one of mild shock and dismay. "Oh!" she made and bit her lip. "You – you..."

He grinned playfully. "I. _Work_. Here. Come on, Granger, say it with me! _WORK. HERE._"

She couldn't help it but giggle, but when he asked her once more what she'd actually come for, she flushed once again, bought two ounces of peppermint tea as a default option and fled the shop. Seriously, this was the highlight of his entire working week, only topped, perhaps, by a Fifth Year he faintly remembered from Hogwarts, coming in the previous day and asking for condoms before realising whom he was talking to. So far, he had totally underestimated how much fun it could be to actually work in retail.

He told the story to Bernie that night, but she merely cocked a brow. "And what's so hilarious about that?"

He deflated. "Bah. You'd have to know her. She's a Little Miss Butter Won't Melt In Her Mouth."

"How immensely amusing your day was," she drawled hostilely. "_I_ sat around here all day, bored out of my senses and my only distraction being the question how the English can survive their own weather. Seriously. You ought to have perished as a nation some hundred years ago."

"You're not still mad at me, are you?"

"Oh, but what makes you think _that_!"

"You're getting on my nerves, Bernie. Honestly. You used to have a sense of humour –"

"I used to have a _life_, too!"

"And it's my fault that you have no more or what?"

Her put-on boredom dripped away, and all that remained was an unhappy-looking girl of nineteen years, averting her gaze and biting her lip. She shook her head jerkily, almost reluctantly, then stretched out her arms and ushered him to come over. "I'm sorry," she muttered against his shoulder when he had settled down next to her and put his arms around her.

"What is it, hm?"

She stiffened and remained silent for a while, whispering at last, "What would you say if I went back to the States?"

"To visit your parents?"

"No, back for good I mean..."

"Are you homesick?" Again, she was silent, and he felt the urge to offer her some solace, "That's alright, you know? I know how that feels. When I saw my parents –"

"Would you miss me?"

"Sure!"

"Would you?"

Her repetition of that question made him rethink. Would he? Would he really miss her if she left? He couldn't deny an immediate feeling of relief – though he wouldn't tell her that! – because the apartment, spacious as it was, was really a bit small for two people, and he had long longed to have a bit more space and time for himself. But that wasn't her point, was it?

"Bernie, what is this going to be?"

"I... I don't know..."

And then she lifted her head and kissed him, kissed him very passionately, and he quite forgot about her little spell of gloom because they made up in bed. The next day, he closed the shop early, went home, cooked a rather nice supper (though he said so himself) which passed even Bernie's critical inspection.

"I don't know what it is, but I like the taste."

"Do you!"

"What is it?"

"It is called Scouse."

"Yes, and what _is_ it?"

"Lamb, carrots, onions, potatoes."

"The sum tastes much better than the parts make it sound."

"I take that as a compliment."

He winked at her and received a radiant smile in turn. "You can! You know I have a very refined taste!"

"Refined? I'd have called it 'spoilt'," he said and she threw her napkin at him, laughing. He hurled his teaspoon at her, she unwittingly grabbed her fork for her revenge shot which left a scratch on his forehead as he hadn't ducked lowly enough, and which, Bernie declared half-sorry, half-amused, was bound to be in need of special care, which she applied personally and very affectionately, and made them late for the New Year's Party they had planned going to.

The party took place in Terry Boot's flat nearby college; the host had magically enlarged his tiny bed- and sitting room and connected both with his neighbour Magnus Abbott's rooms, making the place spacious enough to invite more than seventy people, though it should be said that these guests got to know each other _pretty_ closely due to the foreseeable space confinements.

Magnus Abbott had been in school with Ian Urquhart, drummer of ESBAT, the new stars of the Indie scene, and together with his band mates Zabini and 'Wicked Gale' Pilliwickle played a little impromptu gig, heightening the anyhow high spirits but making the air even worse because everyone listening had started to dance wildly. So had Draco and Bernie, until the former literally bumped into another guest – Susan Bones, who'd come over to England to spend the holidays with her family and who'd come tonight with her friend Hannah, Magnus' cousin.

Susan looked aghast, but recomposed quickly and gave him a smile when he said hello. Draco couldn't hear her response because the band was playing just too loudly, so he mimicked at her to follow him outside into the hallway to exchange some words, which she did hesitatingly.

"How _are_ you?" he cried, still a little deaf from the sound inside. "You look great!"

She did indeed. She had cut her hair into a very stylish pixie haircut, wore tight jeans and a very cool top – the Susan he had used to know had never bothered for anything like that, feeling perfectly comfortable in some old t-shirts from her father or the like. In fact, he couldn't but marble at his old flame, coming across so – so – grown-up, poised and self-confident.

"So do you," she answered merrily.

He could feel himself blushing and muttered some 'ers' and 'ums', repeated his initial question how she was, heard the customary 'excellent, thanks' and was at a complete loss what to say. He couldn't really shake off the memory that one year ago to this day, they'd spent the New Year's Eve in a very different fashion. Fortunately, Susan had gathered her wits again, talking animatedly about her time in college in New York – he could contribute one or two anecdotes from Artemis, if nowhere as easily as her. Inside, ESBAT had finished their last song, so Susan suggested going back inside.

Draco got them a glass of beer each and they continued their conversation. Susan's scholarship was for International Relations and International Law, so they had some common grounds to talk about.

"You seem to be enjoying your classes, don't you?" she asked him and he agreed. "Blimey, I'd always thought you'd be bored out of your mind."

"Really? Why?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I'd just figured that you'd much rather prefer potioneering, or playing Quidditch even."

She winked at him in good humour; he chuckled and shook his head. "Nah... As a matter of fact, I'm working in an apothecary and I can't say it's anywhere near as thrilling."

"You!" she cried, laughing out loud, "You're _working_?"

Why was everybody hearing this always so utterly disbelieving? Okay, his parents were rich, more than just rich, but he wasn't the first prospective heir to a fortune trying to stand on his own feet.

"But that's not the point!" Susan objected, still giggling. "It's just the idea of _you_ of all people actually doing something to earn a living!" He looked at her cluelessly, but she merely raised her glass. "Cheers to you, Draco. I'm right proud of you."

He was spared an answer to that rather disconcerting remark because they were joined by Bernie. "There you are," she cried and slung a possessive arm around Draco's waist before shooting Susan a wide smile. "Oh, how nice to see you again, Sarah!"

Draco wanted to correct the mistake, but Bernie had already raised her drink and toasted with Susan, continuing in that over-excited manner, "But you've been gone so long, tell me, how _are_ you?"

Susan was clearly bewildered, but answered, "Excellent, thanks. And you?"

"Ah, I'm kinda missing the old home countries – the sun, that is. But I suppose you wonder what I'm even babbling about. New York isn't Palm Beach either."

"No, it certainly isn't," Susan agreed slowly, obviously puzzling whether Bernie was just drunk, or off-centre by nature. Despite the buzzing voices all around them, an uncomfortable silence ensued. Draco desperately tried to think of something, some non-committal, innocuous matter that might involve both his present and past girlfriend in a harmless conversation. It was either this, or he'd have to excuse himself and jog to the bathroom to get away from this strange encounter.

Luckily, he happened to spot Greg just arriving, and literally ran towards him. Greg came over from Japan once in six weeks, and although Draco wouldn't have said it out loud, he missed his best mate quite badly. Bernie, as jocular, smart and sexy as she was, was no replacement for a best friend, however slow-witted that one might be.

Draco usually wasn't one to wildly embrace his male friends – the females neither – but as soon as being in arms' reach, he slung his around Greg's neck. "Gregory Goyle!" he exclaimed with heartfelt relief, "You! Here! Gosh, it's _so_ great seeing you, mate!"

"Great to see you, too, Malf," Greg retorted sounding a little put out. "You're alright there?"

"Course!"

"Oh, okay. I thought you'd emptied all the booze without me –"

"Not to worry, not to worry! Come on, what d'you want? They do a fabulous Manhattan here tonight!"

So they went to the bar (which, under different circumstances, went under the banal denomination of 'ironing board') together and had three rounds of drinks without even saying much. They were soon joined by Bernie, Damian Montague and Marcus Flint, Juliet and Rebecca, Pansy and Daphne, and Pretty Boy Zabini, who for once was looking rather dishevelled and sweat-drenched than 'pretty' and behaved not nearly as irritating as Draco remembered him to be.

"That was one hell of a gig, man," Marcus commended, and not even Draco could, or would, deny it. ESBAT were, face it, on the verge of greatness to come.

"Ah, that was nothing," Zabini said modestly, but continued in a more familiar vein, "You should hear us in rehearsal room!"

"So you're getting serious, then?"

He shrugged. "Guess so. I mean, for the time being, things are looking up. At first, we wanted a real singer, but I start enjoying myself, so I suppose we needn't hurry. And as soon as Gale stops destroying the equipment every time we're on stage –"

"But what sort of band would you be if the occasional guitar didn't go bust?" Bernie threw in.

"A band actually capable of supporting themselves."

"Come on! Whatever became of the trust funds?"

"Oh, I know," Damian said and shot Draco an arch grin. "Zabini is doing a Malfoy, too, and tries not living off mummy's black widow legacy."

"Shut up, pal!" Zabini cried, but for once, didn't sound too offended. Usually, every joke on his mother's expense caused him to bite and bristle.

"How's that going, by the way?" Daphne addressed Draco.

"Take one look at the state of his clothes and you know," replied Pansy in his stead.

"Ah, ever so deep and with a sense for the truly essential, Parkinson!"

"Leave her alone, Montague!" Zabini snapped at Juliet but she wasn't impressed.

"And you, you've turned positively chivalrous, Pretty Boy. Suits you well."

She received a measuring glance from Zabini, who obviously decided to let the topic rest at that, and started chatting with Greg about Japan. ESBAT was considering a little tour over there; Greg was capable of pointing out one or the other decent restaurant in Tokyo, strongly advising against some others. He praised the friendly Japanese temper, the impressive countryside which made practise all the more pleasant and a dozen other things. Draco privately thought how well this leave from home had done his old friend. Far less diffident, even less prone to stammer or mispronounce, Greg had come back capable of telling entire stories on the strength of some so far unknown volubility and confidence. He was no Oscar Wilde, no, but he no longer appeared like some backwoodsman either.

Without Draco's notice, it had turned five to midnight and people around them got fidgety. Common misapprehension had prevailed, so even those knowing better were expecting the new millennium to begin in only a few minutes, and Draco joined them gladly enough. It was time for a new millennium, he had decided. His scars had begun fading, with the remnants of the Dark Mark scarcely visible by now. He trusted his other scars, on the out- and on the inside, to lessen soon as well. Sleeping next to Bernie had minimised his nightmares to a tolerable level; the screams of the tortured and the dying were fading alongside the scars. He found he had made a clear cut, had left his parents, his home, his wealth, and while all this might not exactly count as actual atonement, he thought he was on a good way, after all. The trick was to think of it as little as possible. Keeping himself busy with his school work, even with his job, not to mention Bernie, helped so much more than pondering on the unspeakable.

Next to him, Bernie was beaming, one hand in his back pocket, the other one clinging to a large drink, and as the other guests ventured to count down, the two of them were engaged in a deep, longing kiss that made Draco yearn for going home this minute, even before midnight for all he cared. He had even forgotten that Susan was around here somewhere, perhaps seeing him with another girl. Oh well. _She_ had left _him_, so why should he continue being solicitous of her feelings?

"Happy New Year," he gasped when they broke apart, everyone around them now happily using the pretext for snogging, too. Next to them, Juliet and Rebecca made such a pretty show that once more, Draco wished to go home with his girlfriend. Damian was buy snogging Hannah Abbott, Marcus Flint was entangled in the arms of Daphne Greengrass, and even Pansy and Zabini were making out.

Bernie smiled back at him, and if the expression of her eyes was anything to go by, she was heavily inebriated. "New 'ear 'n' all," she mumbled in return, just before closing in for another kiss. She didn't go easier on the drinks after midnight either, and he increasingly had to steady her to keep her from toppling.

"It's time for us to go home, Bernie," he told her at a quarter past four. He'd told her the same every ten minutes so far, always with the same lack of results.

"No!"

"It is, believe me."

"Don't want to go home –"

"What do you want, then?"

"A pony!" she screeched and giggled. "You – and a pony. On a second thought –"

"You can have me, and we'll see about the pony, right?" he interjected quickly, and without further ado disapparated with her. As soon as standing in front of his apartment, he thought the Apparition had made her sick because she looked on the verge of throwing up, so he ushered her inside quickly. She didn't vomit though, and cast him a reproachful glance instead.

"I wanted to stay at the party!"

"I heard you, but I wished to save you from turning into something trampled down into the carpets."

"I like your friends, you know?" She cackled. "That Ivor bloke had an eye on me. Oh, and your pal Greg has turned out for the better, too. I used to think he was a bit of a bore. Scratch that! Not a bore. A boor, I mean! A _boor_!"

She struggled with him to let go of her, and apprehensively he did, fully expecting her to drop down at once, but she regained her balance and supporting herself on the furniture, scrambled forth to the next armchair. Together with her cloak, she shrugged off her exuberance, slouching down in the armchair and summoning a bottle of vodka with her wand. She uncorked it with her teeth and took a deep swig.

"Come on, sweeting, you really shouldn't –"

"Stop sounding like my dad, D!"

He took a deep breath. "Nice party," he said instead.

"You think so?" she asked back, and then, "Yeah, yeah, it was. Very _nice_."

Drunk and tired as he was, he rolled his eyes. "I foresee drama, Bernie. Come, come, out with it, I need to go to bed soon."

"No," she replied warily, "no drama. You go sleep, I'll stay up a little longer."

He didn't have it in himself to ask, knowing that if he insisted, they'd somehow begin quarrelling again, and he'd had too much of that lately. Bernie could be loads of fun, but she could also be lots of high maintenance. His back had hardly touched the mattress when he was already slumbering away, the image of 'Wicked Gale' Pilliwickle trashing the drum set with her bass-guitar imprinted on his retinas. What a way to start the new millennium...

He woke up late in the next day, plagued by headaches and murderous thirst. He had the vague impression that Bernie hadn't been in bed at all because the mountain of pillows next to him appeared untouched. Well, perhaps she had passed out on the sofa last night. As he dragged himself out of the bed and into the bathroom, he heard telling sounds from the kitchen and smelled both freshly-brewed coffee and fried bacon, but it didn't quite register until he was getting dressed. Coffee...? Fried _bacon_...? To his knowledge, Bernie wouldn't know how to boil water. When he trudged into the kitchen though, he had to revise that assessment as Bernie was just placing bowls containing scrambled eggs, fried bacon, buttered scones and the like on a huge tray before levitating it towards the dining room.

She cast him an impish smile. "Follow the scent, hon," she said.

"I didn't know you could _do_ coffee..."

She cackled, but said nothing, and in the dining room let him marvel at the full extent of her morning's ministrations. The orange juice was fresh, she informed him; there was toast, salmon, fruit salad, an assortment of no less than six different jams and marmalade, grilled mushrooms and grilled cheese, pancakes and waffles.

"You did this...?"

"Certainly. Who else?" she said brightly and ushered him to sit down. She poured him coffee and added foamed milk and continued, "Got to start the New Year – hell, the bloody new _Millennium_ – properly, I thought."

Perhaps he was a little too hung-over to truly appreciate this miracle (in his state, he'd have devoured a bowl of unsweetened porridge and have declared it a feast), but once he'd tried the syrup-soaked pancakes, he exclaimed, "Fuck me, Bernie! How can you cook like that and suffered through any of _my_ attempts?"

"But it was just so much fun to see you struggling. What's more – your what's-it-called yesterday prove that I've accomplished my mission, haven't I?"

He tried to look humble. "Mission accomplished. So what are you up to next?"

She didn't answer at once, but sipped her coffee. "I thought I'd really need to regain my tan," she said at last and he got the distinct impression she wasn't talking about going on holiday.

"Meaning?" he asked.

"I'll be going home, Draco."

"Missing the sun so much?"

She laughed. "Oh, the sun!" she cried, going on more sombrely, "The English weather _is _a joke, I'll give you that, but I guess I could have arranged myself with that. I'll tell you what I'm really missing, Draco..."

He waited for her to do exactly that, but she seemed to have lost the thread. "What is it, sweeting?" he asked her tentatively, a funny feeling in his guts.

"I – I've changed my mind, you see?"

His throat was dry. "About what?"

"About you," she replied promptly, making him swallow, but her next words bewildered him even more. He hadn't seen _this_ coming! "When we met, all I wanted was having a good time –"

"And you hadn't –"

"Oh, no, I had. Tons of it. That's what appealed to me so much about you when we met. I saw you and thought this guy could be fun. And you are. But... I'm sorry, I didn't see this coming, D, but – fact is... I... Jesus, I don't even know how to say this..."

"Just say it, Bernie, I'm not squeamish."

"But _I_ am. And not very keen on making a fool of myself. You see, I – I – I love you." She almost spat the words, her eyes squeezed shut. "I'm sorry, but I do. You needn't say anything, D – I know you don't love me, and that's fine. 'T wasn't our deal either."

"Bernie –"

"No, please, hear me out. At first, I was jealous of your Susan –"

"Oh, _come_ on! What should I have done? We met accidentally, I swear!"

"Calm down, Draco, I _know_. What I meant to say is that, seeing you and her together, I realised that there is no call for being jealous on her. That girl I thought responsible for you not loving me – well, I – I thought you'd come over her in time and fall in love with me then, but – but – seeing you together last night, I realised you cared no more for her than for me."

He didn't know what to say. Her declaration had gobsmacked him just too much.

"You just don't care at all, D, not for me, not for her, not for anyone. No girl at any rate."

"You've been talking to Susan, then?" he cried aghast.

"What?"

"That's what _she _says! _She_ put that in your head!"

"Rubbish! I can think for myself, thank you very much, Mister!" She tipped her finger against her head. "Your Susan –"

"She's not _my_ Susan!"

"She's as British and constipated like the rest of you folks. I could goad her as much as I pleased, she wouldn't open her mouth even for snapping back at me." She gave a loud snigger. "So she complained about the same? Yes, of course. She did come across like a pretty far-sighted person. Not at all like that Pansy. Holy cow, what a stupid tart."

"Bernie, I..."

"Come on, D. You _know_ I'm right. You didn't fall in love with me in the last six months, you're not going to fall for me in the next six either. And I – I – I can't deal with that. I thought I could but I can't. It breaks my heart being with you, feeling all the time you don't love me back. I'm sorry."

"_You_ are sorry?"

"Sure. I broke the rules."

"The _rules_?"

"When we got together, we agreed that love is no part of the deal. In fact –" She smiled ruefully. "In fact, that's fine, because I don't fancy myself as the steady type yet anyhow. I'll go back to the States, forget about you, and continue with some more years of partying. That's more like me." She ventured a real smile. "I can even return to the bosom of my family. They wanted me to become serious – I did and got my poor little heart broken –" She winked at him. "Which is all _their_ fault, of course, so now they have to be _very_ lenient with me and give me time for picking up the pieces. It's going to be brilliant!"

Draco was speechless; the headaches, only slightly mitigated by breakfast, did their share to keep him from grasping what she was telling him there. He'd understood, faintly, that she was dumping him, and it had something to do with the weather... No, no. She'd dumped him because she fancied herself in love with him. That couldn't be right, could it? Firstly, Bernie wasn't the _type_ for so serious a sentiment; he had liked that about her on first sight. Also – it made no sense at all to be dumped by a girl _loving _you _because_ she was loving you. No, he decided dimly, she was just tired out, the half-empty bottle of vodka, now empty, might have done the rest, right.

"You don't mean that, Bernie," he muttered.

"Boy, you can bet your cute little arse that I do."

"No, I mean... Look, we have a good time, haven't we?"

"We had, yes."

"You don't really want that to end –"

"You don't get it, D!" She smirked sadly. "I'd love to go on, because it'll break my heart to leave you. But it'll mend again, I'm sure. But if I stayed, it'd only get worse. We didn't have so much fun lately, did we, and I'm aware that's my fault. I was so bitchy, I know I was, I was getting on my _own_ nerves, really. Look, you saw July and Becca last night. _That's_ what I want."

"You want a lesbian lover?" he joked feebly. "Because that can be arranged, certainly. In fact, I find the concept strangle tempting myself, too –"

She had the grace to laugh, but didn't sound merry. "I want someone, too, looking at me with his eyes brimming over with love. I want to be kissed with something more than passion. I'd love that someone to be you, but that's not going to happen, and don't you deny that."

But he wasn't about to deny anything. He thought he knew what she was referring to. He knew the kinds of looks she meant; he'd seen those between Juliet and Rebecca last night, he'd seen them his whole life between his parents. And he'd never felt the urge to look like that at any other girl. He'd just never felt that way about anybody.

He raised his gaze and met Bernie's. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

She shook her head. "You needn't be."

"But I _am_. I'm very, very fond of you, and I don't want to lose you."

She sniggered softly, got up and came over to him, pulling him up and into her arms. She gently kissed him. "Come on, one last time, hon. For old times' sake."


	168. A New Idol

Pansy has found herself a new boyfriend

* * *

_**- 4.41. -**_

A New Idol

* * *

_Let every man be respected as an individual and no man idolized._

_ALBERT EINSTEIN_

* * *

"And here they are – our very own stars – the newcomers of the year according to Teen Witch! Please welcoooome – _**ESBAT**_!" the master of ceremony declared like a mountebank, made a deep bow and opened the curtains with a swish of his wand.

The band played their usual opener – 'Hell's Gates' and the crowd in the auditorium went wild. In the first row, magically unencumbered by the pogueing masses around her, stood Pansy Parkinson and couldn't quite decide whether she was slightly bored ('bored' looked very well on her; it gave her a pouty mouth that most men found very sexy) or proud and enthusiastic because the guy that no less than four hundred witches around here were screaming and leering at what happened to be her new boyfriend.

Blaise, extraordinarily handsome by nature, looked even better these days, now that he had adopted a bit of a bad boy look, with wild, unkempt hair, a stubble and the sort of clothes that glamorous rock stars such as he were made for. He wore tight black leather trousers, his debonair black shirt was unbuttoned down to his midriff, showing his scrawny, hairless chest aptly pierced, and the upper parts of the tattoo he had on his abdomen – a snake, coiling all the way down to his private parts and further down his thigh, as she knew from more private excursions. As far as good catches went, she had landed the coup of the season.

"The next song goes out to someone very special," he now cried, grinning into the general audience, but his gaze stuck on her. "You know who you are, and if you don't, this song will tell you!" Ian Urquhart began thrashing at his drums, and then the first words made Pansy feel like being showered in fame itself.

"Rising at thy name, Dark Lady, my body and soul are ready by thine will. Fairest flower – deliver me! Darkest heart – deliver me!"

He'd told her that he'd written that song with her on his mind, and while Pansy didn't understand what he _meant_ by the nonsensical lyrics, she found the gesture in itself sweet and flattering. To be quite honest, she was no big fan of ESBAT. They were too loud for her taste, too disharmonic – she was more of a Celestina Warbeck kinda gal – but it was not much of a downside, compared to dating the most popular and lusted-after boy in all England.

With glee, she noticed the pieces of underwear hurled at the stage, the roses, the girls' eyes around her glazed over with lust and excitement, the guys banging their heads and screaming the lyrics. It felt to her as if, by extension, they were screaming at her, a feeling so arousing, so thoroughly exquisite, that once the gig was over (after no less than seven encores!), she ran behind the stage to fall around her lover's neck and kiss him very fervently, perfectly aware that his band mates were watching and deriving even more pleasure out of that.

"Let's go home," she whispered into his ear, aware that usually after a concert, the band would normally go out for a couple of drinks still. She enjoyed that feeling of empowerment, her capability to direct him as she pleased. By 'home', she had actually meant her own place nearby the theatre, but since his place – or rather say, his mother's – was so much excelling her own in terms of luxury, she didn't insist on having her way. She only remembered her own reservations when actually arriving and coming across his mother, who was the very epitome of haughty self-importance.

Or she usually was, because this time turned out a little different. Mrs Zabini sat in an armchair in the living room when they got there, calling her darling son in. Feeling sheepish and irritated to have forgotten her qualms, Pansy tentatively followed, bracing herself for the snappish remarks inevitably bound to follow. She was sort of used to those; almost every mother of her respective boyfriend treated her this way. Envy, Pansy supposed proudly, if ever so slightly pinched. But Mrs Zabini was in no mood for quarrelling tonight. Instead, she asked Blaise how the concert had been, expressed her delight that things had gone so well, and addressed Pansy next, making a polite remark about her outfit.

"Thank you, Ma'am!" the girl cried in surprise. "I absolutely love _your_ robes!"

It was a sincere compliment. Mrs Zabini had a taste much like Pansy's own, and what was more, she was just so goddamn gorgeous. Older than Pansy's own mother, she looked not a day older than twenty-five, tops, and if Pansy had any true goal in life, it must be this – to keep her appearance as immaculate as Blaise's mum.

"I can give you my tailor's address, if you like. The stuff one gets in town is always so very, very bleak."

"That would be lovely, Ma'am."

"Ma'am!" Mrs Zabini gasped, spluttering her drink. "Makes me sound like Bee's grandmother!"

"Oh, sorry, I –"

For a second, Mrs Zabini's eyes turned as cool as ever, but then she put on a brilliant smile once more. "Call me Venus, child. I must admit, I quite forgot your name."

"This is Pansy, mum," Blaise threw in, sounding bemused at his mother's change of tune. So far, she'd never had anything nice to say about his new girlfriend, or any other come to that, and they were going out for seven weeks by now.

"Yes, of course, forgive me, darling. How could I forget. Would you two like to have a drink with me?"

"Actually –"

"Don't worry, Bee. _He_ isn't to return home anytime soon. I sent him out on some errands, and I believe it'll take him the better part of the next two days figuring out that there is no such thing as manticore whelp lotion."

Blaise sniggered maliciously, but repeated, "Actually we meant to – erm – _withdraw_ –"

"Nonsense!" cried Mrs Zabini, and was joined in her objections by their guest. As a matter of fact, Pansy felt so flattered by the other woman's sudden familiarity, she thought that ordinary sex really was nothing in comparison.


	169. Almost Famous

On the brink of fame, Blaise finds he's got (almost) everything he ever wanted

* * *

**– 4.42. –**

Almost Famous

* * *

_We're flying high_  
_We're watching the world pass us by_  
_Never want to come down_  
_Never want to put my feet back down_  
_On the ground_

_DEPECHE MODE – Never let me down again_

* * *

Every night, he's got a bet going with himself. He bets that there is no one in the audience capable of discerning that the riff starting their song 'Fiendfyre' is a direct rip-off of Vivaldi's L'Inverno allegro non molto. Not even Ian or Gale know this; they believe him to be a smash songwriter and he's not going to undeceive them either.

This night, however, is different as he'll find out after the gig. It's the beginning of their big European tour, twenty-three gigs in twenty-eight days, their _first_ European tour, come to that, but if one is to believe the critics (which he'll only do if they keep on writing such charming things about him), it's merely the beginning of their comet-like career. He doesn't care for being likened to a comet – they're very soon out of view.

After the show, there's a huge party in the foyer of the Appollonia theatre where the gig took place. Ian's dad, who acts as their manager cum agent, has carefully chosen the date to achieve the best possible ticket sales outcome; all the Hogwarts students are home for the holidays and consequently, the whole place is packed full with people. They sold nine hundred tickets, not counting the ones they gave away to friends and family. _Everyone_ is there, not only the proud parents of the band members and their friends, no, there are no less than seven reporters (and Mr Urquhart delivered only four of them with free tickets, the others have come because tonight the Appollonia is _The_ Place To Be!), heck, even Stubby Boardman, usually a reclusive, and his old band mate 'Wolfman' Oddpick have showed up and congratulated them on the show.

All his old school friends have come, too, making him feel even more glorious. It is one thing to be admired by perfect strangers – being admired by people who actually know you, even better: looked down on you once, is absolutely priceless! He receives some well-meaning pats on the shoulder from the stars of the old House Team, people who didn't give him the time of day some years ago; Ivor Warrington claims this was the best concert he's ever been to, Marcus Flint nearly breaks his hand when shaking it, mumbling "awesome, man! Absolutely awesome!"

Malfoy has come, too, not holding back with his praise for once. That he's come down from his high horse is another source of triumph for his old house mate, but he reassesses once the two of them are out of earshot for a minute and Malfoy mutters, "Nice one, Pretty Boy. I recognised Vivaldi, Bach and Beethoven. Not to mention the shameless verbatim of some of Shakespeare's more ominous sonnets."

Saying thus, he shoots Blaise a conspiratorial wink and adds, "Don't worry, I'm not going to tell anyone."

The wink and the smile may have been meant in a reassuring way, but they do the opposite for the young musician, who irritably grunts, "I have no clue what you're even talking about!"

Malfoy merely smirks and doesn't persist. From the corner of his eyes, Blaise sees that blonde reporter approaching them alongside her sidekick photographer, and even though he feels a bout of cold sweat running down his spine wondering if she could have overheard Malfoy, he manages to put on his trademark grin and poses for a picture.

"Well, well, well," Rita Skeeter cries shrilly, "what a smashin' show! And how very handsome you are, Mr Zabini – just like your dear father, ain't you?"

Blaise replies with some rehearsed lines that he always gives when someone likens him to his dad (which happens _all_ the time), about how flattering that comparison is, what a huge role-model to live up to, and then, a bit false modesty can never harm, that he's far from his dad's level of accomplishment. The reporter keeps on nodding with every word he says; it's like a nervous tick because he can see clearly that she knows just as well as he how empty and generic his answers are.

Luckily, they're joined by other former Slytherins, among them Pansy, who can never resist a camera and falls around Blaise's neck to give him a fiery kiss. "You were marvellous," she breathes against his cheek. "Did you see how they went _wild_?"

Yes, he did. Evenings such as this make him feel that this is what he was born to do. Not only because his dad was a famous rock star, but because _he_, Blaise himself, lives on the response of the audience. He's never felt so confident, never so belonging anywhere, never so whole as a person. The fans' admiration is like oxygen – once you've tried, you can never really go back to breathe the stale air of normal life. So yeah, he is exactly where he wants to be, and this allows him to be with the only girl he ever had a real crush on. He's not deceiving himself. Pansy, whom he fancied since they were in their fourth year, never did as much as _looking_ at him before he became famous. He doesn't mind though, because, as said before, this _is_ him. The music, the subsequent fame, the awe – that's him. It's nothing external, alien, but who he truly is. Pansy has recognised this. He loves her even better for it.

"I love your songs. They're like – like the only thing keeping me from topping myself sometimes," some fan girl approaching him just now, says to his startled dismay. Being complimented is one thing. Having the responsibility for another person's _life_ thrust upon him – very different. Not cool. Definitely not cool! She keeps on gushing, if one can call it like that, telling him just how much she loves their music and displaying quite the musical ear to talk about it in a less trivial way than most fans, and all the while he wonders who this girl _is_, because he is absolutely sure he knows her – from school, probably – though he can't put his finger on it.

She is so thin that it borders on frightful – he can see the bones in her décolleté, her arms are like thin twigs, so are her legs in the ultratight black trousers. She's also unnaturally sallow, her eyes are much too big for her tiny face that looks even smaller because of the masses of backcombed jet-black hair which doesn't flatter her complexion either. Her make-up looks much like Gale's – she's possibly copied the style – meaning she's painted large black lines around her eyes, a black cobweb on her left cheek, she even uses black lipstick, but on a girl of perhaps sixteen years, this looks even more disturbing than it looks on Gale – who only applies it for their shows, and tends to look pretty normal in everyday life. This girl won't look 'normal' even without the make-up, he can tell.

"How are you these days, Linny?" Pansy asks her with a haughty smile, and it takes Blaise another minute to process. This – _this_ – is little Linny Crabbe, then? What happened to _her_? He vaguely remembers her shedding forty pounds at least in the last years, but she must have lost another thirty since then. This waif can impossibly weigh more than forty kilos, and that she is rather tall doesn't make things any better!

"Linny?" he asks incredulously. "Belinda _Crabbe_?"

"Yeah. I thought you hadn't recognised me."

"I didn't!" On the tip of his tongue are some borderline-rude remarks that he bites down. No reason to tell the girl, who appears to be a massive fan, that she rather resembles a hag than her old self!

He's not the only one hardly trusting his eyes. Damian Montague looks at her with unveiled pity; Marcus Flint and Ivor Warrington are absolutely aghast. Juliet Montague, more subtle than her brother, keeps on shooting the girl the odd, surreptitious glance now and then, true concern in her eyes, and so does Malfoy.

"How are you, Linny?" he asks her quietly while the other folks have passed on to discuss the chances of the Whimbourne Wasps winning the championship this year. Blaise, who is as much interested in Quidditch as he is in clipping someone else's toe nails, clandestinely listens, while ostentatiously listening to the debate.

"What ye think?" she snarls scornfully.

"If I thought that you meant that question seriously, I'd have to say that I think you're quite wretched," replies Malfoy, making Blaise shudder. The nerve of that boy!

"_Wretched!_" she snorts. "Wretched! Oh my. I'm not _wretched_, Malfoy. In fact, I'm having the time of my life!"

"You don't look like it."

"Don't I! Well, let me see... Me brother is dead – but you knew _that_, or perhaps you have forgotten –"

"I didn't, of course I didn't!" Malfoy interjects but she ignores him.

"Me dad's in prison and me mum's off the rocker, but ye know how _that_ feels like – oh, no, ye don't, I quite forgot. _Your_ dad is snugly sitting at home as a reward for snitching on his mates!"

"Linny, I –"

He is interrupted by Ivor Warrington, who has turned around to him with a broad smile. "Malfoy," he says archly, "where is that super-pretty girlfriend of yours?"

"Bernie?"

"Bernie! Yes, that's her name if I recall correctly, though her name isn't _quite_ what sticks in a guy's memory about _that one_!"

Ivor makes a gesture indicating a shapely female figure and all the guys snort, laughing. "She's back in New Mexico for all I know, Warrington," Malfoy says in good humour. "We've split up, you know –"

"No, I did _not_ know! You mean that nice piece of crumpet is actually back on the market?"

"If you will put it that way –"

"I do! New Mexico, you say? Blimey, I was going to plan my next holidays anyway..."

At that time, Blaise hardly registers the bit of news – as if he cared for Malfoy's love life! – but in the course of the next hour, he marks some discomfiting changes in her girlfriend's attitude towards her former lover. Until quite recently – ninety minutes ago, mind you – she was scornful, even abrasive whenever that name, or the man himself, came up. By now, she is at her utmost flirtatious, which is always clearly visible with her because she starts flicking her hair and giggles a lot. Blaise isn't very fond of that high-pitched giggle in the best of times, but it's _his_ giggle, supposed to address no one but _him_, and his ancient dislike of Malfoy, just like the old rivalry among them, comes back with a vengeance.

"Are you still working on that potions book for Snape?" she asks Malfoy and flutters her fake eye-lashes at him; Blaise sees it all.

"Sure."

"How's that coming along, then?"

"Splendid, although we do have a spot of trouble keeping focus because Finnegan keeps on blowing stuff up. I fully expect that to change though because we were recently joined by Golden Girl Granger and you know how she's got that word FOCUS written all over her face."

Damian snorts, "Granger? What's gotten into _her_? I thought she'd rather eat a Peruvian Vipertooth sandwich than be in the same room like you!"

Malfoy grins. "Well, she had to accustom to that because we got tons of law classes together. Believe it or not, we're even in the same study group. Loosened up, that one."

"I find that hard to imagine."

Juliet shakes her head. "No, it's true. Well, most of the time. I remember how Magnus offered her a beer during the first potions meeting she attended and she nearly fainted, but all in all... And Malfoy's right, it does us good to be a little more focused. We somehow managed to spend seven weeks on a single draft of the Draught of Peace –"

"Which didn't go down all that peacefully either."

"Sounds thrilling," Pansy coos, although she doesn't know the first thing about potion-making, still clinging to Blaise's arm, but apparently forgetting everything else about him.

"And if you –" Juliet casts Malfoy a poignant look. "– could get a grip on yourself and bloody visit your parents, we might be even better!"

"What's that got to do with anything?" Marcus asks cluelessly.

"Because they've got a frigging _portrait_ of old Snapy – just imagine how much more smoothly things would be if we could just now and then ask _him_ what we're supposed to be doing!"

"You're still not talking?"

"Oh, you know how it's like," Malfoy says lightly, wilfully ignoring that everyone else clearly doesn't know 'what it's like'. "Incidentally – I met _your_ mother in Bobbin's recently, Warrington. Asked for a boil cure potion. You've still got that – _little problem_, then?"

Warrington turns scarlet and threatens Malfoy with his raised fist, but soon joins the other people's laughter. Even Blaise is sniggering, although he doesn't feel like it at all.


	170. Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

Only on the chessboard, Lucius cannot be beaten even by his wife

* * *

**- 4.43. -**

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

* * *

_Vita brevis breviter in brevi finietur__,_

_Mors venit velociter quae neminem veretur__,_

_Omnia mors perimit et nulli miseretur._

_Ad mortem festinamus peccare desistamus._

_LLIBRE VERMELL DE MONTSERRAT_

* * *

If anybody had asked her, Narcissa Malfoy might truthfully have admitted that her husband's conviction and subsequent conversion of sentence to life-long house-arrest was one of the most felicitous things that had ever happened to her. She considered herself all the more blessed because in the time prior to his pardon, she'd learnt what solitude really meant. And since their son had abandoned them, she needed her husband even more than ever.

As things were, nothing could part them. He wasn't allowed to leave the house – and saw little reason to do it, finding he could do everything he ought to look after just as well at home – and she had hardly ever deliberately left the boundaries if she could have helped it, anyhow.

So, day in, day out, they spent their entire time together. She sat opposite of him reading when he was dealing with business, or perusing the papers; he listened in utter raptures while she was practising on the piano, and they took endless walks in the gardens, or played chess, or backgammon, or made love whenever they felt like it. In hindsight, Lucius couldn't say why he had ever done differently, why he'd ever believed he'd have to leave the house for the office or spend an evening with his friends. All he had ever wanted was right beside him.

He watched her lounging in the armchair opposite of him, in one of his favourite gowns, contemplating the chess board between them. "I'd like to quote Tal here," she murmured, playing with her remaining rook. "You can only take them one at a time!"

"In which case I should reply that I like to say that the attacker always has the advantage."

"I don't understand this. I know twice as much as you about the game, and still you beat me every single time."

"You know ten times more than me about chess, petal, but you lack the one crucial ingredient – you lack the killing instinct."

Faced with the decision whether she preferred sacrificing her remaining rook or a knight, she played with the latter figurine and would have given a proper retort, when a blood-curling shriek echoed through the vast estate, making both of them give a start. Narcissa dropped the little knight. Lucius was at the window with five long strides, but once his eyes had got used to the moonlit darkness, he dropped his glass, too. The unruly blond hair, the whole posture – it was unmistakable – this was young Lennart! Screaming, wailing, running across the lawn underneath their window and out of sight –

"Give me your wand, Cissa!"

"Wh-"

"Your wand! _Now!_" he cried, snatched it from her and without thinking twice, ran out of the room. "You stay exactly here, petal!"

He raced down the corridor, down the stairs and along the entrance hall, taking a short cut through one of the parlours and exiting through the terrace door. Narcissa had cried after him, but not heard his gasped response – for all she knew, her husband was fleeing from something, and she tried to follow him. She was a good deal slower though, never sportive, and out of the habit of _running _since she had learnt counter-spells to escape her sisters' attacks, aged five, roughly. Without her wand, she felt dangerously helpless, but she ran on nevertheless, and once she had reached the entrance hall, unwitting which way Lucius had taken, she instinctively chose the front door, yelling out for him.

She hadn't got far when hearing his voice though, somewhere in the distance. "Get back into the house at once, Cissa! Get _back_ and –"

For a second, she was frozen; unable to decide if she should obey, or follow her instincts and try finding her husband. She chose the second option – she couldn't have gone back leaving him out here in whatever peril – and then she heard the fateful sound. A howl – and another – barks and howls, somewhere close to the lake, somewhere in the general direction from where she had heard Lucius' voice – but with her naked panic overriding any common sense, she ran along the path, seeing a dark figure before her and almost beating him with a little marble statue of the goddess Hecate she had picked up on her way, before noticing the shoulder-long blond hair and the lanky stature.

Lennart's voice wasn't recognisable, a mere rasp, breathless – if he hadn't croaked 'Aunt Cissy', she wouldn't have thought it was him. She ran the last few metres, seeing him stagger towards her, one arm reaching out for her, one cramped in pain against his chest. "Aunt Cissy," he moaned once more, nearly collapsing into her arms.

She caught him and screamed, "Come back here, Lucius – I've found him – come back! It's Lennart!"

But Lucius gave no reply, and in the next second, she was hit by a curse – a very short-distance curse – and broke down herself. The young man she had been holding in her arms struggled not to fall down with her; he laughed, seized her up and over his shoulder to carry the limp witch into the house.

Outside, Lucius Malfoy found himself encircled by approximately twenty werewolves; he slashed Narcissa's wand to keep them at bay, but he had previously been hit by a silencing spell in the back, preventing him from using some of the more useful curses, which were difficult enough with his wife's wand, additional to the fact that he hadn't really done any complicated magic in the last four years. He thought he had disabled four or five nevertheless, but they closed in step by step, and his mind was spinning with the dawning realisation that he was doomed. And what about Cissa? He had taken her wand away! She had no chance to defend herself at all!

Inside the house, Narcissa's captor, who decidedly was _not_ her nephew, so much she was sure of – had dragged her into the parlour facing the lake – and the gruesome scene with the werewolves attacking her husband. He had pushed a footstool towards the large Venetian window and thrown Narcissa onto it, face first. Then he magically tied her hands in her back and cast a silencing charm on her before undoing the _Locomotor Mortis_ at last.

She couldn't see him, but finally believed to know who he was anyway, freezing with the horrible scenario outside, then struggling with her ties once more. "Take a good last look at old Lucius, Narcissa," he said.

She couldn't help it, mutely screaming – screaming herself hoarse without a single sound to be heard – a hundred feet before her, a werewolf had managed to strike at Lucius with its claws, hitting the back of his knees and forcing him down, but Lucius, falling to his knees, managed to turn around and take down the attacker at least. Seeing him fight for his life down there on the lawn, Narcissa registered only faintly that the man had torn her robes open in the back – her entire focus was directed on Lucius in this second – her heart was racing, her hope grew when she saw him slay another of the beasts – and her attacker yanked down her knickers – which returned her senses back into this room for a moment.

"Don't you dare," she yelled, unable to make herself be heard, but carrying on regardless. "Don't you touch me, you foul bastard, or it'll be the last thing you ever do!"

Even if he had heard her, he wouldn't have believed a word. Another look outside sufficed to assure him that herhusband wouldn't have another chance in life to avenge his wife's honour – a werewolf, Greyback possibly, had plunged at Lucius and cut open his carotid artery with his claws. Narcissa would _never_ regain her wand – he had given Greyback his word to feed her to the rabid beasts out there once he was through with her.

Narcissa's body was stiff with terror, with or without feeling the man coming closer and roughly pushing apart her thighs. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and jerked up her head for her to have a better view of the blood spurting out of Lucius, he breathed down her neck and growled something along the lines that she, the haughty bitch who had never given him the time of day, would finally pay for her arrogance, just like her husband out there, but in the very moment when his penis pressed against her entrance, he was struck dead. Just like that.

As it was, Narcissa hardly noticed him collapsing behind her – all she could see was Lucius – the remaining werewolves striking at him with fangs and claws – and then she could see him no more because they were all over him. She didn't immediately register that with her aggressor's death, all of his spells had come undone. The silencing spell on the house wore off; and her hands and voice were free again, too. It all seemed to happen in slow motion – a dozen house-elves, alerted at last, appearing out there, fighting back the werewolves – Narcissa getting to her feet, unaware that she was half naked, her robes only clinging to her by the sleeves – she didn't even remember that she still had no wand when storming out, still screeching on top of her voice, beyond hysterical.

He must not be dead he must not be dead GOD oh GOD! don't let him be dead don't don't don't LUCIUS!

The next five minutes impregnated her mind as much as the past ones. The elves, who weren't only defending their master, but had some open debts themselves with the werewolves, successfully dispelled them and were wailing miserably, crouching over a bloody heap that glistened deeply red even in the light of the full moon, just like Lucius' platinum blonde hair smeared with blood. His robes were soaking wet with the sticky substance, his eyes broken, his mouth half-open with his last curse, but Narcissa ignored all the obvious signs of his death – like the lack of breathing, or the impossible amount of blood _outside_ of his body – she fell down on her knees and threw herself at him, crying, _beseeching_ him to answer – to _live_ – she covered his face and hands with kisses, oblivious of all the blood.

* * *

_Sic transit..._ Thus passes world's glory.

_Vita brevis…_ Life is short, and shortly it will end;

Death comes quickly and respects no one,

Death destroys everything and takes pity on no one.

To death we are hastening, let us refrain from sinning.

_They can only take them one at a time!_ – Quote by Mikhail Tal

_I like to say that the attacker always has the advantage._ – Quote by Garry Kasparov


	171. Dad Is Dead

Draco cannot come to terms with what has happened

* * *

**– 4.44. –**

Dad Is Dead

* * *

_Nihil tam magnum est, quod perire non possit._

_SENECA – De Beneficiis_

* * *

At the same time when his mother was living through her worst nightmare, Draco was sitting together with some fellow students at perfect leisure, taking notes for their potions project, drinking beer, and laughing about anecdotes about his old Head of House and his illegible remarks on some old homework assignments which they had obtained from other, older students, who still had got their NEWT level materials.

"Face it, the man was a genius," he now said and took a swig from his bottle of beer. They had just finished a particularly complicated potion and compared it to the potion brewed after Libatius Borage's instructions. Professor Snape's version had won fair and straight.

"If you had spent twenty years lingering in the school dungeons and doing not much else, you'd possibly have come up with quite some interesting stuff, too," Anthony Goldstein replied with a wry grin.

_Plop_. Draco was used to the college house-elves popping in regularly under some pretext or other, mostly for casting stern looks at them all for making such a mess, and in order to check that Finnegan hadn't set something ablaze once again. So it was little wonder that Draco didn't even turn around when hearing a servant's arrival. He only gave a start and swirled around when recognising his mother's personal elf Elsy's aggravated voice, yelping –

"Master Draco! Home – at once – My Lord – he's – he's – and My Lady –"

He was on his feet at once, his stomach twisting with dark premonitions. Without another word, Elsy grabbed his hand to dodge the Anit-apparition magic designed for humans, and he found himself in his parents' terrace parlour in the next second.

He saw his mother – even more, he _heard_ her, whimpering and screeching and thrashing around her whenever someone tried to come near. Was that – was that _blood_ on her face and hands and robes? And speaking of her robes – why was she hardly wearing them? There were strangers trying to soothe her – sobbing house-elves – house-elves looking so dishevelled that they, too, looked as if they had been involved in a fight…

He didn't understand _anything_, wildly wrenching on Elsy's arm. "Where is my father, Elsy? What –"

"My Lord is… My Lord is…" Elsy lost her voice, her lips quivering, her eyes bulging and moist.

And then he could finally make out _something_ in his mother's indistinct screaming. "He _isn't_ dead – he _can't_ be dead! _Leave me alone and let me to my husband!_"

Draco needed two seconds to process the likeliest meaning of that scream, and felt as if a curse had hit him and knocked all air out of him. At once, the noise around him seemed to fade; he could scarcely hear anything but the rush of his own blood. His sight blurred, his legs gave way, and if it hadn't been for his mother's elf-in-waiting, he might have fallen down to the floor like that. Elsy supported him enough to allow him collapsing into an armchair, but he didn't even notice. There was one gigantic, reverberating word filling him out – _NO!_ No, it wasn't possible! No, it must not be! _No_, it _could_ not be! No way! No, no, no!

One of the strangers trying to get hold of his mother came for him, lifting his chin, grabbing his wrist and pressing it, and Draco didn't even ask what the man was doing when forcing open his mouth and dripping some liquid onto his tongue, hardly heard the sympathetic voice muttering, "Swallow this, boy. – He's got a shock, lay him somewhere to rest."

The medicine tasted bitter-sweet, Draco noticed vaguely, and in the next second, he had already passed out. When he awoke, he was in his own old bedroom in the Manor, his head felt like bursting, and his stomach was revolting. Instinctively, he bolted up and was sick all over, vaguely realising that someone was holding a large bowl into his face, and somebody else holding his head while he vomited his guts out.

"My young master," Elsy wailed miserably and gently held the hair out of his temples. "Iggy, fetch the Healers once more!"

Draco wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his robes; he couldn't care less how unmannered this was. As a matter of fact, there was nothing in his head that he would care for in this moment, but a monstrous thought – a question rather, that he didn't dare to speak out loud. For if he did, Elsy, being the faithful creature that she was, would possibly give him an honest answer, and he dreaded that this answer might break him.

No, he didn't have the courage to ask. He couldn't even bring himself to look at Elsy, who had put away the bowl after vanishing the vomit with a snip of her fingers, and now gingerly touched 'the young master's' face with a wet cloth.

He closed his eyes and leant back, feeling utterly exhausted, even though he must have been sleeping for some hours at least, because it was bright outside again. And then, the little elf said – and it took him a minute to understand, "My dear young master – but no… You're no longer the young master. You're _the_ master now."

When the words had sunken in, his eyes flew open, and before he knew what he was doing, he had already lashed out, slapping the servant with the back of his hand and pushing her away from him. "_NO!_"

She flew from the bed, not making a sound, not complaining, and scrambled to her feet again with a dazed, but compassionate expression about her. He stared at her.

"I'm – I didn't – sorry – I –"

"Elsy is so, so sorry, master Draco," she replied meekly, raising her huge, dark, bloodshot eyes to him, and before he could enforce his apology, the door was pushed open and a stranger appeared alongside Iggy. The man was old – in his eighties, perhaps, with a long, shaggy beard and a shiny, bold head. His pince-nez slightly lop-sided, he gave the boy on the bed a long, sympathetic look and inclined his head.

"Good day, Mr Malfoy. The name's Toke. How are you feeling?"

Draco had no possible answer for this. How was he _feeling_? Could there be an answer to this – an answer that would as much as scrape the surface of the terror and confusion he was feeling? His dad… Elsy had said that Draco was _the new master_ now, implying that the old master – Draco's beloved father – no longer held that position… He hadn't got the faintest clue what on earth had happened, and clinging to the hope that his speechless horror would somewhat decrease if only he could _understand_, he cleared his throat and pressed his eyes shut.

"Tell me… What – tell me what's happened!"

"Oh – you don't know? Why, no one told you?"

Elsy gave a dry sob. "The young master – woke up – just now…"

"Mmh… I don't think I'm the right person to explain."

"Please," Draco whispered, and added almost hopefully, "A heart attack, yes? My grandparents…"

And then he realised that it had been his _mum's_ parents dying of cardiac arrests, not his father's. But Lucius was much too young! He was _too_ _young_! What… The stranger conversed with Iggy in hushed tones, and the elf disappeared once more. Not answering the question, the man approached the bed and put down a big, black leather bag on the mattress, opened it and took out a couple of vials, and a silvery rod that Draco dimly remembered from his childhood days. The man traced Draco's forehead with the rod, then both of the boy's wrists, and finally jabbed his chest with it in a gentle, professional move.

"Hmm," he grumbled and eyed the vials, choosing one with a light green liquid. "You're basically healthy, boy."

"Yes, I _know_," Draco shot at him, incredulous.

"Just very upset."

"_Upset?_ You fucking bet I'm _upset_, you moron! What – how – my mother – my _father_ –"

"Yes, yes… Another soothing potion will do."

Draco heard himself shouting at the man, "_I don't want no potion! I don't NEED_ _no sodding potion!_"

"Now, now. Your grandmother will be here in a minute and –"

Draco tittered hysterically. "My grandmother is _dead_, you silly twit! For almost fifteen years!"

Instantly, he was experiencing genuine relief there. This was a nightmare. Just a nightmare. He was used to those. In his nightmares, all sorts of people kept on dying, while others who were actually dead, seemed to be alive. Thank goodness, a silly nightmare – for a moment there, he had been truly scared out of his wits!

The Healer's eyebrows rose and he looked over to Elsy. "But who's the witch downstairs, then?"

"That would be my _mother_, idiot!"

But Elsy shook her head. "Master Draco," she whispered, "my dear young – my dear master Draco… Mistress Elisabeth has come. Miss Andy has summoned her."

No matter how gruesome this particular dream was, it'd be over soon and all would be well again. All the same, he couldn't help asking, "Who the hell is Mistress Elizabeth?"

The elf stepped back, as if out of his reach, and for a second, Draco was suffused with guilt for lashing out at her before, but the feeling of guilt was replaced when she answered – by perfect disbelief, that was beyond surreal, even for nightmare standards.

"Mistress Elisabeth – the master's mother."

"Who?"

"Master Abraxas' wife – master Lucius' mother – _mistress Elisabeth_, young master!"

Well – that witch wasn't entirely unheard of. Obviously, her name appeared on the family tree. Just that for some unfathomable reason, Draco had believed that she was dead. He had never seen her in his life, and it felt wrong to have her here now – today – after – _well_… Whatever it was that had happened. After not setting a foot in this house in more than twenty years, she must not show up here on this of all days!

'It's just a dream,' he reminded himself, but the awful feeling in his guts wouldn't go away. He was firmly resolved that the first thing he was going to do, as soon as waking up from this horror, was going to call on Malfoy Manor and make up with his parents. Regardless of what they had done, or in his mother's case: had _not_ done, they were his parents after all, and he loved them to bits. Draco was one to staunchly believe that dreams were nothing if not coded messages from one's subconscious. This dream didn't take much sagacity to figure out. He must go home and reconcile.

The boy being lost in his thoughts, the Healer seized the opportunity and pushed the vial against Draco's lips and emptied it into his mouth. He spluttered, but couldn't help it but swallow some of it still, enough to instantly affect his breathing, his pulse, and soothe his general distress, too. He glared at the elf and the Healer in resentful silence, remembering that he was beside himself, but no longer grasping why.

The door to his bedroom opened once again, and this time, Iggy led in a tall, elegant witch with a tight silver-white bun and regal, aquiline features that had a strange resemblance to someone he knew. The woman, which he vaguely guessed would be his grandmother, looked strangely out of place and seemed to think so herself, too.

"Draco?" she asked, her voice barely betraying her insecurity and her face mastering an expression that she probably believed to look compassionate.

"Yes…?" he asked, lurking.

"I was asked to see after you. But where are my manners? Allow me to introduce myself – I am Elizabeth von Wolfenstein Malfoy, your grandmother." She ignored the Healer's slacking jaw that dropped right to his chest with this nonchalant announcement, and went on, unperturbed, in her light accent, "I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

She stretched out her hand, but Draco, far from taking it, merely winced back. "Yes…?"

"Indeed, even though the occasion must seem unfortunate. Well, better now than at the burial, right?"

The Healer goggled at her and seemed to have second thoughts about _his_ inadequacy to break the bad tidings to the young man. If these were his thoughts on the matter, Draco would certainly have concurred! "Burial," he repeated numbly.

"Yes. We meet at last, hm?"

She smiled, but the smile didn't affect her eyes, and _now_, she did resemble her son blatantly – and her grandson, in that instance – in their more sarcastic moods. She didn't have the eyes though – her eyes were light green and looked even colder than her son's.

"Madam," the Healer began awkwardly, "you might want to start – well – at the beginning. The young lad has not a faint idea what's happened. We treated him with heavy sedatives right after his arrival."

"Oh." She raised an eyebrow in disapproval – another hereditary feature. "Well, then," she snarled in clipped tones. "I am sorry to be compelled informing you that your father has died yesterday. He was slain by a pack of werewolves. Your mother appears to have been assaulted, too, by some relative – a cousin, I think. At any rate, she has sustained a nervous breakdown and is treated as well, I believe. And your aunt – Arabella?"

"Andromeda," Draco corrected her automatically. The wrong name was the only piece of information that had penetrated his skull so far. It vaguely disturbed him, too. Such slips of names occurred in real life, not in a dream, did they...?

"Yes, _indeed_. Your Aunt _Andromeda_ is seeing to the funeral arrangements, and felt the urge to send for me," the elderly witch finished her report matter-of-factly, folding her hands before her in an almost comical manner.

"You say my father is – he is – my dad is..."

"He's _dead_, yes," she said, sounding slightly impatient.

Absent-mindedly, Draco groped for the Healer's hand, and muttered, "You have more of that potion, sir?"

"Oh, but _of course_!" The Healer looked relieved – glad to have something to do, and perhaps correct his error of judgement to have this woman of all possible people in the house, explain the tragic events. He handed Draco a second vial, and seconds later, peaceful oblivion overwhelmed the boy once more.

Elisabeth Malfoy gave the Healer a reproachful glance. "You are done with my assistance, I presume?"

He had no answer for her. Half of the night, he had been busy with trying to cast soothing charms on one struggling witch, who had been fighting with teeth and claws to be allowed to her dead husband, and it had taken five Healers on total to overwhelm Mrs Malfoy – the _young_ Mrs Malfoy, he corrected himself – and practically _force_ her to swallow the sleeping potions, so aggrieved she had been with her husband's death. And here, now, he was facing the complete opposite. This woman – who seemed to have never seen her grandson before, and the kid was pushing twenty! – had lost her son, and as far as the Healer was informed about the curse on the Malfoy family, Lucius Malfoy must have been her only son – and it would seem that the woman saw but an inconvenience in that loss.

To be candid – Healer Toke knew enough of the late Lucius not to feel too sorry for said loss either. But it was crystal clear that the man's wife and son cared a great deal, and wise by age, the Healer knew that even some of the worst murderers were capable of being affectionate family fathers. Judging Mrs Malfoy's – _Narcissa_ Malfoy's – complete breakdown, that notion was true once more. That, or maybe the rape, or whatever it was that had happened to her, had shattered her grip on sanity. She had bruises all over, her wrists were chafed from the unmistakable signs of a crude binding spell, her dress had been cut open in the back and her underwear had been found on the living room floor, next to a dead man, who had still held his erect penis in his hand.

All interrogations had been useless though; she seemed to have lost her mind completely. The dead man was her long-missing nephew Lennart Tonks, it would appear, but she defied that furiously and kept on screeching something about a mackerel – or was it hagfish? Her sister – the only other human member of the family in the house at present _not_ verging on some hysteric breakdown – was no help in that regard either, for she forcefully insisted that whoever that corpse so blatantly looking like her son was, _was not_ her son. Denial, Healer Toke thought sadly. He'd seen it many a time. Losing one's son was always hard, not only if that son had raped his own aunt.

It wasn't exactly clear how the man had died either. It appeared he had been simply struck dead – perhaps with a Killing Curse. The way things looked – Narcissa Malfoy's torn clothes, her bruised wrists, he might have tried to rape her and had been killed by her approaching husband, who could say. That one had, at any rate, held Narcissa Malfoy's wand in his hands. The young man's own wand, or rather say the wand he had used which had once belonged to Lucius Malfoy – and the Aurors in charge still couldn't say how it had gotten out of the Ministry of Magic, where it ought to have been, safely stored away – had been found in the back pocket of the dead guy's trousers.

Mrs Malfoy herself could not give any sensible account; she kept on stammering something about a vow, but otherwise, nothing useful on the topic could be coaxed out of her. As far as Ishmaël Toke (practising as a Healer for more than sixty years) was concerned, there was only one thing for sure: no open coffin at Lucius Malfoy's burial ceremony.

* * *

_Nihil_… Nothing is so great that it could not perish.

* * *

**I'm so sorry for the delay in uploading this chapter - sometimes life comes in between... Also, I'd like to thank everyone who was so kind to leave a review - if it weren't for you, I don't think it'd be anywhere near as much fun for me to be writing this story. THANK YOU!**


	172. Nothing The Matter

Sometimes even the most cold-blooded of people find, to their own surprise, that there is someone they care for

* * *

**– 4.45. –**

Nothing The Matter

* * *

_People are always blaming circumstances for what they are. I don't believe in circumstances. The people who get on in this world are the people who get up and look for the circumstances they want, and, if they can't find them, make them._

_GEORGE BERNARD SHAW – Mrs Warren's Profession_

* * *

His mother and the miserable wretch she chose to marry for absolutely unfathomable reasons are sitting together in the drawing room when Blaise returns home that morning. He's beyond exhaustion; they've toured around Europe in the last three weeks, their final concert in Riga last night having been an almost unbeatable, smashing success and him and the band having partied until seven o'clock in the morning. He can barely _walk_ straight when finding that his mum is already up, and feels compelled to quickly say hello to her before retiring and sleeping for an entire day.

"Shh, shh, dear, you mustn't be so upset," the pathetic little man mutters soothingly and strokes over his wife's head. Blaise can scarcely keep himself from throwing up with the mere sight. It is _disgusting_, and that his mum doesn't _strike_ at that maggot for touching her is even less digestible.

She looks up when perceiving her son's return, and to his stunned surprise, Blaise can see that she's been crying. Her eyes are bloodshot, her cheeks still glisten with tears, and in his whiskey-sodden head he tries to remember if he has _ever_ actually seen her like this.

"What happened?" he cries in alarm and stumbles rather than walks over to her, pushing the odious man aside. "Mum! What happened?"

"N-nothing," she answers in an unsteady voice.

Blaise shoots around to the man he is supposed to regard as a stepfather. "You! What have you done to her, you freak!"

The maggot casts him a puzzled look, but Blaise's mother claims that 'everything was alright', nothing the matter, really. Her son wouldn't have it, of course, but the more he insists, the more determined she replies that everything's fine. In the corner of his eye, he registers a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ on the table before her, but it takes him a few minutes longer before he gets the notion to take a closer look.

The front page shows a picture of a gatehouse that looks pretty familiar to Blaise, and an officious-looking man in front of it, talking in a very serious way. If only he could remember where he's seen that gate before… Just then, his drunken brain makes a connection between the photo and the headline above – FORMER DEATH EATER KILLED BY WEREWOLVES. He suddenly recognises the ornate iron symbols, the sheer magnificence of the gate-house itself. It's the main gatehouse of Malfoy Manor, of course.

He grabs the paper, wondering who's dead, and feels some relief when finding out that it's only old Mr Malfoy, who surely enough had it coming. It doesn't occur to him to ask himself why it makes him feel relieved, whom else could have been that 'former Death Eater' dying. What does occur to him though is the question why on earth his mother should give a damn.

She denies _giving_ a damn, but her wretched midget of a husband explains in hushed tones, "Your mum was once very fond of him, you know?"

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"No, Bee, it's true," she manages to gasp between two sobs. "He was my first – hang on – well, he was my boyfriend back then in school."

"You're joshing me!"

"I'm not _joshing_ you!"

Well, she must be. He's seen her being widowed a whole lot of times, and not _once_ did she make such a terrible fuss. In fact, she always received these news with astonishing calmness, unmoved on the out- or on the inside. He keeps on asking her about it, she insists some more times that it's quite true, and torn between tiredness, irritation, disbelief and some other, more elusive feeling, Blaise does go upstairs after all, takes a swift, hot shower and falls into his bed, not quite capable of making out what's bugging him so, but equally incapable of spending one more minute of thinking about it all because as soon as his head touches the pillow, he's fast asleep.

Downstairs, his mother finally manages to get a grip on herself, which goes hand in hand with her realisation of her husband having the audacity to be _patting her hand_. She slaps it away with might, grabs the paper, rolls it and hits him over the balding head with it next.

"Get off me!" she spats and obediently as ever, he withdraws his hands.

"My dear, I really believe I should call a Healer to see after you –"

"Oh, shut up, Nigel, will you! I don't need a Healer!"

"But dearest, you _are_ very much dismayed and I –"

"And if I was dismayed, what's a Healer supposed to do about it?"

He, naturally, has no useful answer. He never has. With her countenance returning, she also manages to fasten her magical grip on him, and not a minute later, he sleepwalks out of the drawing room and leaves her to herself. She closes her eyes, overwhelmed by the rather unfamiliar sensation of true grief. She hasn't felt that badly since... Since...

He's dead. He is _dead_, and it is entirely her fault! How couldn't she have foreseen this? How could she have been so – so – naïve? So careless? Unsuspecting? Stupid? She – _she!_ – made him walk straight into his own death! It is no solace to her that this was one of the very few instances that he welcomed the assignment she had in store for him. Shouldn't _that_ have sufficed to startle her? She could have told him what was going to happen! Why didn't she think of it? Why?

Partly agonising, partly furious, she makes sure she is alone, then gets out the cursed ring to confront the root of all this evil. Predictably, the spirit is all innocent indifference. _He_ isn't to be blamed! What's _he_ got to do with it? If her brother hadn't been so silly, he wouldn't be dead now, would he? Unfortunately, that cannot be argued with.

"You neglected taking the potion this morning, didn't you?" he asks at last and casts her a reproachful look.

"I'll take it later," she snaps back, too angry still to budge to his demands.

"Woman, you – _you _of all people! – should know better than that! Using a potion at the exact time is more than half of its success! For Salazar's sake – I can _see_ you didn't take it! And once the potion loses its power, it is beyond _my_ powers to help you!"

She is, to put it mildly, flustered, and tries catching her own reflection in the window pane. He can see it? Oh dear!

"To what length you went in order to obtain it, and then you're casting all our efforts to the wind, just like that!" he goes on.

She wants to defend herself. "I was _upset_!"

"Upset! You have no time to be upset! Didn't we agree that sacrifices needed to be made in order to –"

"Yes, yes, alright! I heard you!"

"And it was all coming along so splendidly until now! Didn't you feel it? _Couldn't_ you feel it?"

As a matter of fact, she could and she did. That statue – it is coming to life. She, too, has felt it. And the thought of that beloved face coming back to her – it is worth _everything_ else.

* * *

**I'd like to apologise to everybody who was dismayed by the last chapters. I can only say in my own defence that he really _had_ to die, and that I didn't kill him wantonly only to make something happen. Eight years ago, I started writing this story, and Lucius' death was always crucial to its entire story arc. I chose even the title with that idea in mind. I am so sorry to upset any of you, but I can promise you that he hasn't died in vain and that I'm going somewhere with this death.**


	173. Come With Me

Andromeda thought she knew what her sister is going through, but has to find that she was mistaken

* * *

**– 4.46. –**

Come With Me

* * *

_He was my North, my South, my East and West,_

_My working week and my Sunday rest,_

_My noon, my midnight, my talk and my song;_

_I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong._

_The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;_

_Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;_

_Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;_

_For nothing now can ever come to any good._

_W. H. AUDEN – Funeral Blues_

* * *

In a weird kind of daze, Andromeda attended to all the necessary tasks at hand. No, she didn't really mourn for her brother-in-law's demise; they had never liked each other since their first year in Hogwarts together. The two years in which they had both been Prefects had deepened their mutual animosity to sheer contempt. And for the best part of the following twenty-five years, Andromeda had basically loathed the man. Only recently, she had understood a couple of things that would oblige her to him, however reluctantly, even though she was aware that it was exclusively Narcissa's influence on him that had ever made him do these things in the first place.

She had learnt, for example, how Lucius' might and influence had kept her family alive and thriving during the first war. It had mortified her when hearing it, but it had been his money that had allowed Ted to attend the art academy at last with that surprising grant back then – that had enabled Ted to make more of himself than an unskilled Muggle labourer. It had been Lucius' pulling strings with the Auror department, Madam Bones, why, even the Minister for Magic himself, that had given Nymphadora the chance to become an Auror. She needn't _like_ him, but she _owed_ him, regardless. What was more – she wanted to do something for Cissy. Poor Cissy!

Briefly, she had been distressed enough herself. The quick-witted house-elf that had thought it better to summon her had arrived just a minute before two consequential-looking Ministry wizards. Bobby, still weeping and wailing, and showing the traces of a _very_ bad brawl (which she now knew to have been a werewolf attack), gasped that 'Miss Andy' must come with him at once, his master and mistress had been attacked, and Mister Lenny – _Mister Lenny_ – but before he could finish, before Andromeda could let the first part of the message sink in, there was such a loud banging on her front door that it woke up little Teddy.

Over the crying of the tired toddler, the Ministry men gravely informed her that they had, at last, found her son. For approximately three seconds, Andromeda's heart had been ready to burst with relief and felicity, forgetting even the elf's communication that her sister had been attacked, but then they had told her that apparently, Lennart had been the one to assault Narcissa in the first place, and had died trying.

Andromeda Tonks was a woman hardened by life. She had lost her husband. She had lost her daughter. To wrap her mind around the idea that her son was supposed to be dead, too, was too much for her. She flat-out refused to believe it. And with good reason, mind you! Lennart – attacking Narcissa! Preposterous!

In Malfoy Manor, she found her sister succumbing to a hysterical fit, shouting and struggling with the Healers who tried to calm her. On the floor, under a shroud, there was a body, and even when one of the Aurors pulled back the cloth and revealed Lennart's face, she _still_ couldn't believe it. It _looked_ like her son, all right, but neither could he be dead (stunned, possibly, or hit by one of her brother-in-law's freakish Dark spells that made him _seem_ dead), nor would his mother believe for a second that _her son_ could have tried to rape his own aunt. These people were mad! They didn't know the first thing about Lennart! Both he and Nymphadora had taken after their father in most respects, meaning: they had been gentle, and fundamentally kind at heart.

The Aurors had said something about Lennart possibly wanting to avenge the death of his father, sister and brother-in-law, who had been a werewolf, too – that's why he had conspired with the werewolves killing Lucius – and while Andromeda had still gaped at them and shaken her head, Narcissa had interrupted her outburst long enough to grab her sister's lapels, shake her and say imploringly, 'Don't you believe them! Twasn't him! That's the Eel! I _know_ it! Lenny has nothing to do with this! It's _the_ _Eel!_ You must believe me, Andy!'

That was enough for a desperate mother to go by, but she clearly was the only one. Everybody else, Aurors and Healers alike, thought that Narcissa's grip on sanity had shattered and she was babbling absolute nonsense. None of them understood what the heck 'the eel, the eel' was supposed to mean. Andromeda, stubborn all her life, stuck firmly with her sister's claim, thinking that the corpse might look like it pleased, but that Narcissa knew what she was saying _somehow_.

Unfortunately, for the time being, nothing else was to be coaxed out of her. Narcissa had been treated with literally _every_ potion in the book, and also with dozens of soothing charms, but the effect was pitiful, at its best. Under the influence of no less than eight different potions – Healer Smethwyk had refused to give her any more, scared that the various counter effects would do more harm than good – and three Healers shooting charms at her, she had stopped sobbing and whimpering long enough to demand a sea of white lilies, and made some cryptic hints about the inscription for the tombstone that her sister had been able to understand – bless her. She also firmly insisted on a double grave in the family crypt in the garden, and despite Andromeda's worries, she didn't have the heart to deny her little Cissy this wish.

A little more than two years ago, Andromeda had lost her own husband. She could understand every bit of anguish that Narcissa was suffering through; nevertheless she was astounded with the ferocity of her sister's grief. As children – and as adults, too – they had all kept on joking how it must be ice water pumping through little Cissy's veins. Never had her countenance faltered, never had she showed much emotion, at least not in the presence of strangers. Right now however, Narcissa couldn't care less how many Aurors and Healers were in the room, she threw one violent tantrum after the other, interrupted by cries and sobs that were so fierce that the Healers were worried she might suffocate.

Once her son had recovered from the worst shock, they had sent him in to try consoling his mother, but seeing him, she had given a scream that would have woken up the dead, and fainted. Again, it had been her sister pointing out the rather obvious – the boy greatly resembled his dead father in the same age, and it was voted not to give it another try so soon. Even her mother-in-law had attempted to talk to the poor woman, and for half a minute, Healer Smethwyk had caught his breath, hoping they had found a remedy at last.

Narcissa had stopped shouting as soon as spotting the older witch, and eyed her in incredulity. "Mrs… Mrs Malfoy…?" she had asked, almost experimentally, and narrowed her eyes.

"Narcissa, my dear."

"What – what are you doing here?"

"I was called for because my son has died, of course."

Narcissa tilted her head, her face an inscrutable mask. "You… You didn't come when Father – I mean Abraxas…"

"Well, I only heard of it on the day of his funeral. Lucius didn't seem to find it necessary of informing me any earlier, and thus I had already prior engagements for the day."

"Lucius," Narcissa repeated quietly, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. "_Lucius_… – Get out of his house at once! He wouldn't want you here – out! _Get_ _out_, I say!"

"Naturally, I will only stay until his burial," her mother-in-law retorted lightly and smirked.

"No, you won't. As a matter of fact, you aren't welcome to the – the – the funeral… Either."

It was visible how much strength that simple sentence had cost her, but Mrs Malfoy, the elder, wasn't impressed. "He was my son, you know. My own blood."

"Oh, and since when do _you_ care! _You_ didn't love him! And he _hated_ you! You didn't care! You never cared! For all _you_ cared, he could have died in his infancy! You've abandoned him even before the umbilical cord was severed entirely! Get out of his house! Out of my son's house, it is now! Leave before I'm forgetting myself!"

Elisabeth sniggered maliciously. "Oh, _that_ you already have, dear."

"Leave my husband's house at once," Narcissa repeated in a deadly voice.

"Stop making such a fuss for nothing, girl. You surely needn't impress _me_ with feigned grieving."

None of the Healers reacted quickly enough. With a single, lithe move, Narcissa had jumped up and thrown herself at the other witch, throwing her over to her back, and choking her with one hand, she used the other to punch her wherever she could reach her, until the present wizards managed to pull her off her mother-in-law. She kicked into the air and resumed screaming, until one of the Healers couldn't endure it anymore and stunned her for the time being.

"This wasn't very professional, Boot," Healer Toke remarked, but was privately relieved as well.

"We'll have to figure something out. She's a danger to herself, even more than to others." Healer Boot beckoned at the other witch who just got back to her feet, looking outraged.

"Gentlemen – I believe my presence is no longer needed, or wanted even. You will excuse me." And thus, Elisabeth von Wofenstein Malfoy turned on her heel and left the room – the house, the country and this story – as dignified as if her daughter-in-law hadn't just tried to beat her to pulp.

"I take back a couple of things I said and thought about Lucius Malfoy," Healer Boot said, staring after her. "Considering his gene pool, he was a remarkably tactful person!"

"Coming back to the _problem_ at hand," Healer Smethwyk said sternly and beckoned at the stunned patient. After some debate, they settled for another strong sleeping potion for the time being, and hoped that she'd slowly accustom so that they could gradually let her come to her senses again. As for the kid – he was as downcast as the death of his father prompted, but some strengthening and soothing potions would do the job for him. He was young, and with his aunt's support, he'd get by. The weeping widow was the by far greater problem.

It took Andromeda three hours in the extended library (and two more to find a way out again) to find the book that Narcissa had alluded to, to get the poem which her little sister wanted engraved on the tombstone. She spent the remainder of the day with purchasing a sufficiently magnificent coffin, finding a mason to rebuild the vault in question and make it fit to accommodate two bodies instead of one, and also engrave the tombstone to seal that vault. She conferred with the editor of the Daily Prophet, dispatched countless owls, bought every single white lily available in Britain – she even sat down with Lucius' Law Wizard because of his Last Will. Obviously, his son would automatically inherit pretty much everything – that was the Malfoy way and tradition – the Manor, the title, the fortune, the assets and liabilities, the family enterprise. But Lucius had made a point of assigning Narcissa to every single knut she had had as a dowry, just like everything she had inherited from their parents, she was the titular head of the enterprise, entitled without limits to make use of her son's money, and most importantly, she would remain the titular Patroness of Malfoy Manor until her dying day, no matter if young Draco got married himself or not. Not that it mattered, of course, but Andromeda felt satisfied nevertheless. Yes, Lucius had indeed loved his wife, even his Last Will was a testament of his devotion for her.

When Ted had died, it had been Narcissa salvaging his body, thus enabling Andromeda to give her husband a proper burial, and now she repaid her sister in kind. She undertook all the preparations for Lucius' burial with as much loving care as she would have done for someone she'd actually liked. There was but one thing she felt sorry for. She shouldn't have sent an owl to that ghastly woman, Lucius' mother. It had appeared natural to her – informing a mother of her child's death, why, of course! Should something happen to Lennart (the _real_ Lennart!) – she dared not thinking about it; it was one of the reasons she put so much effort into all these arrangements – it gave her an opportunity to occupy her thoughts elsewhere, instead of incessantly worrying about her missing son. At any rate, _Andromeda_ would be outraged if she were _not_ the first person to be informed should something happen to her child. She had furthermore believed that Narcissa would draw some comfort in having Lucius' mother around; Andromeda had seen far too little of the family to understand that the alienation between him and his mother was unbridgeable. In fairness – after getting to know his mother, even Andromeda thought that Lucius had been unexpectedly good-humoured. What a cold-blooded, cold-hearted bitch! Andromeda was sorry, too, that she hadn't been present during the clash between the two Mrs Malfoys (she had been stuck in the library still) – Andromeda would have _loved_ to land a punch on Elisabeth's regal chin as well. _She_ knew how it felt to lose a child, and she had no whatsoever sympathy for Elisabeth Malfoy's callous demeanour, even if her lost child was Lucius!

"The body will be released in a week at the latest, Ma'am," some obscenely young Auror informed her.

She stared at him blankly. "Your colleague said we could bury Lucius in three days."

"Yes, you can. What's left of him, anyway. I was talking about your son's body."

With barely concealed fury, she hissed, "That person _isn't_ my son! How often do I have to tell you! And don't give me that he _looks_ like Lennart! He can look how he pleases!"

"Mrs Tonks, I sympathise with your grief, but –"

"Make your investigations and you will find that the man was polyjuiced, or otherwise jinxed to resemble Lennart. He _isn't_ Lennart, however! He couldn't be! My son was – _is!_" She was mad at herself for that slip of the tongue and banged her fist on the table, upsetting a pile of funeral invitations. "My son is the kindest boy you could ever imagine! He'd _never_ have done anything like that!"

The Auror looked as if he thought she was a little loopy – no surprise here, all other members of the family were totally off the rocker – and changed the subject. "Can you imagine how Mr Malfoy's wand came back here?"

"I have no idea whatsoever."

"Do you think your brother-in-law might have stolen it back from the Ministry?"

"I don't know. Would be like him to try something like that, but..."

"But?"

"If he'd had his own wand somewhere, why would he have confronted a dozen werewolves with my sister's? Lucius knew enough about magic, even more about Dark magic, to realise his own wand would have done him a much better service."

The Auror made a face as if that idea hadn't even occurred to him so far, and Andromeda huffed angrily. These people! Taking everything at face value! They found a corpse that looked like a missing person, ergo it must _be_ the missing person. How convenient, and it'd close two cases with one stone! They found a wand belonging to _one_ man in the back pocket of another man – hold it there...

"I thought Lucius' wand were at the Ministry? For research?"

"It should be, indeed –"

She didn't let him finish; the idea just rankled her too much. "You're trying to tell me that these things can be taken from the Ministry without anybody _noticing?_"

"Ma'am –"

"Don't you _Ma'am_ me, young man! I want to talk to your superior, that's one thing for certain! I told you before and I'm telling you now – that dead man is not my son. It is, and I should be very much mistaken if I was wrong – that man was called Yaxley, I am sure of it! A Death Eater on the flight, no less! And if he took Polyjuice Potion in order to impersonate my son, he ought to have something to do with Lennart's abduction, I am equally sure of that. Go and tell that to your superior, and if you've done with that, make him come back to me, you incompetent excuse for a governmental wizard!"

The three-days-estimation turned out to be accurate. After examining it thoroughly, Lucius' corpse was washed, prepared and put into the coffin. An astounding number of people gathered in the gardens – Andromeda suspected that the present Aurors wanted to make absolutely sure that Lucius _was_ dead – the editor-in-chief of the Daily Prophet held the eulogy (Andromeda suspected that if he hadn't been dead already, Lucius would have died laughing at the twisted corruption of truth that his eulogy was), and then ten house-elves had shouldered the coffin and carried it into the family crypt. Draco, severely drugged, had been present during that part of the ceremony, following it motionlessly, and, his aunt knew, on the verge of unconsciousness. Narcissa however had not been there. When the elves had started to carry away the coffin, Andromeda had gone into the house and fetched her sister, who was even worse drugged than her son. Unaware of any of the people surrounding her, Narcissa had leant heavily on her sister's arm and dragged herself down into the vault, where no other people were admitted but the two of them, Draco, and the sobbing servants.

Once his mother had arrived, Draco took out a roll of parchment and began reading it out, in an automatic, fairly monotonous manner, though nobody but Andromeda might have noticed this. "… Too soon – too early… Died because he wanted to defend his family… Leaving us devastated, but with the fondest memories of you still, Dad… Rest in peace… Will always treasure and honour your memory…"

Narcissa, who had stared blankly at the coffin until now, suddenly came to life, yanking on her sister's arm and freeing herself. She threw herself at the coffin – once more, Andromeda was glad that they had kept it closed all the time, even though the body had looked much better in the end than she had initially believed possible. In spite of the unhealthy amount of potions they had fed her, Narcissa _was_ thoroughly aware all of a sudden that they were about to immure her husband's mortal shell now, and she was clearly _not_ ready for this. She wept heartbreakingly, moaning his name, and how much she loved him, and it took all of Draco's and Andromeda's physical strength to pull her away after all. Realising that she couldn't overpower them, Narcissa swivelled around and clutched her son's lapels.

"Draco, please," she whispered imploringly, her eyes piercing the frightened boy's. "Let me take my place! Let me lie down next to your father in his grave – our grave – let me die now. Let me –"

"Mum! _Mum!_"

Good grief, that was _exactly_ what Andromeda had had in mind when struggling with the idea of a double vault. "Cissy," she said gently and tried to force Narcissa's hands away from the boy. "You must think of your son now! You _live_, and you must live for Draco's sake, if not your own!"

But Narcissa didn't hear her, her gaze glued to her son's face. "Please, darling. _Please_ – let me go. Let me rest. If you love me – if you truly love your mother – let me go now and end my misery!"

"_MUM!_ Don't – _don't!_ You can't – you mustn't! Please, Mum! I'll miss him like crazy, too – you can't leave me alone as well now!"

An abundance of tears ran down the white marble cheeks, the dark blue eyes were almost black, and mutely, her lips kept on mouthing the same word over and over again – 'Please!'

Andromeda had never actually seen somebody going insane right in front of her. Seeing her sister losing her mind like this – and what a great mind it had been! – was shocking her beyond expression. By now, Narcissa had cupped her son's face, looking up into his eyes whispering, "Lucius – Lucius – _Lucius_..."

His aunt registered the boy's growing panic. His mother apparently mistook him for his dead father – but there was some kind of potential in that mad misconception after all.

"Ma petite Narcisse," Andromeda cooed like their mother had in life, "Come with me now. Come with us. Come."

She jerked her head at Draco to play along, but he didn't grasp her meaning. "What?"

"Ma petite, come with me and Lucius now. We must get back to the 'ouse, yes? Come, chérie. Vite!"

Slowly, realisation dawned in Draco's dead-pale features; he shook his head frantically, but seeing that his aunt's trick seemed to work – his mum had let go off his lapels and taken the first few steps towards the exit of the crypt – he finally gave in. He forced himself to smile at his mother. "Come with me, Mu-… Come with me, mon ange. Come with me, Narcissa. You must come with me now. Everything's fine. Come with me. Come."

It took a while; Andromeda and Draco continued to whisper in soothing, deceiving tones, emulating two dead people, but in the end, Narcissa seemed like hypnotised by familiar words and voices and faces. Andromeda, still standing behind her sister on the tip of her toes, expressively gestured at the house-elves to make sure that nobody was left in the gardens when they went up again, and eventually, she and Draco, both supporting one of her arms, managed to lead her out of the vault again.

The elves had carried out their task just marvellously; not only were all funeral guests gone, but so had the chairs and other tell-tale assets. Narcissa had fallen back into the same dazed trance under which she had come out of the house – assisted by a silent confounding spell from her sister – and slowly, quietly, their ministrations got her back into her bedroom. Draco sat down, his back leaning against the headrest, and took his mother into his arms, her back resting against his chest.

"It will be all right," he muttered in a sing-sang voice, as if he were trying to lull a child to sleep. "You were very good… I'm so proud of you… I'll be there… I'll always be there… I'll never leave you alone again, but you must stay with me, too… And now, you must sleep, Mu- mon ange… Shhh, sleep. Sleep…"

She did fall asleep at last, and cautious not to wake her up again, Draco let her glide onto the pillow next to them, got out of the bed and tugged her up. His aunt and a handful of Healers were waiting in the hallway, anxious, and he could merely shrug his shoulders at them.

"It worked out for now," he said flatly into his aunt's direction. "But sooner or later she'll figure out that I'm not my dad."

"For the boy's sake, we shouldn't try that again, anyhow," one of the Healers said. "How are you, lad?"

Draco arched a brow at him, trying to keep his repulsion at bay. "What do you think, hm? I'm having the time of my life – burying my father, pretending I was him because my mother went mad – hey, what a day!"

"She's not _mad_," Andromeda reprimanded him sternly, but winced away from his deadly answering look.

"Call it what you want, Aunt Andy! She asked me to bury her next to him! _Today_! Alive and breathing still!"

"Yes, well, she'll recover."

Draco contemplated her for a minute. The hateful expression was gone, replaced by deep, pessimistic thoughtfulness. "No," he muttered at last. "No, I don't think so. She'll not recover. She was on the edge already when Dad was in prison – but she always staunchly believed he'd come back. She won't… She won't –"

He bit his lip, and Andromeda cried, "She _will_! You've got to believe in her!"

"I do. She's my mother. But unlike you, I have seen them together all my life. They – they depended on each other. They belonged. Without Dad…"

"I have lost my husband, too," she snapped, less angry than determined. "I know how it is! And I'm telling you, boy – _she_ _will make it_!"

Draco gnawed on his bottom lip again. "If you say so… Who am I to tell you. Excuse me now – I believe my father hasn't been properly buried yet."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"No… Forgive me, Aunt Andy, and no offence – but I think Dad should be rested by someone who actually loved him. I think you can understand that notion, right?"

He trudged out and back to the vault, lifted the coffin with the help of Iggy, Ziggy, Nobby and Bobby, and shoved it into the designated space. He swallowed hard, seeing the empty space next to the coffin, large enough for a second – for his mother. But not now. Not today, not tomorrow, not next week. He'd have to come back here one day, and finally fulfil her plea, to bed her next to his father. But certainly not now.

Taking a long, last look at the ebony box containing what was left of his father, he produced his wand and levitated the stone to fit the opening and seal the grave for now. He read the engraved words. On the left side, his father's full name, date of birth and death, on the right a blank space just as big, waiting for the name 'Narcissa', and underneath the designated spaces for their names, a poem.

'_To these whom death again did wed_

_This grave's the second marriage-bed;_

_For though the hand of fate could force_

'_Twixt soul and body a divorce,_

_It could not sunder man and wife,_

_Because they both lived but one life…_

…_Till the eternal morrow dawn;_

_And the curtains will be drawn,_

_And they make into a light,_

_Whose day shall never die in night._'

He swallowed again, harder still. He knew that his mother had chosen this poem, and he had no doubt that she had chosen it with far greater care than her distraught condition might prompt. What did his aunt know, after all! Good for her, if she had got over her husband's death – sincerely, he meant that. But his mother wasn't like this, and there was no living soul anymore who knew her better than him, now. His parents had been no good without each other. And he felt like a selfish bastard for refusing to acquiesce to her wish. He had read in her eyes how earnest she was. Only his choking fear to lose her, too, had made him deny her plea, and he had loathed himself in that moment – he still loathed himself for it now.

These were his parents! They had granted him _every_ wish, always – how could he deny _them_, now? How could he selfishly insist on his need of his mum, seeing her devastation, her despair. More than once, his parents had risked their lives on behalf of his. Did he have any right at all to enforce a life on either of them that they no longer wanted? Hadn't they _earned_ to dispose of their lives as they wanted in the very moment when they had been willing to sacrifice themselves for him?

He let his hand glide over the silkily smooth surface of the marble stone before whispering in utter despair "I'm – I'm so sorry, Dad. I wish we had… I wish _I_ had... I know it's too late, but you must know I love you, Dad."

* * *

'_To these whom_…' – From: Richard Capshaw, 'An Epitaph Upon Husband And Wife, Which Died And Were Buried Together'.


	174. Find Her!

Lucius could never bring himself to follow his father's lead

* * *

**– 4.47. –**

Find Her!

* * *

_In me is no delay; with thee to go,  
Is to stay here; without thee here to stay,  
Is to go hence unwilling; thou to me  
Art all things under heaven, all places thou,  
Who for my willful crime art banished hence._

_JOHN MILTON – Paradise Lost_

* * *

He had sustained nearly lethal injuries in his life before, in combat and otherwise, and so it didn't come as a surprise that he didn't feel much pain in the moment itself. In the moment of impending death, all pain ebbed away; he knew that. He wouldn't manage to get out of this scrape, but this didn't affect him the slightest bit. The only thing occupying him in this final moment was the horrible thought that Cissa was out here somewhere and as soon as finishing him, the beasts would come after her, and not only that – he had her wand; she was absolutely defenceless!

The fatal blow struck him without him registering it because all his thoughts were with her and therefore he wasn't at all astonished that his vision changed drastically; he seemed to soar skywards, shooting his bloody corpse a last indifferent glance before frantically searching the grounds for her. And then he heard her screaming – on the terraces – he saw her in ragged clothes hardly covering her storming down the way towards the place where his body had been torn to pieces by the beasts. No! No, Cissa!, he thought; she mustn't go there, the werewolves would rip her apart too, but then he also saw that every single of their servants had appeared on the scene and quite literally, gave them hell.

He was far too upset to notice the inherent irony, that a species that he had always considered far inferior to himself and his own, so successfully combated a bunch of werewolves that had just slain him, their master. All he had eyes for was his wife – why was her dress in pieces? And even this idea didn't last for more than a split second because it pierced his heart and soul to witness her utter agony. No main force could keep her back as she hurled herself on his dead, destroyed corpse while she screamed her lungs out.

It was hard for anyone around to make sense of her shrieks, but Lucius understood every word of it. 'Don't leave me', was among them, 'I love you, I can never let you go' – but as much as he wanted to grant her this wish, it was his only own desire as well, to stay with her and never be without her, never – the stronger the force driving him away became. It was like a physical force dragging him away, clouding his vision, deafening him for her cries or any other earthly sound, and this, perhaps, was the first time when realisation hit him.

He was dead. So _this_ was _it_. Ultimate separation. He would go to hell and never be with her again. _That_ was what death, what hell were about after all. But he wouldn't have it. Curse death, curse hell, he wouldn't abandon her, he could not, he would not, he had sworn to her to stick to her until her own dying breath and that was what he was going to do! What could happen to him yet, eh? He was dead already!

So he fought it, harder still than he had fought against his killers; he could see nothing but blackness, but he managed to still hear her crying – and then, he heard another voice as well, a voice he hadn't reckoned with.

"Let it go, Lucius."

Oh, no, he would not. He wouldn't leave Narcissa.

"Let go, Sonny! Damn it, still as stubborn as you ever were!"

"I won't leave her, Father."

"You already have, my boy. You are dead, you know?"

"Yes, I know, and will you please shut up, it's hard enough for me to perceive her voice like this!"

Abraxas' voice chuckled. "Admirable sentiments, sonny. But then, she was the only good thing you ever aspired to."

"She w- she _is_," he replied, suddenly sad beyond words, "she and Draco."

"You cannot go back. From here on, there's really only one way. That's good for you, you know. No more choices. You were always prone for the wrong ones."

"Shut up! I cannot hear her!"

He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated, but Narcissa's voice had diminished to that sort of imagined whisper one means to hear when the wind blows over an orchard, and then it was gone. He gave a miserable wail, incapable of expressing the utter pain and finally opened his eyes. To his sheer astonishment, he found himself in the library of Malfoy Manor, and instantly, regained hope. She was here _somewhere_. In this house – or the gardens below – anyhow, she was close and he'd get back to her and then he'd never leave her alone again for a second and –

He tried door after door, but typically, the old library played its own old tricks. It always had. He'd never really figured out how the bloody thing worked and so he did what he had always done – he shouted for the elves to come and get him, but they disobeyed. For the first time, they disobeyed their master – perhaps because he was dead, because frankly, disobedience wasn't like them at all.

"Scream as much as you like, sonny, but no one will come."

This was Abraxas again and eventually, Lucius turned around to face him. He hadn't changed much – or rather say, he looked like he had for most of Lucius' life: old, strong, powerful. He didn't resemble the trembling, dying waif he had been in his last days on earth.

"Help me, Father," he said. "I need to find her. I must get out of here and find her, she – she..."

"No, Lucius. You cannot find her. She's in another world now. _You_ are. This might look like our library, but it isn't. It's a figment of your imagination. Incidentally, I am surprised. I had no idea you valued this place so highly."

"Here, we became friends. In here, she allowed me being her friend," he moaned.

His father raised his brows. "Oh! I didn't know that. How did she even get in?"

Lucius gave a little laugh. "Remember that party... You'd left the country and I threw a big party –"

"Which one? You always threw a party as soon as I turned my back."

"But this one was for her alone. I invited anyone I knew and their brother only to have a pretext to have her come as well... And she did! Half of the house was in shambles afterwards, and you sent me to Romania –"

"Oh. _That_ party!"

"And I didn't care the slightest bit because she'd allowed me to be her friend."

"You should have said something. I might have reacted more leniently if I had known it was for our dear girl."

"Yeah, right. Like you'd have believed me."

"Possibly not... Now come, Lucius. It is time."

"I..." He shook himself. "How is it?"

"Hard to describe, really... Quiet. Very pleasantly quiet. I didn't hear a sound since – well, you know. In fact, yours is the first voice I've heard in – how many years is it?"

"Eight years. And a half. Roughly."

He swallowed and was actually moved spotting his father's tender expression, the way he reached out for his son – for the first time ever, maybe. "Now come, my boy. Lucius. Come."

Lucius closed his eyes once more, thinking he was preparing himself, but in all truth, he merely wanted to prolong the moment. He'd have to leave her for good and by god, he wasn't ready for it.

'Lucius...'

He froze. This wasn't Abraxas speaking – it was Narcissa – very distant, very quiet, but unmistakably her.

'Lucius, my love...'

He spun around wildly, trying to locate the origin but of course, he couldn't spot it. "Cissa!"

"She's gone, boy!"

"No, she isn't! I can hear her!"

"But I told you, it's only figments of your imagination. Just in your _head_, you see!"

"No, Father, it's her!"

"A mind not to be changed by place or time. The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n."

"Silence!"

"Be reasonable, Lu-"

"Shhh!"

He _could_ hear her, it was her, and he ran along the endless suites of room, around corner after corner with poor old Abraxas in hot pursuit trying to reason with him, but like in life, Lucius didn't even listen. He just followed the voice until standing in front of a large, door. A gate. They had that gate somewhere in the house; he'd once bought it for Narcissa, but he hadn't known she'd moved it to the library. A famous Muggle had crafted it and it was an impressive piece of art, he'd give him that. It was made of dark iron, with strange, disturbing ornaments of people sticking out of the surface, or being sucked into it, their faces twisted in fear and hate and agony. Why he knew what to he'd have to do? No idea. But he knew he'd have to go through this door to find her.

When his fingers touched the surface, Abraxas gasped in exasperation, or perhaps he did because Lucius' fingers went right through the material as if it was smoke. There was a strange, slurping noise, seemingly sucking him in but in fact, he had to push very hard to move forwards – well, what did you expect of solid iron, after all? It felt icy cold and scourging hot at once.

"Don't! You mustn't –"

"I must go and find my wife, Father," he answered and pushed on. It was uncomfortably tight, too, pulling on him, squeezing him, making his skull feel like bursting and his bowels filled with acid. He seemed to take minutes, if not hours, to press forth through this thing.

"Only once in your life, Lucius – well, at least in death, you must do as I say!"

At last, with another slurping sound, he emerged on the other side, staring down himself, thinking he might have lost an arm or a leg in this torture, but finding he was whole, and taking a look around. He was deep inside a dusky forest; no way was to be seen anywhere.

Suddenly, Abraxas emerged out of thin air – there was nothing to be seen of the gate they had both just passed – cursing wildly under his breath, "Damn it, sonny, you don't know what you've got yourself in for!"

"And still you follow me?"

Abraxas' strict mien changed, looking pensive now. "I never properly looked after you when we were both alive still. I better take more care when you're so determined to hurl yourself into hell!"

Lucius took another look around but finding nothing sinister, unless one thought a dark pine forest sinister in and of itself. "This is hell then?"

"I paid a fortune for your education and you're telling me you don't know what this is? Oh, boy." Abraxas shook his head in resignation. "Then let me amaze you: next thing we'll see is a bunch of animals – what was it again... Right. A lion, a leopard and a wolf!"

But they were alone, and somewhere in the distance – floating on the air itself – Lucius heard the voice of his beloved – soft, low, cool, reciting some poem perhaps – he had heard these words before, and surely he had heard her speaking them. – 'In the midway of this mortal life I found me in a gloomy wood, astray…'

Wildly turning around, he couldn't locate the source of the voice though. Instead, he spotted the beasts Abraxas had mentioned: lion, leopard and wolf only a few feet away, all ready to strike, but he wasn't afraid of either of them. He repeated the words of the poem as if he could make sense of them by saying them himself, and now Abraxas nodded. "Got there at last, did you?"

"I only faintly remember... Cissa liked this."

"She sure as hell did. It's –"

"Shh!" He thought he had heard her again; at any rate, he thought he knew where he'd have to go from here on. "Fair, saintly lady, call to me, command me," he murmured, citing whatever he remembered from that poem somewhere in the back of his mind, "angelic eyes shining brighter than the star, I shall endure long-lasting as the world, oh, Lady of virtue, for though alone!"

The voice – his angel's voice, answered, 'Now go, for one sole will is in us both!'

He passed the beasts without hesitation; they did nothing worse but growl at him and so did his father. "What you think you're doing?"

"I'll follow her voice."

"Her _voice_?"

"Can't you hear her then?"

"I bloody don't hear anything! And you, you're out of your mind, you are! Don't you know what'll come next?"

No, he didn't. He just followed his intuition, marching through a deep vale, towards the shores of a broad, frothing river. The sky was void of any stars, dark and forbidding, but filled with hornets and gadflies instead, and he heard wails and complaints. _Those_, Abraxas could hear as well, obviously, and joined the pessimistic chorus, cursing the hornets and waving wildly at them to leave him alone.

"Lucius, stop! Stop! Hang on just a minute and _listen to me!_"

The sky changed colour from dark to vermilion. He suddenly tripped, fell, thought he lost his consciousness and awoke again from a thunderous noise, finding himself perilously close to the edge of a nebulous valley, nearly toppling into the bottomless abyss and stopping in his tracks, straining to regain his balance, grabbing his father's supporting arm. He peered into that abyss that looked like a funnel-shaped Roman amphitheatre, so deep that he could not discern its bottom, and could merely guess it from the angle of the slope.

"What is this?"

"The nine circles of hell, sonny. Now you've seen them, trust me and let us go back!"

"I can't. Cissa is somewhere there, I know it!"

"In hell? Our dearest? Why would _she_ be in _hell?_"

The question was sound enough and for a minute, he wavered in his determination. Of all the places in the entire universe, _hell_ surely wasn't where his beloved belonged. Gazing down the funnel, 'into this wilde Abyss, The Womb of nature and perhaps her Grave', insecure what to do, he heard her lovely voice again and immediately knew from the bottom of his heart that he was on the right path.

'Lux in tenebris lucet, Lucius, mon amour.'

Oh, yes, it did. _Her_ light would shine in the blackest and most impregnable of darkness still, and he'd have walked to the end of the world for her. "If I cannot deflect the will of Heaven, I shall move Hell," he kept on reciting instead of an answer as if it was a guide book.

"Wrong book, sonny, wrong book!"

"What?"

"You're mixing up your classics. You always did!"

"Go back if you're scared, Father. I must go on." Thus speaking, he walked onwards into the first, highest circle.

"Scared? I'm not scared, though _you_ should be! _This_ – everything! – is what _you_ make of death! How you expect it to be! You're going through all the descriptions you ever heard of what you think must come, and you're walking straight into Dante's Inferno because you believe you're supposed to, but you're not!"

"Oh, so _that's_ what it is! Dante! Yes, Narcissa loved him, didn't she? I sort of remember the outlines... So Narcissa is my – what was her name –"

"Her name was Beatrice, you moron, but sure as hell I'm no Virgil!"

"Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye, in every gesture dignity and love." Lucius recited from memory as well as he could, startled by the idea how very much like life – like his wife – that poetry she had always been so fond of, was after all. He kept on pondering optimistically, "That Beatrice, she wasn't in hell either. The bloke merely had to cross through to find her – was it in Purgatory or in Heaven?"

"But Narcissa _isn't_ anywhere there, don't you get it! She's alive! She is alive and you're not, and you just have to deal with that!"

"I can hear her voice, Father. I _know_ I must go down there."

"If I know one thing for certain, boy, it's that Narcissa doesn't even believe in hell. And most surely, she wouldn't want _you_ to go there!"

Everywhere around them, he saw people – men, women, children, a ghostly crowd silently weeping, none of which appeared to see _him_ though. Coming closer, he passed a fire, lively sparkling in front of a sevenfold-embattled castle, with seven consecutive doors. That place in his heart which had always enclosed his love for Narcissa from the very first moment he had set eyes on her, now just as positively housed his confidence he would find her, that he had no moment to linger, but hasten on.

Thus he entered a second, lower and narrower circle, where loud wails welcomed him, bellowing like the sea in a tempest. It was pitch dark; he could not see his own hand, but instead, long-forgotten memories enforced themselves on him. He saw himself, in the arms of uncounted girls, one as pretty as the other, holding him, encircling and ensnaring him, presenting him their well-shaped breasts and sinful lips. Their laughter and their wanton moans echoed in his skull; he pressed his hands to his ears but he could not drown out the sound, just like he could not push away the recollections where these sounds stemmed from. There was but one mouth, one pair of eyes that he saw not, and hers were the only he wanted to see, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not see her, could not hear her voice among the many, and his panic grew the harder he tried. He must not have lost her! He must not have lost his memories of her!

He had squeezed his eyes shut, straining to ridden himself of these images in his head and the countless limps entangling him, and half-blind, deaf from the noise thundering in his skull, he lunged forwards without orientation.

'Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds. Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom,' her gentle voice murmured.

"Narcissa, I've loved none but you. Ever," he whispered and felt Abraxas' hand on his shoulder. "Our state cannot be severed; we are one, one flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself."

"She knows it, my boy. She always did. You're as much in her heart as she's always been in yours."

Slowly but surely, the pictures faded and the lustful sighs ebbed away as he stumbled on, and startled, he realised that they had, unnoticed, passed the second circle and entered the third. Gust of freezing rain and hail blew into his face here; his naked feet walked on black snow that burnt him and froze him alternating. He was run over by a wild, stampeding hog, and fell into a puddle of rotting, squashed fruits, as cold as the snow, and nauseating him with its sickly sweet smell. He tried getting to his feet again, but kept on slipping and sliding, grabbing for the next best thing to pull himself up again, only to find that those were the gnawed-off bones of sucking pigs and quails, empty whiskey bottles, mashed jelly rolls. No matter what he did, he could not get up, and he stopped trying, crawling on all four, or gliding on his belly through this mess, not minding the stench, and cold, and overall rancidness.

"Lucius, in life you've been making mistakes of epic proportions, but believe me, _this_ is the worst you've ever done," Abraxas, who seemed to have no difficulties walking straight and proudly, kept on lecturing.

"I don't mind any of this, Father."

"_This_ isn't what I'm talking about! You're going in the wrong direction, that's what you're doing!"

He ignored Abraxas and thus descended to the next circle, which curiously resembled a Gringotts vault, not only in size and sombre style, but also because of the gigantic heaps of gleaming gold and diamonds that shone and sparkled everywhere, making it hard for him to find his bearings. The mounts of gold towered higher and higher until they started crashing down on him, moved by a whirlwind, burying him beneath their sheer weight, and wherever they touched him, his skin and flesh were burnt as if he had touched white-hot metal. He screamed in pain and tried to ward off the onslaught, praying he would hear Her voice again, and howling, he scrambled on. He had tried to shield his face with his hands, but realised that like this, he could impossibly find his way out, so he had to bear his face and simply endure the scourging pain.

'For better or worse, prosperity or poverty,' her gentle voice whispered and he nodded, and there! _There!_ He saw the exit and ran forwards, no longer perceiving the burning metal, not perceiving anything but her voice.

The next circle was a sort of swamp, mouldy, reeking of noxious putrescence. His feet sank into the lukewarm substance that looked like shit – and he faintly perceived that it _was_ shit in all possibility. Well, what did he care, after all. He'd walk through worse, _much_ worse for her!

He had barely thought this, when he heard a snarling voice. 'I don't like your nose,' the strangely familiar, discarnate voice cackled gleefully, and in the next second, he was hit by a jinx, making his nose grow like an elephant's trunk.

"Father?" he asked, for a moment thinking that Abraxas hat hexed him. The voice would somewhat fit.

"Right behind you, sonny. Just waiting for you to have enough of this."

"Did you put a spell on me?"

"I'm dead, sonny. I couldn't spell you, although I'd love to. Stun you and drag you out, you numbskull!"

'You're late for practise,' the voice hissed even more maliciously, and he was hit by a Stinging Jinx. 'I _saw_ how you looked at her!' it cried, irate, and a spell glued his eyes shut. Now that he was blind, he at least recognised the voice – it was his own, sounding just a tad different from what _he_ heard himself when he spoke. More taunts, more anger, more quick-tempered exclamations, each followed by a jinx or hex or curse. But regardless what it was and how often he fell into the excremental goo, he went ahead almost stoically.

Snorting and spluttering, and trying to spit out the filth in his mouth, he reached a high, adamant weir tower, guarding the entrance to a kind of city – doubtlessly the entrance to the next circle, narrower yet than its predecessors. He meant to step through the gate, but felt Abraxas' restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Eternal flames are burning within this lower hell, son." Lucius turned around, seeing Abraxas looking very sad, his arms raised in a surrendering gesture. "I cannot enter Dis, Lucius. And you don't want to go there either, _trust me!_"

"But I have to, Father."

"You are mislead, Lucius! You cannot save Narcissa, you _can't_! You'll only make it all worse!"

"I can feel her. I can hear her. I know I must go on."

Abraxas narrowed his eyes. "You know what this is, this city, don't you?"

"Dis? The city of the dead. And the realms of Satan. Pandemonium, city and proud seat of Lucifer."

"Lucifer, my arse!" Abraxas swore loudly and wildly, but like in life, his son didn't really listen. He hadn't thought about it until Abraxas had asked him – the realms of Satan... Hell... That was what men like him went to when they were dead, wasn't it? 'Now conscience wakes despair, wakes the bitter memory of what he was, what is, and what must be worse.' Abraxas was right in so far that he would not find Narcissa here. Narcissa had nothing to do with hell. She'd never done anything to end up here. He on the other hand had. And they'd forever be parted. _Forever._

He remembered enough of his education (or rather Narcissa's enchanting voice reciting) to know that passing through hell, Dante had reached other realms, purgatory and paradise, where he'd been reunited with that Beatrice woman. That _could_ be a possibility... At least, he'd have to try. It could not get worse anyhow, right? He was dead already, he belonged in hell for all his crimes – the least he could do was _trying_ to overcome this for Narcissa's sake.

"Aren't you listening, sonny?" Abraxas shouted.

"Yes, Father. I listened. You cannot go on, I understand this. Goodbye."

"Lucius! You're going to lose her!"

"Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to Light." He had never felt that urge before in an entire lifetime, not as a child, not on the old man's dying bed, but now he felt the overwhelming need to embrace his father and brush a kiss on his wrinkled forehead. "Thank you for everything, Father. From here on, I must proceed on my own."

"Yes, you must, and you'll regret it in eternity," Abraxas murmured mournfully. "Goodbye, son. We shall not meet again."

'Who is this that goes through the regions of the dead?' a scary, roaring voice thundered. So that would be Satan then, right? Lucius thought dimly. Funny. He'd never believed in this stuff. Or had he? He'd forgotten. 'Alone return he by his witless way if well he know it!'

_Return?_ Oh, but most certainly not! No, no, no way! Uh-hu! He made another step forwards, when out of the blue, a dreadful female objected the way. Stead of hair, she had slithering snakes on her head; her gaze was wild and murderous, and when she opened her mouth – full of sharp, long teeth – a roaring thunder made him shrink away physically and close his eyes.

Alas. What could that beast do? Kill him again? His eyes still closed, he approached her again, muttering words he had heard somewhere, surely he had heard Cissa quote them, "Why are you so reluctant to endure that will whose aim can never be cut short?" He walked on, not opening his eyes, and kept on muttering, "Some have called thee mighty and dreadfull, for thou art not so, for those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me!" and strangely, he could pass that gruesome guardian, and opening his eyes at last, he realised that he had entered a graveyard. Uncanny flames flickered between the graves and tombs. There were coffins made of metal, white-hot metal, but no matter where he looked, he saw no other exit than the one he had just passed through. So much for the 'eternal flames in nether hell', yes? But where to now? Or was he stuck here now? There must be an exit – if this was Inferno, he was only in the Sixth Circle, if he had counted right. There _must_ be a way.

"Give me a sign, my love," he whispered, and indeed – he thought he could hear her answer.

'Thy soul was like a star,' her heavenly voice would whisper, and like a little dawn, some hidden light seemed to rise and shed its rays on a beautifully carved tombstone, spelling out '_Narcissa Leda Aurora Eleanor Virginie Persephone_'. Underneath her name was a verse engraved:

_So dear I love him, that with him all deaths_

_I could endure, without him live no life._

For a split second, his heart stilled beating with the thought that his angel's spirit might be encased in one of these tombs, but then he shook himself, shook off the foolish notion. She _had been_ an angel, after all! She had been _good_! No way her soul would land in such a place, impossible! Comforted by that genuine belief, but nonetheless at a loss what to do or where to go, he kept on searching for a clue, going through the strange things the voice had said, but not coming up with anything.

The little sun hovered above an open coffin filled with glowing embers, before slowly descending until it vanished between the burning coals. He raised his brows, inhaled deeply, and climbed into that coffin then. The pain took his breath, but no matter. Grinding his teeth, he started to dig, deeper and deeper, digging himself a hole and vanishing deeper and deeper inside it, not reaching the bottom though. Mad with pain, helpless and increasingly desperate, he continued, fighting the growing fear and dwindling hope. He would prevail! He would! There _must_ be a bottom here somewhere!

Yes, and if there was – what then? He faltered for a moment, and instantly, the pain lessened – the parching coals felt less hot against his skin. In fact, they turned suddenly cool, making him shudder. 'Narcissa,' he thought. 'Narcissa. Narcissa.' And he continued to dig; the crucifying heat returned with a vengeance, but he did not stop again, until his hand grabbed into nothingness, and in the next second, he fell, and ruggedly landed on his arse.

Getting up and gazing around, he beheld a circular plain with several rings, narrower towards the centre and encompassed by a red-gleaming river. More disturbingly though, he faced a grizzly monster directly before him, half-human, half-… Well, a bull, perhaps… Or a rhino? At any rate, it was _huge_, pawing its hoofs and ready to trample the intruder. Lucius could barely save himself with a plucky leap into the river. It was no less hot than the embers in the last ring; and disgusted, he realised that this was no water, but blood, thick, metallic in taste, and with that distinct odour that had sickened him always. 'This is the bloody you've shed,' an incorporeal voice whispered in his ear, sounding like his son, and he knew it was true. He deserved drowning in this river of blood. Nevertheless, he summoned all his physical strength and swam towards the opposite shore, closer to the centre, knowing that this must be his true destination on this stage.

Volleys of arrows hailed down on him, forcing him to dive again and again, swallowing blood and almost suffocating with it. He had been a sportive man all his life, but curiously swimming had never been among his real fortes. But what should he do else? Drown here? He was dead, he couldn't drown, technically, could he? So he swam on, his arms hurting because the substance was so thick that it was hard to move through. He reached the other side and crawled, retching and gasping for breath, onto the shore, which was overgrown with thorny bushes. He looked for an easier way, but there was none, so with a little sigh, he took the direct route, the sharp thorns tearing his arms and legs and chest.

The next thing he saw made him scream out loud and freeze. In the coppice, he had suddenly spotted a body impaled on the thorny bushes, and bleeding from many wounds. He would have recognised that body in total darkness, he would have recognised it by every single feature on its own – by touching the skin or stroking over the shoulder, by smelling its scent or feeling the long, golden hair. He would have known who this was if he had seen nothing but the nail of her left little toe.

He rushed towards her, trying to disentangle her cold limbs from the thorns but not succeeding. Her eyes were open and broken, a thin line of dried blood encrusted on her chin. Cissa! No! _No!_ He had not come this far to find her like this! He had not just swum through a river of blood to find her lost! He had not dug through half a ton of smouldering embers to give her up!

This _wasn't_ her! No, no, no! He would never believe that. He had to go on, make it to the middle of this ring, surely _this_ wasn't the end! Pressing a kiss on the forehead of the being that looked like his wife, he let go off her and marched on, willing himself not to turn around once more. This. Was. Not. Her.

After the thicket came a wall over which he climbed easily, landing on a kind of beach. Fire came raining down from the red blazing sky, but he hardly felt it; with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow-flakes gone into mourning for the death of the sun. No, he did not feel any of this any longer; past tortures had made his body turn numb, and the sight of that corpse resembling his beloved had dulled all but his single last instinct. _Find her!_

'Soon there will upward come what they thought is dreaming must soon reveal itself unto thy sight,' the gentle, low voice of his angel whispered in his ear; startled, he whirled around, hoping he had found her at last. But she wasn't there. What _was_ there though made his blood curl – a gigantic, winged scorpion with a deadly-looking sting. 'Behold him who infecteth all the world,' Narcissa's voice whispered, 'I'll parley with this beast to see if he can lend us his strong shoulders.'

Had it been _anyone_ but his beloved telling him he should go anywhere _near_ that monster, he'd have declared them mad and turned on his heels. As it was, he tentatively closed in on the beast, which allowed him to mount its back indeed – the pointed tip of its sting dangling dangerously close just inches over Lucius' crouched shoulders. One wrong move, he thought, and that sting would pierce him, and while he thought that it wouldn't kill him – nothing of all this had killed him, possibly because he was dead already – he was equally sure that the pain caused by its venom would be agonising. He held very still, his eyes shut and his mind focusing on the reason why he was doing this, and he felt the scorpion stir slowly and take off, its mighty wings spread and flying straight into the abyss it was guarding.

He heard the noise of a giant cataract and in the same moment, the scorpion, or dragon, or whatever it was, shrugged him off, and Lucius landed once more on his behind, gazing up the impossibly high cliff that he had just descended so much more safely than he had anticipated. There were lakes of boiling pitch, dividing the grounds, connected by frail-looking, rickety bridges, flames and snakes all around, and in the middle of all this, a well.

He instinctively knew he had to get to that well, through this darkness he'd have to grope his way – for all the flames, there was no real light – 'yet from those flames no light, but rather darkness visible' – and stepping through the masses of hissing, striking snakes, he set forwards. A whipping sound rang through the air, sonorous metal blowing martial sounds, and before he could tell what was happening, an invisible curse, like a blade, had cut off his right arm. He shrieked, seeing it fall to the ground and on the verge of fainting with the sudden, and thoroughly unexpected pain – only to see that, not a jot less painful, that arm re-grew, just like it had been. The whipping sound resounded again, this time hacking through his left thigh. He fell into the snake pit, which intensified the pain with their bites, but this limb grew back too, and bit by bit – and gruesomely literally so – he proceeded, closer and closer to that central well. He had lost every of his limbs a dozen times when reaching the well at last, not to mention his head.

Not thinking twice, he plunged into the well once he had reached it, head-first, gliding down an icy tunnel. On its bottom opened a gleaming white cave of ice, and he suddenly spotted the bodies of loads of people he had known in life, frozen in various states of action.

There was the Dark Lord – more than once actually, in more than one state of transformation. One of his embodiments had a nose still – the other both ears – one was a handsome teenage boy of Draco's age, roughly. Over there, petrified in running, was Igor Karkaroff. On the other side he saw that rotten bastard Yaxley, naked, his erect penis in his hand and a leer on his face, and Lucius had to withstand the impulse to run over and beat the frozen statue to pieces. He saw long-dead Ministry men, he saw Bella, her arm raised in a murderous gesture, he saw that ludicrous Pettigrew character pointing at something or someone…

He felt the cold gripping him, crawling under his skin, some intense, compelling numbness taking hold of him and he knew he was freezing, like all the other traitors of everything that was good. These were those he belonged to, the wicked and wretched.

'He that has eyes to see and ears to hear may convince himself that no mortal can keep a secret. If his lips are silent, he chatters with his fingertips; betrayal oozes out of him at every pore,' a whisper said. Lucius looked around once more, a simple movement made almost impossible by the icy stiffness that had befallen him, but none of the frozen figures could have spoken this. Neither had Narcissa. He gave a low, mirthless chuckle. _Betrayal!_ Oh, he had been a traitor many times. He had betrayed the world for more than twenty years, he had betrayed the wizard that he had pledged himself to, he had even betrayed his own son's unconditional trust in him. He hadn't meant to – in Draco's case at least – but done it he had. There was but one person in the world that he had never betrayed. He closed his eyes.

"My love," he whispered. "Love is the crowning grace of humanity, the holiest right of the soul, the golden link which binds us to duty and truth, the redeeming principle that chiefly reconciles the heart to life."

* * *

'_A mind not to be changed..._' – John Milton, Paradise Lost.

_'In the midway_…' Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, Canto I, English translation by: H.

'_Fair, saintly lady_…' – Inspired by: Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, Canto II, English translation by: Henry Wadsmorth Longfellow.

'_Now go_…' Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, Canto II, English translation by: Henry Wadsmorth Longfellow.

'_I__nto this wilde Abyss, The Womb of nature and perhaps her Grave_' – John Milton, Paradise Lost, III 910f.

'_Lux in_…' Vulgata, Evangelium secundum Ioannem 1,5

'_If I cannot deflect_…' Virgil, Aeneid

'_Love is not love_...' – Loosely quoted from William Shakespeare, sonnet CXVI

'_Our state cannot be severed; we are one_…' John Milton, Paradise Lost, IX Lines 958-959.

'_Grace was in all her steps_…' – John Milton, Paradise Lost VIII 488f

'… _bellowing like the sea_…' – Inspired by: Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, Canto V, English translation by: Henry Wadsmorth Longfellow

'_The eternal flames_…' Inspired by: Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, Canto VIII, English translation by: Allen Mandelbaum.

'_Pandemonium, city and..._' – John Milton, Paradise Lost, X 424f.

'_Now conscience wakes despair..._' Loosely quoted from John Milton, Paradise Lost, IV 23ff.

'_Long is the way..._' – John Milton, Paradise Lost, 432f.

'_Who is this_…' Inspired by: Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, Canto VIII, English translation by: H.

'_Why are you so reluctant_…' Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, Canto IX, English translation by: Allen Mandelbaum.

'_Some have called thee mighty and dreadfull_…' John Donne, Death be not proud.

'_Thy soul was like a star…_' William Wordsworth, London 1802.

'_So dear I love him, that with him all deaths…_' John Milton, Paradise Lost, IX Lines 832-833.

'…_with flakes of soot_…' Charles Dickens, Bleak House, Chapter I.

'_Soon there will_…' Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, Canto XVI, English translation by: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

'_Behold him_…' Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, Canto XVII, English translation by: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

'_I'll parley_…' Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, Canto XVII, English translation by: Allen Mandelbaum.

'_Yet from these flames..._' – John Milton, Paradise Lost.

'_Sonorous metal..._' – John Milton, Paradise Lost.

'_He that has eyes_...' Sigmund Freud, Fragment of an analysis of a case of hysteria

'_Love is the crowning grace_...' – Francesco Petrarca


	175. Rumours

It's a good thing that Mr Weasley with his job in the Ministry sits at the heart of information

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**– 4.48. –**

Rumours

* * *

_Ab uno, disce omnes. _

_VIRGIL – Aeneid_

* * *

Molly Weasley has a lot of admirable qualities, but her cookery might be the one she receives the most praise for. At any rate, it isn't a simple sense for family that gathers her entire kin in The Burrow each Saturday, starting with lunch, continuing with tea and home-made cakes and puddings and cookies, and finishing with a grand dinner at last. This is such an occasion, and after devouring every last bit of roast and casserole and what have you got, and Molly withdrawing to the kitchen with her daughter-in-law, her other children and her husband stretch themselves around the table, massaging their stomachs.

Hermione, who has joined them for dinner, feels guilty for letting Mrs Weasley deal with the cleaning-up all by herself (well, with Fleur's help, too) while sitting here, like this. But she doesn't get up as a matter of principle. She _always_ does that – getting up to help, that is. And sometimes, Ginny does, too. But not in their wildest dreams, any of the male members of the family would get the notion of helping with the washing up! She's tried it with subtle hints – she's tried it with overt prompts – but nothing could ever induce Ron to do just anything in the kitchen, if not expressly ordered by his mother.

"Any news, Dad?" Bill asks in a low voice, shooting the kitchen door an apprehensive glance.

Mr Weasley follows his son's gaze, before muttering in the same confidential manner, "News? The investigations made it clear that Andromeda Tonks was right after all, but you know that."

"Everyone who ever met Lennart Tonks knew that," Bill replies, eye-rolling. He went to school with the young artist and has nothing if not the highest opinion of his friend of childhood days.

"It turned out that she was right in regard to her allegations regarding Elias Yaxley, too," his father continues quietly, still keeping a sharp eye on the kitchen door.

Ginny isn't the only one exhaling with relief hearing this; in a similarly secretive manner like her brother and father, she whispers, "But that's good news indeed! Then it's only some old Death Eaters conspiring –"

"And that you call 'good news', eh?" Ron cries and clasps his mouth then, staring at the door with almost comical apprehension.

Mr Weasley nods gloomily. "There are plenty of rumours going about, I can tell you! these deaths and disappearances and odd incidents. People are getting more and more scared, and I can't say I blame them. They're afraid to leave their children out of their sight for a minute. There were suggestions, too, to upgrade security on the Minister, but of course, Kingsley wouldn't have it. He can look after himself, true. But I would have assumed as much of Lucius Malfoy. Some guys in the Ministry suppose it's a conspiracy of werewolves, trying to kill old Order members in order to easier get to their prey. But if you'll ask me, it doesn't figure. It's the Ministry that's principally responsible for public safety and save Hestia and Trudie Jones, not a single member of the Ministry got assaulted so far. And then... Nobody ever figured out how Dedalus Diggle came to swallow that poison, did they?"

"I just don't see what these three got in common. Trudie Jones wasn't in the Order –"

"But she never supported Voldemort either."

Bill frowns. "Sounds like a whole lot of rubbish to me. How would Malfoy fit into that theory, for example?"

"Revenge," his father replies like a shot.

Harry adds, "Lucius Malfoy sold his old pals out, and in the end, he walked free. And Mrs Malfoy… Well, she did her part, didn't she? When she lied to Voldemort about my death."

"I can see why some old Death Eaters want to get back at the Malfoys, alright," Bill mutters. "But then, what about all the others? I mean, seriously! Each time they resurface only to get their revenge on someone, they risk being discovered after all! And why would someone try to kill a non-entity like Trudie Jones and her mother? She may not have been a supporter of Voldemort, but she never was a threat to him or his people either!"

"Who knows? Seriously, who does? Yaxley isn't – wasn't the only Death Eater on the flight. There are dozens of them we weren't capable of finding so far! Each of them might have their own little agenda of revenge, their own old bills to settle. Because mark my words, the killing of Lucius and the attempt on Narcissa were nothing if not personal! They've got Yaxley's corpse with his –"He stops in mid-sentence, shooting his daughter an awkward look. "They found him in a very explicit pose."

Well, neither Hermione nor Ginny are stupid; they know very well what Mr Weasley can't bring himself to say out loud in their presence. Hermione shudders merely thinking of what happened in Malfoy Manor that night, and while she loathed them with good reason, she is utterly repulsed by what has happened to them nevertheless. Poor Mrs Malfoy was so devastated, she couldn't even make a useful statement yet!

Still glancing at the door and fearing his mother to come out any second now, Bill proceeds quickly, "So they think that in order to reach his own ends, Yaxley _somehow_ contacted Greyback and his cronies and persuaded them –"

"Greyback wouldn't have needed any _persuasion_, believe me. He and Lucius go way back. _Way back_. For all I know, Lucius even opposed the idea to use the werewolves in the first war back then. Never trusted them. I guess that was the root of Greyback's hatred, and Lucius started taking matters extremely personal as well after that old story –"

"Which old story?" Harry asks.

"Greyback once tried to abduct Lucius' son, when he was still very small. A dozen or so werewolves invaded the boundaries, killed two house-elves and might have succeeded, if Lucius hadn't saved the boy just in time. He never officially filed charges, but enforced an anti-werewolf protection on his property that was only taken down under You Know Who's second reign, and from Remus I know that in the months after that attack then, nine or ten werewolves were killed. Remus said that it was common knowledge among them that Lucius had hunted down everyone partaking in the assault. Only Greyback and one or two of his closest followers, he couldn't catch. Neither Lucius, nor Greyback, ever forgave each other, and now Greyback seems to have settled the debt once and for all, didn't he?"

Ron doesn't appear to share Hermione's sympathetic sentiments, because he cries almost triumphantly, "Oh, I _knew_ old Lucius had it coming!"

Hermione's jaw drops and she goggles at him, speechless. Harry looks incredulous, too, and Mr Weasley snaps, "I don't think I've raised you to be gleeful about the death of anybody, Ronald Bilius Weasley!"

"I'm not being gleeful, Dad! You just said it yourself, that Lucius had killed all those werew-"

"I've seen better men than Lucius Malfoy try the same," his father interrupts him darkly. "And while I can't say I condone of that deed, I remember just too well that I contemplated doing the same after Greyback attacked Bill!"

"But you didn't!"

"No, because we had a whole lot of troubles at the time anyway, without me getting myself killed as well!"

"And it's not the same anyway!"

"Isn't it? No, it probably isn't… Bill was wounded in a fight among adults. Lucius' son was not four years old when they targeted _him_." Mr Weasley looks strict and sad at the same moment, and Ron blushes under his and his siblings' dismayed glances. Slowly, Mr Weasley goes on, still in the same flat tone and keeping an eye on the kitchen door, "Be that as it may. That is how they got in, we figure. It's not easy to get into Malfoy Manor clandestinely, nigh impossible I daresay. Only specially authorised persons can get through the gates. But Yaxley, with Lucius' own wand, could have circumnavigated that little problem. That's also the trick he used to lock in the house-elves. The protective spells against werewolves were removed once Voldemort moved in, and Lucius could never put them up again without his own wand. Perhaps he should have given it a try with Narcissa's; it's remarkable how many he got before they tore him apart. We used priori incantatem on the wand, and for all we know, he never used it before that night."

"It's a sad irony that in all probability, Lucius Malfoy got killed because for the first time in his life, he did obey the laws," Percy observes pensively. "With his own wand, he might have succeeded after all."

"I'm quite sure he would. But that's another thing. The _wand_. The Ministry can barely keep the lid on the scandal _that_ is!" Mr Weasley wipes his forehead with his handkerchief. "Not only Lucius' wand was stolen – so were Bellatrix Lestrange's and the remnants of You Know Who's!"

"_What?_"

"You think – you think that was Yaxley too, right? I mean – now he's dead, the secret of where he stored Voldemort's wand would have died with him –" Harry doesn't sound much convinced by his own hopeful reasoning, and Mr Weasley shakes his head.

"I have no idea, Harry. Obviously, we spoke to his sisters and their parents, and while neither of them denies having seen him now and then –"

"What?"

"It's not illegal to help a close relative on the flight, Ginny. You may find it morally reprehensible, but it _is_ legal. Anyhow, we found no further traces of him, and none of them seems to have a clue where Yaxley was hiding. Some of them even agreed to repeat their statements under the influence of Veritaserum. They have not an inkling where Yaxley was hiding, or what might have happened with You Know Who's wand!"

Hermione clears her throat. "Isn't it a little superstitious to make so much of that wand in the first place? It was broken beyond repair, wasn't it? So the useless remnants of Voldemort's wand are lying around somewhere, big deal! I'm rather worried because of Bellatrix Lestrange's wand!"

"What of it?"

"Well, it wasn't broken to begin with! It belonged to a very mighty dark witch, it must have imbibed her powers, and now it is god knows where!"

"And Mum would be its master, right?" Ron throws in, and his following glance at the kitchen door looks a whole lot more reverent.

"I don't know much about wandlore, but wouldn't the theft of the wand break that chain and enable a new user? What if it wasn't Yaxley who stole it?"

"He _had_ Malfoy's wand, George."

"It doesn't follow though that he was the one to steal it. He could have paid someone to get it. Or do you really think that more than one person broke into the Ministry lately to steal one wand each?"

In that moment, the kitchen door _is_ opened after all and Mrs Weasley returns with a large tray full of cookies and muffins. They all fall silent instantly, but her face falls all the same. She must have guessed what they were talking about. Or perhaps she overheard them.

"So..." she says hoarsely. "How is Narcissa, then?"

Mr Weasley slowly shakes his head, looking ten years older suddenly. "Very bad indeed. Of course, the Healers aren't allowed to say anything, but from what I've heard from the Aurors... She completely lost her mind, and rumour has it she did not regain it so far. Apparently, they're keeping her under heavy sedatives. We couldn't even get a statement from her, and the only thing Healer Toke deigns to say is that we're unlikely to get any in the future either."

Mrs Weasley gives a heartfelt sigh while putting down the tray. "She never was my favourite. Terrible woman! But she did not – nobody should... I was so shocked seeing her at the funeral. She looked like a ghost to me."

"Little wonder, after all that happened to her," Bill says darkly and throws a protective arm around his wife's shoulder, as if that could prevent anything from happening to her.

"At least that horrible man got what he deserved," his mother continues, and for a moment Hermione is convinced she's talking of Lucius Malfoy. "I'm sure it was that Vow. Everyone said it was madness, then, but look what it was good for!"

They're all goggling at her stupidly. "Mum – what on earth are you talking about?" George asks after all.

"The Unbreakable Vow, dear," she replies as if it was the most natural explanation in the world. "Fabian told me about it then, they were invited. Narcissa and Lucius made an Unbreakable Vow of unwavering faith on their wedding day. I'm sure that's what killed that bastard!"

A few jaws drop, among them Hermione's. Ron frowns. "How is that supposed to work out? I thought an Unbreakable Vow only binds those two people taking it. That it had no effect on outsiders."

"Well, don't ask _me_ how it's supposed to work; I've got no idea about these things. But if a man forced her to break that Vow, it seems only fair to me that it backfired on _him_ instead!" She has arranged the cookies neatly while she was talking and now wipes her hands on her apron with a fierce look.

Percy exchanges a glance with his father. "Technically, Mum's right. Make an Unbreakable Vow and you're killed breaking it. But if you're forced by somebody else to break it, the magic will turn against him instead."

"They made an Unbreakable Vow?" George asks incredulously. "To – what – to remain faithful? Whyever that?"

Now Mr and Mrs Weasley both snigger. "Oh, dear," the latter says, her cheeks reddening. "There used to be a time when no girl was safe from Lucius Malfoy. He could be rather charming if he pleased. And tremendously good-looking." Catching an amused glance from her husband, her face turns even redder. "Why, I'm just saying! It's true! Quite the heartbreaker in his youth, he was!"

"Speaking from experience there, Mum?" Ginny asks, half teasing, half aghast.

"Nonsense! Not _quite_ my age, was he!" she retorts tartly, leaving it open whether she was too young or too old for him. Hermione makes a quick calculation and wagers on the latter. "At any rate, he gave it all up when meeting his wife. Say what you will about that ghastly man, he was a good husband."

"How romantic," Fleur croons and cuddles up closer to Bill, ignoring the bewildered gazes she receives from her brothers-in-law.

"Remind me – in which way is it _romantic_ to prevent a man from cheating on his wife by sure death?" George asks in utter incredulousness.

"Well, everybody makes an oath to be forever faithful on zeir wedding day, but to underline its earnestness by making an Unbreakable Vow seems very romantic to _me_. Shows 'e was ready to pledge 'is life on his faith, n'est pas?"

"You want me to do the same?" Bill asks her facetiously and pecks a little kiss on her temple.

"I didn't know I 'ad any reason to doubt in you?"

A little smile creeps over Mrs Weasley's lips, before turning back to her husband. "I meant to ask you much earlier – did they find out who that – that attacker of Narcissa was? I never believed for a second that it was that poor, poor boy!"

So Mr Weasley reluctantly recaps what he has said so far, and finishes with a deep sigh. "So the question remains: where _is_ Lennart Tonks?"

"Why would anyone abduct him in the first place?" Percy murmurs. "He didn't even _fight_ in the war, he was abroad, and he's no member of the Order either. He doesn't fit into the pattern."

"Perhaps someone wanted to gain access to Malfoy Manor?"

"Didn't we establish that every old Death Eater equipped with Lucius' wand could walk onto the boundaries just like that?"

"What's more," Bill cries, "Lennart is missing for – for more than a year now. Why would they have waited so long?"

"Does anyone know if it's possible to use the hairs of a dead person for Polyjuice Potion?"

"I don't think so," Hermione says. "I don't know for sure, but – remember the fake Moody, Barty Crouch? Why would he have risked exposure by dragging around the living Moody in a trunk, threatening to throw off the Imperius Curse sooner or later, if he could just as well have killed him and shaven his head then?"

Bill nods. "Good point."

"We've forgotten something – somebody else," Harry murmurs pensively.

"Hm?"

Louder, he proceeds, "Professor Slughorn, and Hagrid. People assumed it was an accident, but what if it really wasn't? Hagrid _swore_ the last time I visited him that he by now is absolutely positive that he locked the kennel properly!"

"Good point!" Bill cries once more and slaps his thigh. Hermione makes a shocked face. Not because she thinks Harry is mistaken – no, because she thinks of Hagrid in his cell. Despite his oaths to have properly barred the cage, he gives himself the full blame for old Slughorn's death. What _if_ he was framed? _Again?_ Sudden tears of fury rise to her eyes; she angrily blinks them away and listens to Mr Weasley, Percy and Bill talking.

Percy, always the bureaucrat, produces parchment and quill and starts making a list, headlining it 'SUSPICIOUS DEATHS AND DISAPPEARANCES', and scribbles down the names the others throw at him:

Horace Slughorn (+ 6/11/99, killed by Megallimpent)

Hagrid (OP, Azkaban)

Hestia Jones (OP, + ca. 4/30/99, poisoned)

Trudie Jones (MoM, + ca. 3/00, killed by AK)

Evadne Jones (+ ca. 3/00, killed by AK)

Dedalus Diggle (OP, + 1/17/99, poisoned)

Walter Leach (OP, +2/25/99, suicide (imperiused?))

Lennart Tonks (disappeared 3/30/99)

Lucius Malfoy (DE, +4/14/00, killed by werewolves)

Narcissa Malfoy (poisoned: 4/99, attacked: 4/14/00)

Aida Warrington (disappeared 1/1/00)

"Who's she?" George asks; Hermione had thrown that name in.

"A Seventh Year from Hogwarts. Some assume she ran away, but I thought we might as well put her here."

"Why would she run away?"

"Who knows? She went to some party and got terribly drunk. Apparently she got into a fight with some people."

"Big mouth, that one," Ron agrees with her, nodding.

"Right, I think I remember. She left the party and wasn't seen again, right?"

"But if we're talking about children disappearing..." Mr Weasley scratches his chin. "What about these two kids last year? The Parkin boy – what was his name – Preston Parkin, I think. And that girl..."

"Hortense Ridgebit," says Mrs Weasley, distressed.

With an expectant look, Percy writes down their names, and what is known about them.

Preston Parkin (disappeared ca. 2/2/99)

Hortense Ridgebit (disappeared ca. 2/21/99)

"We should check up on the dates. And the names. I'm pretty sure the boy's name isn't Preston."

Ron shuffles in his seat. "I don't mean to be crude, but... We all know what happened to _them_, right? The werewolves got 'em."

"Malfoy was killed by werewolves, too, Ron," Harry says.

"But you said that was personal. With these kids, it must have been rather a question of – _hunger_," he adds at last, looking embarrassed and decidedly avoiding his mother's upset look.

"Isn't it strange that we heard nothing else about werewolf killings? Assuming they killed these children last February, and knowing they killed Malfoy three days ago. What were they doing in between?"

"The children raised too much attention. They usually feed on less ostentatious prey. Muggle tramps and the like. If I should guess, one of Greyback's goons couldn't resist temptation and Greyback took the matter in his own hands. He's sly. He knows he can't afford so much attention."

Fleur, who's been quiet all this time, tilts her head and some strands of silver fall over her shoulders like a shampoo commercial. "I don't zink I understand..." she says, "Some old Death Eaters bonding wiss werewolves, all right, zey abduct children and take revenge on people who fought against 'em, or who betrayed 'em. But zat Ministry witch and her maman, or zis young artist... Isn't it far more likely zey were murdered for osser reasons, personal reasons I mean, and have noting to do wizee others?"

"Good point!" Bill exclaims and proudly squeezes his wife's hand. They're sickeningly cute, those two, Hermione thinks and looks away, and by pure chance it's Mr Weasley she looks at instead. His mien is sombre.

"Regardless which way we count... _Too many_ people die, or disappear for my liking..." he murmurs.

"Of course! Every person killed is always one too many!" Mrs Weasley cries.

"No, I mean... These are peaceful times. They're supposed to be. And still, hardly a month passes by without another person being killed... The body count rather resembles the times when –" He bites his lips and falls silent like everybody else.

* * *

_Ab uno_… From one, learn all.


	176. Narcissa Goes Down

If sheer power of will could raise the dead...

* * *

**– 4.49. –**

Narcissa Goes Down

* * *

_To waste and choose or raise the dead_

_With pain behind go straight ahead_

_...I can't break out now, the time just won't come_

_To waste and choose which way to go_

_Decide for me please let me know_

_Looked in the mirror, saw I was wrong_

_If I could get back to where I belong_

_To waste and choose which way to go_

_I paused for one whom signs forebode_

_If we were immortal we would not bear_

_Washed up on the beat here_

_Struggle for air_

_Something must break now –_

_this life isn't mine_

_Something must break now –_

_wait for the time_

_JOY DIVISION_

* * *

Narcissa Malfoy had been the most rational of creatures all her life. Even as a small child, she had been ruled by sense, much more than her older sisters. A tiny part of her remained so sensible even now; that tiny remnant of reason was on the watch, observing how the entire rest of her shattered.

The first to go was a sense of time. She couldn't have estimated the periods of time ever since waking up in their parlour, her hands shackled in her back, facing the massacre on the shore. How long had it taken Lucius to die? She didn't know. How long had she been clinging to the destroyed corpse with all her might? Too short at any rate. As far as she was concerned, she'd never have let him go.

She saw herself screaming and wailing indistinguishably, but even her last scraps of sanity wouldn't blame her for that much – what else was there to do when one had lost one's reason for being? She also thought she faintly recollected a rather violent brawl with her mother-in-law, but frankly, she wasn't entirely sure if her mind hadn't played a trick on her there. Never before involved in a physical confrontation, it was hard to imagine that she should have knocked out anybody with her bare fists, and what was more – why should that woman have been there in the first place? She'd never set a foot in the house since she'd dutifully attended to her son's wedding. For all Narcissa knew, she could be dead.

Dead like – _no_. NO. She defied even the mere possibility that it could be true. It couldn't be true because it _mustn't_ be true. The greatest part of her was positive, and the little rationality left couldn't prevail. If sheer power of will could have raised the dead, Lucius Malfoy would have walked through the door now, the proverbial prince to wake up Sleeping Beauty with a kiss, but as it was, she rather resembled Snow White, poisoned by benevolent Healers by the means of strong drugs.

The effect of an average Sleeping Potion is, naturally, that the taker sleeps. It slows down the breath, the pulse, it doesn't disable the brain though. One could argue whether that's a fortunate or an unfortunate quality. In Narcissa's case, it was without doubt the latter. Yes, the sedatives her son was feeding her with so conscientiously kept her from _doing_ something desperate, but they didn't save her from _being_ utterly despaired. Iacet enim corpus dormientis ut mortui, viget autem et vivit animus, the ancients had taught already, and Narcissa experienced the bitter, overwhelming truth of the phrase, too. Trapped in an insentient body, her mind was tripped in limbo.

She_ saw_ Lucius. All the time, she saw him. She simply couldn't dispel the memories of his dying moments, the sight of his ripped bleeding body and her only defence was denial. Lucius – Lucius – Lucius... 'Don't leave me, Lucius!' she beseeched him, beseeched death itself. 'Return to us again... Thy soul was like a star and dwelt apart thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea, pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, so didst thou travel on life's common way, in cheerful godliness…' To ward the ghastly images off, she conjured up others – she had a life full of wonderful memories about him, and so few minutes of terror should drive them away? No! So she focused on the good ones, the happy ones – their wedding day, for an instance. How young and radiant had he been there, twenty years old and a life of promises before the both of them! And, oh, their wedding _night_! She'd trembled with excitement and some indefinite fear – that she might disappoint him, who'd had so much more experience than she – and the way he had made her forget all her anxieties in a heartbeat... They'd made love that night for the very first time and her heart had been fit to burst with happiness and love and devotion. In time, the happiness had become more profound, the love even deeper yet and the devotion endless, and she just _knew_ that he'd felt exactly the same for her. His love for her had been as steady and deep as her love for him would always be.

And _now_? She was only forty-four, the midway of this mortal life – technically, another forty-four years were still before her, and she'd been as healthy as a spring twig. She prayed that her body would refuse to function and her soul be thus reunited with her husband. Let drug-induced sleep be superseded by eternal sleep; love wouldn't be love if it could be altered, love altered not with brief hours or weeks, but bore out even to the edge of doom. Who'd said that? She couldn't remember, she was too distraught, but that person sure had had a good point!

Doom. Her mind had sometimes gone astray, had painted horrible scenarios of death and destruction – mostly when that hideous Lord Thingy had been reigning still and not even Narcissa could have shut her eyes from the gruesome possibilities. As it turned out, it felt worse. Much worse. For a start, she'd thought that she'd be allowed to die as well if something had happened to Lucius, or Draco, or both. To be stuck here alone, encased in unearthly misery and grief – no, her imagination had not been vivid enough to picture this hell.

That day when Graham had carried him home, lifeless in his friend's arms, his robes dripping with blood, covered in bruises and cuts, his limps broken, on the brink of death – oh, she'd been _agonised_, but he'd been alive and the terror was nothing compared to _this_, nothing. She could see him fall to his knees, with the atrocious beasts closing in on him. How Fenrir Greyback sank his fangs into Lucius' neck. In her head, she had the most gruesome pictures how a bunch of werewolves would slay her husband, rip him, tear him apart, and even when he was already dead, they wouldn't stop feeding on him. _And they hae taen his very heart's blood, and drank it round and round; and still the more and more they drank, their joy did more abound…_

All that blood. His wide-open, broken eyes, and the blood. She couldn't forget it. The fountain of blood splashing out of his neck – life itself shooting out of him – he had died right before her eyes, and she had been compelled to watch him die, unable to help him, unable to die with him, too. She had only been able to look into his eyes when the light had already gone out of them. His eyes! Lucius' eyes! How she had loved to look into his eyes! How she had wanted to drown in these pools of molten silver! And how trite, how useless, had their last minutes together been! The evening had been lovely, yes – it had wanted nothing. But if she had known that it was their last together, she'd rather wanted to fill it with the most meaningful moments, she would have done nothing else but kiss him and look into his eyes, alternately – and tell him how much, how infinitely much she loved him, and…

Her mind had snapped; that small rational capacity she still possessed was well aware that it was fighting a lost battle and could only hope that soon, the misery and pain would blot out that last awareness, too. Her mortal shell would live on some longer, alright, but she wouldn't have to feel that unbearable anguish anymore, and one beautiful day it'd have to surrender to death, too, and then she'd be reunited with her husband once and for all.

_Death be not proud, __though some have called thee mighty and dreadfull, for thou art not so, for those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,__much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, and soonest our best men with thee doe goe, rest of their bones, and soules deliverie. Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,__and poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well, and better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then; one short sleepe past, wee wake eternally, and death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die!_

Then again... He _couldn't_ be dead, this way or that. No. Because she could see him! She did see him! She saw him kneeling down before her on the day of their engagement – how he would show Draco how to fly on a broomstick – how he was sitting in his usual armchair, checking some papers on his lap, but really observing her while she was playing his favourite music. She could _feel_ his touch. His fingers roaming her body. How he would pull her hair to expose her neck and kiss it. She saw him lie next to her in their bed, with a leer, she could feel the peacock feather trailing down her spine, heard his voice flattering her, whispering in her ear… She saw him with a supreme smile, one hand on his little son's head, the other arm possessively around her shoulders, beckoning at the Chief of the International Wizard Council. She saw him leaning languidly against a shelf in the Hogwarts library, smirking at her. How he was sitting in his study – sitting on a broomstick – sitting in a Venetian gondola, next to her. How he'd conjure a white lily with his wand and put it in her hair, how he'd grab her wrist and pull her back to bed with a playful grin, how he put on the wedding ring on her finger…

And where was he now? Laid to rest in a cold, dark vault next to his ancestors, who had all been able to lead astonishingly long lives – well, the most of them had, anyway. Abraxas had been pushing ninety when he'd died – from a curable disease, moreover. He could have become a hundred and more. Lucius' grandfather Azrael had died at eighty-one, his great-grandfather Caesar at a hundred and two. Only Lucius had gone too soon.

No, no, he had not. This was all but a terrible misunderstanding. That bastard attacking her had _looked_ like her nephew, too, and she knew for certain that it hadn't been him but The Eel. The dead corpse on the shore hadn't been Lucius either, but some stranger polyjuiced to look like him...

Again, she would see that mutilated figure. Her last scraps of common sense screamed that this was nothing but a dream, she was _asleep_, this wasn't real! She would wake up in his arms, there he would be, right beside her, holding her safe. He _couldn't_ be dead, it was just _impossible!_

'Lucius – Lucius – Lucius... Lucius, my love, don't leave me...'

Elsy, her faithful elf-in-waiting, had been dispatched to look over her mistress, to relieve the mourning son and startled sister, who'd returned to live in her own house again after a few days. As far as Elsy was informed, there had been a little argument between the young master – _the_ master as he was now – and his aunt. For all she knew, Miss Andy had merely tried to comfort him, but he had taken her words amiss and more or less shown her the door, thinking she'd belittled his father's death. Elsy, tactfully and discreetly, had pointed out the mistake later on and his cheeks had turned a little whiter yet, muttering that he ought to apologise to his aunt. Since then, however, he had hardly left his mother's side again, and during the short periods of time when his eyes fell shut over a light and very uneven nick of sleep, Elsy had taken over from him.

The truth was: Draco was on the verge of a nervous breakdown himself. Not on the same level like his mother, possibly, but between his worries for her and his speechless grief concerning his father, with whom he'd never reconciled, Draco was feeling absolutely smashed and helpless. He would have loved for his aunt to take over, but it must not be. She had despised her brother-in-law; it would not have been right to have a woman hating his father live in that one's house and take over his responsibilities.

He knew he couldn't stay awake forever, but he couldn't bring himself to retire to his room for a good night's sleep either. He'd deserted them once – nothing of this might have happened if only he had been at home that night! He had deserted his parents once, he must not do so again. His place was here, beside his mother, and if he fell asleep in between for an hour or two now and then, oh well. He couldn't have helped it.

The next time when he opened his eyes after such a short interval, feeling utterly guilty to have indulged himself so badly, to have rested for so long and have left his mother alone, he found the overlarge bed empty.

One look at the silently weeping house-elf next to it sufficed to tell him that his mother hadn't just gone to the bathroom. The elf, bound by a direct order from her superior mistress, was unable to answer his questions, but Draco thought he had a rather concise idea where his mother might be. He hurried downstairs and out into the gardens, along the path, and descended the withering stone steps leading to the family crypt. He stepped in without making a sound, keen not to disturb his mother in her mourning, but once inside the vault, he had to see that she wasn't here.

Icy fear gripped him, and for a minute, his mind was racing, contemplating the many ways in which his mother might have taken her own life – might be taking it in this very moment – but then, he saw something. After sealing the grave in the wall, Draco had ordered the servants to bring down the hundredweight of lilies. Instead of his mother Narcissa, the flowers had been supposed to fade away in here – her favourite flowers, too; his father had lavished white lilies on his wife in life. Draco smirked sadly with that irony. However – some of the blossoms and buds were ruffled – looked as if someone had stepped on them, and shaking his head in panic, Draco followed that trace that led straight to his father's tomb – his parents' tomb, he thought frantically.

Could he – was it desecration – he couldn't possibly – but what if… His fingers traced the lining of the vertical marble plate, and biting down his scruples, he whipped out his wand and carefully severed the alabaster mortar connecting the tomb stone and the surrounding wall, before jinxing the stone to glide out of its place.

"Mum!" he cried indignantly, spotting her next to the coffin. She gave no reply, and he repeated, louder, "_Mum!_ How – what… Are you nuts?"

"Leave me alone, mon trésor. Please. Please, leave me to my peace."

"Mum, you mustn't do this! Get out of there! At once!"

"No."

"You think Dad would _want_ this?"

"I think he would have done exactly the same, actually. Now –"

"Now nothing! Get out of there!"

"Please, darling. Just – just put back the plate, and go away. Shouldn't you be in school, anyway?"

"Oh, cut it out! Now get yourself out, or I swear, I'll hex you and drag you back into the house!"

He heard her chuckle mirthlessly. "Oh, _please_, honey! Seriously – you can't stand up to me in a duel. Don't force me to curse you, you cannot win."

"Maybe you're a genius in duelling, mum, but you shouldn't forget that I'm in a decidedly better position with you lying flat on your back in a hole in the wall!"

Her answer _was_ a spell, missing Draco by mere inches, and he jumped sideways, swearing under his breath. He thought that the foul language would provoke her, but she made no comment on it. Instead she sighed, "You see? Trust me, mon trésor – please. I know what I'm doing. I love you. But I also know that you are grown-up now, you no longer need me. I, on the other hand, need your dad."

His guilt for abandoning his parents nearly choked him, but he was too upset to ponder. He would _not_ put back the damned plate and immure his own mother alive in that tomb! She might have lost her mind – but he hadn't! He gazed around the corner, over to the opposite wall, tried to remember what he had learnt in school and what his mother had taught him about geometry, and then he aimed well. The angle of incidence equalled the angle of reflexion – marble could tolerate medium jinxes and deflect them – his mother lay right next to his father's coffin – '_Merlin_, don't let me hit the coffin, please!' – and then he cast the Stunner, non-verbally to keep her from mastering a shield charm.

"Mum?"

He waited half a minute, then crouched out of his cover and warily approached the hole in the wall. She didn't move, but that could be a trick, and he prodded the sole of her shoes with his wand, ready to jump out of the way. All right – he had hit her. Good heavens, he had hit his own mother with a Stunner while she was lying in her grave – there must be a rule – an entire _law_ forbidding this! He grabbed her ankles and gingerly pulled her out, her black silk robes helping in this respect because they glided smoothly on the marble surface. He was slightly scared to drop her, but finding her surprisingly light, he seized her in his arms, put a kiss on her forehead and carried her back.

"I'm so, so sorry, Mum – but I can't let you do this! You cannot expect me to let you die like that! I'm still your child, Mum – no child will watch their own mother die! You mustn't do this to me, you hear me? It's awful to think that I'll never see Dad again – I can't bear to lose you, too. Don't say I no longer need you, Mum, because I do. I really, really do. I should never have moved to that cursed flat. I know. I gave you the wrong impression. But I _do_ need you, you must not die before it's time. You must _not die_ before I'm ninety, at least! Sorry, Mum. I am so sorry, please, forgive me…"

He kept on muttering under his breath all the way back to her room, where he tugged her up in bed again, took away her wand for safety, and undid the spell at last. She was furious, and realising she had no wand, started hurling abuses and pillows and other things she could get hold of, at him. He let her – heck, he had played Quidditch for so long, his mother could do him no harm when throwing a water glass into his general direction. She accidentally hit Elsy though, and stopped at once.

She fell back onto her cushions and groaned, "Oh, blast it! Look after her, darling, please! Is she all right?"

"Elsy's fine, My Lady," the elf wheezed eagerly, rubbing her shoulder.

Draco sent the servant out and repeated everything he had already told his mother while she was unconscious. She didn't look like listening now either, her eyes were closed and she appeared deadly tired, but at last, she did moan, "I know, my precious, and I want you to know that _I'm_ sorry. I shouldn't have put that burden upon you. I _know_. It's just… It's just… I _cannot_ live like this. You know that I love you to bits, but – but…" She started crying again, but quietly this time. "Without your dad, Draco, I'm… I just don't work without him… 'So dear I love him, that with him all deaths I could endure, without him live no life –'"

"Milton?" he interjected quickly, receiving a proud little smile in return.

"Yes, Milton, my darling. 'Our state cannot be severed; we are one, one flesh –'"

He picked up the line and said with all his heart, "'To lose thee were to lose myself'. That's just it, Mum. I – I _can't_ let you go as you ask me to. I just can't."

"But half of me is dead, Draco! And not only dead, but hurting me – poisoning me from the inside! I can see your father when I sleep and I – I – I cannot bear it!"

"Perhaps we ought to try another potion then –"

"There is no potion that can fix this, mon trésor. I wasn't alive, not really, before meeting your dad and coming here, and I – I – I –"

He sat down next to her and pulled her into an embrace, pressing her wet face against his shoulders. "I know, Mum. I really, really know. But I cannot let you go. Come, I'll try finding you a better sleeping potion, and you try getting some rest for a start. Everything else will come out all right in the end."

"Nothing will ever be right again," she replied, muffled by his robes, but clinging to him nonetheless.

He did find a proper sleeping potion, and she willingly – greedily – swallowed it, grateful for the respite. It lasted for twelve hours, but she wasn't any better when she woke up, and they both agreed that she'd take the potion again. And again. She was in drug-induced oblivion for three days when Draco thought he had an idea, and talked Professor Snape's portrait into trying to convince her, but it was no good.

"You of all people understand best what it's like, Savvy," she whispered wearily. "You know how it is to live, with half of you dead on the inside. Don't condemn me to the same fate. Don't try to sell me that there's anything to win in that."

After this conversation, Professor Snape's portrait agreed on the potions solution as well. Diligently, Draco sat with her and gave her more whenever she woke up again; every time he hesitated and tried to see if she might be a little better by now, he came to bitterly regret the delay, because she broke out in tears and could not be calmed again before the potion kicked back in. Sometimes, she even squeezed her eyes shut, unable to look at him. It was terrible, but Draco found it hard enough to forgive himself for forcing her to live – he thought he deserved her repulsion, even if it were only his features that freaked her out.

He had the servants fetch a piano into the room and played for her, all her favourite pieces, and all the time excused himself for being so inferior a performer, compared to her. He read out to her, from her favourite books. He talked to her, anecdotes or nonsense, trying to fill out the silence between them, trying to make sense to himself. Why did he punish the poor woman like this? What difference did it make, whether she was lying here, unconscious, or if she lay down in the vault, blissful at last, and in eternity? All he knew was that it did make a world of difference to _him_.

* * *

_Iacet_… The sleeper's body resembles a dead man's, but the mind possesses power and life.

'_Return to us again... Thy soul was like a star_...' – From William Wordsworth, 'London, 1802'.

'_The midway of this mortal life_' – Dante, Divine Comedy

'_Love wouldn't be love... edge of doom_' – Very loosely quoted from Shakespeare, Sonnet CXVI

'_Death, be not proud_..." – From John Donne, 'Death be not proud'

'_Thy soul_…' – From: William Wordsworth, 'London 1802'.

'_And they hae taen_…' – From: Robert Burns, 'John Barleycorn'.

'_So dear I love him… _' and '_Our state cannot be severed … '_ – From: John Milton, 'Paradise Lost'.

* * *

**Thanks to everyone reading and leaving a review for me! Thank you sooo much! And this chapter goes out to _Dusty the Umbravita_ because she asked for one more chapter today... ;)** **Also, I would like to mention in particular _Barbara_, _Quantumspork_, _VesperAgain_, _MsNarcissaBlack _and _Lady Arbalest _for** **your support, and because you make me so happy!**


	177. The Ghost Of The Past

The power of a loving will might not be able to _raise_ the dead, but sometimes it can conquer death's limits

* * *

**– 4.50. –**

Ghost Of The Past

* * *

_I've already wasted my whole life. I want to tell you with my last breath that I have always loved you. I would rather be a ghost, drifting by your side as a condemned soul, than enter heaven without you. Because of your love, I will never be a lonely spirit._

_CROUCHING TIGER, HIDDEN DRAGON_

* * *

She felt life slowly returning to her body, her subconscious dawning, and in the same instance, the cruel truth. She'd open her eyes soon, and she would see Draco looking at her apprehensively, and she wouldn't bear to look back at him, every inch of him his father in the same age, every inch resembling the boy she had once fallen in love with, the only one she had ever loved. She tried to delay that moment of truth, but eventually, less and less capable to oppress the rising tears, her eyelids fluttered – Draco would notice and speak to her – and then she'd beg him to put her back to sleep because the agony was more than she could endure.

Not that the sleep itself was much of a comfort. But as long as she slept, she could hold the suffocating tears and sobs at bay, and managed for longer stretches of time to suppress the cruel knowledge. She could will her mind to meander away from those last dreadful minutes to the past, a long, pleasant past filled with love and laughter. The horrors crept in always, yes, but mostly, she could keep the balance. It was way preferable to consciousness, to definite knowledge.

Draco refused leaving her side, all the more after the incident of her flight to the crypt. He had chosen a large armchair next to his mother's bed instead to guard over her, and while Narcissa was getting far too much sleep, her son got far too little. He, too, preferred it that way. When he did fall asleep, horrible nightmares kept on haunting him, and the consuming ache, the pulsating waves of guilt overpowering him, could only be bridled by his most meticulous care for his mother, who looked to him as if she were already lying on her dying bed.

He wouldn't have noticed an explosion in the hallway outside, let alone something far more subtle, so he was far from being aware of the silvery mist gliding through the door; he didn't realise that it was there for quite some time, quietly observing him and listening to the poems that Draco read out to his mother. The ghost was observing the motionless woman too with the expression most tender; he had found her, at last, and the bliss to see the beloved face again in the flesh was enough to keep him silent and solemn for at least a quarter of an hour.

"Draco," he said eventually, whispered it rather than spoke.

When the boy heard that familiar voice saying his name, however, he didn't even turn around. He believed that this was it. He had finally lost his mind, too.

"Draco," the ghost said once more, his voice firmer this time. "It is good of you to have come home and take such good care of your mother."

Still, Draco didn't turn around. Instead he chuckled dryly. "Great. Now we're already two, Mum, you're not alone in going insane!"

"You aren't insane. At least that's what I hope. Look at me, son."

The urge to look was irresistible, despite the young man's nagging fears that to look and see nothing would confirm his self-diagnosis of beginning madness. He was just so tired, so empty but for one insurmountable thought – 'I abandoned them, left them alone in the hour of greatest need and now I can never reconcile'. So he did turn his head slightly, wearily, scared of the blank space he expected, and it took him a few seconds to understand what his eyes told him, and figure out if this, too, was merely a figment of his feverish imagination.

"D-Dad?" he gasped at a loss, staring at the silvery figure. His father – a – a _ghost…?_

"Good evening, Draco," Lucius' ghost returned, feeling a little silly to utter such a trivial commonplace in the very moment of reunion with the son of whom he had believed he'd never be able to set eyes on him again.

Draco rubbed his eyes, Lucius gave him a minute, before saying softly, "I've given your mother my word that I'll never leave her. Never."

"What the _fuck_ –"

The ghost made a disapproving noise with his tongue. "Watch your mouth, son. Your mother doesn't want you to use expletives."

"But – you – you came – like – _back_?"

"There was the – I guess it's simplest to just call it the light… Everybody does, don't they? But then I thought – what if I can't be with her there – what if I shall never see you and your mother again? And I decided that I'd rather stay here, look after you two – accompany your mother until it's her time."

Draco had got up from the armchair, cautiously approaching the ghost and stretching out his arm to touch it, shrinking back with the cold sensation. "But – you're – then you're stuck here, right? I thought ghosts couldn't – or can they?"

Lucius – or his ghost – whatever, laughed softly. "Draco, Draco, be glad I'm only a ghost, or I might have tried slapping you for this. What did we pay your tutors for? Hopefully your poor mother hasn't heard you!"

Draco had smiled with the little joke, but turned gloomy again in an instance. "She doesn't hear me, I think… She – she's dying, Dad. We – we put her to sleep basically the whole time since you – since you –"

"Died?" Lucius helped out, smirking wryly.

He nodded weakly. "She can't endure being awake, she cries her eyes out, and if it was only that… She sneaked out the day after your burial, and immured herself in your grave. I – I – I had to stun her because she refused to come out again. I know, I shouldn't have – but I really didn't know what else to do, Dad! I – I couldn't leave her to die, could I, I –"

In an uncharacteristically gentle voice, the ghost of his dead father whispered, "It's good you did that, Draco. I am very, very proud of you. I am. And grateful, too. I… I came back for her, you know… What if I had come back only to find that she's gone…"

"But Dad," Draco objected timidly. His mind was racing. "Dad… You – if you're stuck here now… Maybe she'll recover, having you back, like this at least, but in the end…"

He knew ghosts! The Bloody Baron – or Moaning Myrtle! Boy, none of them was satisfied with their state! What had his father been _thinking_! This wasn't just a prolongation of his time on earth – this was _eternity_, real, solid _eternity_. No one right in their mind would choose to be stuck here for good, unable to do magic, unable to do anything much! _Forever!_

Lucius sighed and avoided looking at his son. He didn't look over to his wife either, but out of the window. "I… I always worried that – that your mother and I wouldn't – couldn't – that _I_ couldn't go where she'll be going. I – I killed too many people, you see, and – and… Like this, I can be around her, with her, for forty, fifty, sixty more years, perhaps. I couldn't leave her like this. I promised her I'd be there, that I'd grow old with her. Well – now I can at least be around when _she_ grows old. I can be with her at all times until her dying breath."

For the first time since his father's death, Draco felt tears rising, and he made no effort to blink them away. He _was_ a smart boy, and he saw the entirety of consequences at once. His father had traded every chance for an afterlife to spend some more years with his beloved, but she would slip away eventually, and his dad would inevitably stay back _then_, alone, and alone for all time.

"How long until she wakes up, Draco?"

He glanced at his watch and cleared his throat, turning his head so that his father couldn't see his glistening cheeks. "It can't be much longer, I believe."

"Please… Can you – can you leave her alone with me?"

"I haven't left her alone for more than fifteen minutes since – since she's like this," Draco answered hesitantly.

"So you're – you're alone, then?"

Draco shook his head swiftly, looking as irritated as if he tried chasing away a fly. "No. Elsy's here. I sent her away to catch some sleep. And Aunt Andy... Well, it seems I threw her out or something. But I'll make up to her, I –"

He bit his tongue, aghast with realisation. He was doing it again. Postponing. Thinking that if only he let pass enough time, things would – what? Happen on their own account? Sort themselves out? He had done it with his parents, he had done it again with his aunt. _God!_ What sort of person _was_ he! How cowardly, how –

"Dad?"

"Hm?"

Draco was wringing his hands. "I – I – despite everything, I'm glad I get the chance to speak to you once more! I thought I'd never have the chance and I...You know, because – I'm so sorry, Dad! I didn't mean to – I didn't think –"

"That's alright, Draco –"

"No, it isn't! I love you, Dad – I hate what you did in life, but I love _you_ and I – I couldn't forgive myself for not telling you before – before it's too late –"

"I love you too, Draco. I understood why you had to go, and I think one day, we should sit down together and talks things over. When you're ready. As for _now_... I should like to talk to your mother in private for a few minutes once she wakes up..."

"But of course, Dad!" Draco cried keenly. "I didn't mean – you needn't ask for my permission – I just…" He bit his lip, but dared to speak after all, "I'm just so scared, Dad. I wasn't – I wasn't ready to lose you – and I'm not – not ready to – lose – Mum, too."

"I understand that, Draco. After all, that's why I'm here. I wasn't ready to be without her either. Now, please…"

Draco obeyed, praying inwardly that she wouldn't lose it completely, when she opened her eyes and saw the ghost of her late husband. He decided to stay close and prowl in the hallway, just in case. The minutes passed by, but nothing happened. He considered eavesdropping, but refrained; it seemed so grossly wrong to intrude on his parents in a moment like this.

So he'd come back. His father had come back. As a _ghost_! It was too awful a thought to be borne with.


	178. Reunited, Or Not?

Narcissa is being overwhelmed

* * *

**- 4.51. -**

Reunited, Or Not...?

* * *

_M__y__ heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains_

_My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,_

_Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains_

_One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk…_

_Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget_

_What thou among the leaves hast never known,_

_The weariness, the fever, and the fret_

_Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;_

_Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,_

_Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;_

_Where but to think is to be full of sorrow_

_And leaden-eyed despairs;_

_Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,_

_Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow._

_Away! away! for I will fly to thee,_

_Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,_

_But on the viewless wings of Poesy,_

_Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:_

_Already with thee! tender is the night…_

_JOHN KEATS – Ode to a nightingale_

* * *

"Narcissa, my love, my treasure… Open your eyes."

So she _was_ finally losing her mind. _Forlorn! The very word is like a bell to toll me back from thee to my sole self! Was it a vision or a waking-dream? Fled is that music – do I wake or sleep?_

"Mon ange, open your eyes and look at me. _Look at me_."

She opened her eyes to confirm what she already knew. It wasn't _him_. This was her _son_ speaking, and her sanity playing a nasty trick on her. _Again_.But the armchair was empty, and she gazed around.

"NO!" she gasped when spotting the silvery vapour shaped like her lost husband.

The ghost beside her bed flashed her a loving smile. "I told you, petal, that I'd never cease looking after you."

She stared at the corporeal but insubstantial confirmation that her love was dead. The 'NO! It _mustn't_ be!' was reverberating in her skull like a tocsin. He must not be dead. All the more, he must not have become a _ghost!_ Incapable to speak any sensible syllable though, she started to cry; she couldn't stop again, until sensing a chilly sensation in her back. She realised that the ghost of her dead husband had carefully put an arm around her shoulder. She shuddered, but found the icy touch strangely comforting all the same.

"You cannot be dead! You _mustn't_ be dead!" she cried after all.

"I… I'm afraid I am, petal, but –"

"_No!_"

"Please, mon ange, stop crying. Shhh. Stop crying. I may be dead, but I am here. I'm here for you, and I'll never, never leave you alone again. I'll never leave your side again, unless you chase me away." He blew a kiss on the top of her head, making her shudder once more. "I told you I'd be there until the end, and _now_ I _have_ the power to keep my word."

"But Lucius… Lucius, mon amour, I – you – we…"

She sobbed so heavily, he was startled. "I simply couldn't leave you, mon ange…"

"You know what was the only thing that kept me from falling apart – I mean, completely? It was – it was the idea that it'd only be a matter of time until we'd be together again, and for all time then," she whispered meekly, adding, louder, "How – why did you do this? Why didn't you –"

She squinted over to him through a veil of tears, and couldn't help it but notice the gloomy expression on his silvery features. "I… I was frightened, Cissa. I… You are pure, you are whole. But I'm not. At the time, then, I didn't stop for a minute to wonder if – what all these things might be doing to me. But for quite some time, and all the more since dying, obviously – I couldn't help it but think that you and I might not reach the same – destination, as it were…"

Her breathing had calmed, but the tears wouldn't stop. She stretched out her hand and softly touched the silvery mist. "Lucius, you – you and I would never have parted – not for long, anyhow."

She didn't have the heart to speak out what was the most prominent thought on her mind. That _now_, they _would_ be parted in the end. He needn't explain to her that he had wanted to stay with her by all means, she knew him well enough to understand that he had wanted them to be together as long as they possibly could, but unlike him, she had never doubted for a second that they _would_ reach the same 'destination'. She didn't believe in heaven or hell. She didn't believe in judgement. And not for a minute had she ever stopped to wonder if _he_ could believe in it – she was surprised indeed to hear that he would. But no, he didn't – he had just been scared, and that she could understand just too well. She had been scared out of her wits herself with the realisation that after twenty-seven years with him, and almost twenty-six years of marriage, she was suddenly alone, with no hope of getting him back and return to their old lives. But she had tried to comfort herself in her few wake moments that death would come for her soon, too, and then…

"I have missed you so badly, Lucius… I lost my mind that night. But now I… Now I… Cannot help it but dread the moment when we'll _finally_ part, and…"

"You're not – not – _well_ – to see me again?" he asked with discernible disappointment.

She answered as tenderly as she could, with her voice so hoarse and worn from the persistent crying, it was almost inaudible, "I am… I just wish the circumstances were different, my love."

"I know this might appear – well… Unfortunate... But, Cissa, if I had _not_ returned, we'd have been parted forever, without a single chance to –"

"No, we wouldn't! Of course we wouldn't!"

"Your soul is whole, mon ange, but mine is not –"

"But your soul _is_ whole!" She fluttered her hand at him. "Look at yourself, Lucius! A ghost is the imprint of a person's soul! You _couldn't_ be here – like that – if your soul wasn't whole to begin with!"

She was crying again, and as helpless as he was shocked, he processed her meaning. She was right, wasn't she? He _was_ a ghost – and quite completely! And if she was right about _this_, that meant… That meant… Oh god! Oh _no_! He had – he had… Forsaken eternity, he had – he had cut himself off the chance to be reunited with his beloved wife on the long term, the term that really _mattered_, he had… Something like nausea overcame him. Of course, having no real bowels to begin with, a ghost _couldn't_ be sick – but he could _feel_ sick, that was for sure!

He stared at her; she had clapped her hands to her eyes, weeping mutely, her chest shaking with silent sobs. Since the moment he had first seen her, he had wanted to be with her. For all time. He had dreamt to spend his life with her, and living with her, he had believed he'd spent eternity with her, too. Not that he had given the matter too much thought, until he had started to dread that his past could object him from being with his pure, innocent wife who had never killed anybody – who wouldn't even eat _meat_ because animals were killed for it. That anxiety had made him try to make up by doing good deeds, by beginning to repair the damages he had partaken in bringing about, but before he had achieved anything much, he had already been dead.

Slowly, Narcissa calmed herself again. Her breathing became steadier, the tears stopped quelling from her dark eyes, the pupils of which were so far dilated they appeared pitch black. She cast him a shy smile. "Forgive me, mon amour," she breathed, "I – I was just overwhelmed, you see... I – I missed you so badly. I felt myself going insane, so badly it hurt. But I'm glad you're here now. I'm glad you're back with me."

"Oh Cissa..."

He would have wanted to hug her, to hold her, to kiss her, but his new shape made that almost impossible. They settled for a kind of compromise, with his ghostly hands lingering just above her own, and then, she asked what had happened.

He told her how he had struggled that night. How he had fought, literally, for his life. Surrounded by the striking werewolves, he had wondered where Narcissa was; he had heard her call him, had screamed back at her to retreat, but knowing his wife, he had known that she wouldn't obey him in such a situation. And she hadn't come, so he had naturally assumed that there were more werewolves, attacking _her_ in that moment – and he had taken her wand away from her, so she couldn't even have defended herself! His anguish in that second had been unspeakable – he had been hit by a silencing spell, and condemned to use mere non-verbal magic, had defended himself in order to get to her, help her, save her, but there had been too many of them.

Death had come more quickly than he had imagined – and astonishingly painless. All of a sudden, he had seen his own, lifeless body on the ground and a dozen werewolves tearing the corpse asunder. But he hadn't lingered there for a second – instead he had been drawn to see after _her_ – his spirits had been drawn to her magnetically, and he had 'encountered' her halfway into the Manor. She had been screaming; she had been out of herself. She had run out and crouched over his lifeless body until a bunch of elves had managed to drag her away. It had broken his heart to see her like this. He had wanted to touch her, to talk to her, to soothe her misery – but there hadn't been anything he could have done. And his spirits had been drawn away; he had fought harder and harder to stay with her, not to leave her yet, and with the intensity of that struggle, his fears had grown. He'd never see her again. He'd never be with her again. His spirit wasn't going to end up in heaven or wherever; he would never get to the same place where Narcissa's soul would go. They'd be separated forever from this moment on. Realising this, he had made a decision. He would _not_ let that happen. He would _not_ 'go on', as the phrase went.

"But _how_ did you do it?" she inquired once more. He really didn't want to tell her about the monstrous atrocities he had seen in that nether hell, but like in life, she still had that special gift to coax out anything she wanted to hear from him. She didn't look shocked though, merely compassionate, clasping his ghostly hand as good as she could.

"I shouldn't have read out these things to you," she said after all. "My poor, poor darling!"

"Sorry?"

"For all I know about these matters, the soul chooses its own path. The surroundings if you will call it like that. You had to go through this nightmare because you expected it to be like that, and you expected it because I've introduced you to all these horrible books!"

"I expected it, if that's what I did, because I did evil things in life, Cissa, not because of some book of poetry you read out to me."

She tried to smile at him brightly, but the effort was clearly a strain. "You know you're pretty lucky, don't you?" she murmured, managing to have her voice sound more jocular than her face. "You're lucky you love me so unwaveringly."

"That's no _luck_, petal, but my sole purpose in life or in death!"

She insisted archly, "No, it _is_ lucky, too. Otherwise, you would have gotten stuck in that freak show."

He contemplated her meaning and found she was quite right. He had believed to be walking through hell, but he was just as ready to believe that it was, as indeed his own father had told him repeatedly, a 'figment of his imagination', the place he had expected it to be because he knew he had been a bad man and thought no punishment too severe for his deeds. He could have been stuck at any given point in there if it hadn't been for his urge to come back to her. In the last circle, he had thought that this was _it_, that he must have reached his final destination, but to think of her, to feel his love for her pulsing through his barely beating heart, he had also felt the mighty ice drying, evaporating, and taking him with its vapour skywards...

Narcissa's eyes was were fixed on his ghostly form and slightly shaking her head, she whispered affectionately, "I'm no good without you… I can't live without you!"

"I'll stay with you until your dying breath, Cissa," he whispered tenderly. "I'll never leave you again."

"In the end, you would have to," she replied under her breath, stretching out her arm to touch the silver vapour. Strangely enough, he thought he could feel her. It was a very peculiar sensation, not at all like it had felt in life when she had touched him. It was rather as if her _presence_ became more tangible, suffusing him with happiness despite himself. He _had_ been so happy to return to her, only to realise that he had cocked it up – utterly, completely, irrevocably cocked it up for all eternity. And still – feeling her touch him now mitigated his grief.

"The Dark Mark… It's gone," she murmured, gesturing at his left wrist. "Of course… It was to be expected that that one wouldn't last in death…"

He was surprised; until now, he hadn't taken a single look at himself in his new shape. Indeed, the cursed Mark was gone… Startled, he tore open his robes and shirt, or their virtual equivalents, panicking for a moment that _her_ mark could have disappeared, too. But no – _of course not_ – the mark that Narcissa had once given him, the scar shaped like a daffodil, it was still there, and the sight made even his mourning wife smile. She lifted her hand and gingerly touched the spot, and feeling her so close to his heart sent a jolt through him, like a curse – but a wonderful, heart-warming, unspeakably delicious curse. He closed his eyes and relished the sensation.

Fortunately, Narcissa did calm down eventually, enough anyway to dry her tears and put on a deliberately brave face. "It'll be all right," she murmured and had the elves fetch their son. She embraced the pale, shell-shocked boy, spoke words of comfort to him, and apologised for distressing him so much – he wouldn't hear of it, of course – and then she expressed the wish to go to her potions lab, and mix a 'better' soothing potion for her aggravated nerves.

"They tried every known sleeping potion on you, Mum," Draco objected pessimistically.

"I don't need a _sleeping_ potion, honey!" she cried and ruffled his hair. "I've slept long enough, don't you think? Your father is back with me! I don't want to _sleep_!"

Draco offered his help, but she declined, smiling and sending him to bed, but not without hugging him once again, and so vigorously that he looked like suffocating. "You were marvellous, mon trésor. I love you very much, you know that, do you?"

"Of course, Mum… I'm – I'm so glad you're not mad with me, I –"

"Mad with you! Not at all! I put too much on your shoulders, my darling. But I want you to know that I am very well aware of what you've done for me, and that I do love you to bits."

Draco obviously struggled to force his face into a smile. "I love you, too, Mum. And you, Dad. Good night… See you tomorrow morning."

She smiled as well, in genuine cheer though, and brushed a kiss on his cheek. "Good night, honey. Sleep well."

For a start, she took a bath, then put on her black mourning robes, and together with Lucius' ghost, went down to the laboratory. She looked through drawers and shelves, took out countless vials and flasks, put the cauldron onto the fire, and kept on smiling serenely all the time, and shooting her husband the most tender glances.

"You needn't stay with me, mon amour. I know how this must be boring you."

He laughed. "Are you joking? Nothing you ever did has ever _bored_ me. Even when you were asleep, I always loved watching you. And I told you, blossom – I'll never leave your side again."

She nodded in silence with an arch grin, while emptying several vials into the cauldron. "You have no idea about potion-making, honey, have you?"

"No… If I think about it now, I don't think I ever tried brewing any after leaving school."

She nodded again and her grin widened. "And to think how hard I worked to get you through your Potions NEWTs! Do you still remember what you get when mixing viper venom, vitriol and digitalis?"

He shrugged and smirked wryly. "I haven't got the foggiest, petal!"

"Ah, something easier then… What's the right antidote for Egyptian cobra venom?"

"Nope… No idea."

She laughed brightly, shaking her head. "How lucky it is that _I_ still know these things, eh?" She stirred the potion in the cauldron, tilted her head and sniffed the rising fumes. "That should do, I guess."

"And then you'll feel better?"

"Yes. This will make me feel even better yet." She gave him her most brilliant smile, and despite her bloodshot eyes, Lucius thought he had never seen _anything_ more beautiful. Not stopping to beam at him, she fumbled for a ladle and scooped up some of the potion. "I love you, Lucius. I have always, always loved you, and I always will."

"I love you, too, mon ange."

If possible, she beamed even more radiantly. "Yes, I know. Tell Draco that he mustn't worry, and how sorry I am, will you, please?"

He frowned. "What?"

She sipped the potion straight from the ladle and screwed up her face. "This is _disgusting_," she muttered, then drank the whole rest with one big sip. "Don't be angry with me, Lucius. This is for the better. For both of us."

"I've _never _been angry with you, Cissa, you _know_ I –" He didn't get any further because she had dropped to the ground. "Cissa?"

She gave no answer and he swooped over to her – straight through the table – and a blend of confusion and sudden terror took hold of him. He tried to shake her, but his ghostly hands went right through her shoulders without effect. He shouted her name, shot a helpless glance up to the table, and only then he could read the little labels on some of the vials she had used. 'Egyptian cobra venom', one said, 'viper venom' another. There was digitalis, vitriol, hemlock, arsenic, strychnine – and the truth hit him with the force of a giant's punch.

* * *

'_Forlorn! The very word_...' John Keats, Ode to a nightingale

'_Was it a vision_...' John Keats, Ode to a nightingale


	179. Give Me A Break

During their quarrels, Hermione is usually the one more guarded in her language than her fiancé

* * *

**– 4.52. –**

Give Me A Break

* * *

_Why do we feel the need to own what we love, and why do we become jerks when we do? We've all been there – you want something, to possess it. By possessing something you lose it. You finally win the girl of your dreams, the first thing you do is change her. The little things she does with her hair, the way she wears her clothes or the way she chews her gum. Pretty soon what you like, what you changed, what you don't like, blends together like a watercolor in the rain._

_NORTHERN EXPOSURE_

* * *

"Can't you just, for like five minutes, stop bitching about?"

"I'm not _bitching about_, Ron!"

"Fooled me there," he retorts with a scowl, and as if nothing had happened, puts his hand on her hip and shoves a finger under her shirt. She gives a start and pushes his hand away, and he just sighs, in that really unnerved way.

She cannot _believe_ this. Her end of term exams will begin next week. She's got _tons_ of books to revise still. Not to mention her own notes. And does the boy that claims he wanted to become old with her, bother just the _tiniest_ bit for any of this? Does he understand that she hasn't got the _time_ to see him playing next weekend? That she's got _anything_ in her head right now, but not making out with him? That she'd like to talk about the different aspects of goblin rights, or the bilateral relations between wizardkind and merpeople, or the werewolf question – but that her head will simply _explode_ if he makes _one_ more remark about his new Firebolt?

"I am _busy_," she snarls in her most deadly voice and glares at him and his idle fingers.

"That's what you say, yeah! I heard you! But then again, you seem to have ample of time to throw accusations at me –"

"The nerve you have!"

"Why did you want me to come in the first place, eh?" he asks now.

"Because I wanted to see you once more before I'll have no more time at all!"

"See me for _what_, Hermione? So I can survey you while you're reading?"

"Look, I'm _sorry_. I _told_ you I'm sorry! I thought I'd have finished this by seven o'clock, and I was wrong, but I have only fifteen pages more to go –"

"Which, _of course_, you cannot possibly read tomorrow!"

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. _No_, she can _not_ simply read the rest by tomorrow. As a matter of fact, she's out of it already. These texts are incredibly complex, one can't just pick them up again like some novel. Or the biography of Ptolemy Kegg, 'the greatest Keeper of all times!', to give an example of one of the few books that Ron has actually read and enjoys quoting from! She'll have to go back to the beginning of the chapter – 40 pages that is – to make sense of this, which will cost her at least an hour, which she hasn't got in spare, because her schedule for tomorrow is already crammed full!

She tries to explain this to him, as calmly as she can, but she can see he isn't even listening. "I'd have better stuff to do than sit around here, too, you know?" he snaps. "Riley's having a barbecue tonight, I need to practise the Pebbles Dive, I –"

"Why don't you just go, then!" she snipes back.

"Yeah! That's exactly what I _should_ be doing!"

"So why don't you do it? But Ronald – just so we're not misunderstanding each other: you walk through that door now, and you needn't come again for –"

"Yeah, I _get it_! I'm not deaf! I'm not half as silly as you think either, Hermione! But you know what? I don't give a damn! I'm so sick of this! I'm so sick of y-" He stops himself, but she understands anyway. Curiously, she's not even hurt though. She's only furious. Silently, she points at the door and beckons at him to beat it. He hesitates for a second, staring at her just as angrily, and then an ugly sneer curls his lips. "Have it your way, then."

He doesn't even look at her again, stalking to the door and banging it as hard as he can when leaving. Hermione glares at the door as if it had harmed her, and resists the urge to pick up the next best thing and hurl it after him to relief herself. 'Breathe,' she tells herself and closes her eyes. '_Breathe!_' That idiot! How on earth did she – _she_ – manage to be stuck with a man who thinks the greatest invention of the Twentieth Century had been some sort of broomstick? Who thinks he ought to be given some kind of award for blocking twenty goals in some Quidditch match? Who thinks Burdock Muldoon must surely be the father of Willard Muldoon – the currently injured Seeker of the Montrose Magpies? And who forced her to remember such rubbish, too!

Here she is, and she doesn't mean to brag, but it's true – here she is, Hermione Granger, best in her year in Hogwarts for six years in a row, and another, in her seventh. Achieving 11 OWLs and the same number of NEWTs – and nothing but O's in the NEWTs, mind you! Number sixty-seven on the list of best students _ever_ attending Hogwarts. Winner of a full Faris Spavin scholarship – which has only been granted four times in 97 years, and only twice fully! Winner, too, of the Wellbeloved Medal for Political Essay-Writing, and that in her first sodding year at College!

How come she spends her evenings with a boy who thinks the height of any sophisticated conversation was a discussion which Cushioning Charm works better in case one races against a goal pole, non-braked? Who feels personally affronted when she points out to him that Edmund Fleetwood, the Australian Minister for Magic, is _not_ identical with Edmund Fleetwood, producer of Quidditch supplies?

Bristling with anger, she slouches down in her swivel chair and picks up her Law book again. She re-reads the last paragraph, only to realise that the damage is done. She completely forgot what the author is referring to when mentioning the precedence case of The Ministry of Magic versus Sebastian Clagg, and it only increases her outrage and frustration.

It takes her the whole of Wednesday night to recap the book, making her tired-out and touchy on Thursday, and not managing at least two points on her to-do list. She doesn't hear anything from Ron, neither on Thursday, nor on Friday, and not at the weekend either. On Monday, she meets Dean in the library by chance, they talk for a minute, during which he asks her, with a strange glance, whether anything's the matter between her and Ron. She replies 'only the usual'. Tuesday passes; she meets Neville, who asks her the same and gets the same answer, and then her first two exams take place on Wednesday – Constitutional Wizard Law and Criminal Wizard Law – and she is so nervous and stressed out that she sleeps no more than three hours in the night before, and feels on the verge of tears before sitting down to take the test.

Thursday she's got an oral in History of the Nineteenth Century, on Friday the written examination takes place, and then comes the weekend, which she spends with nothing else but revising her notes for International Economy and Ramirez' Theory of the State for her exams on Monday and Tuesday. She'd possibly forget to eat if her mother wouldn't occasionally show up (she's staying with her parents for the weekend, like usually) and bring her a tray with biscuits, or spaghetti, or fruit salad, ruffle her hair and tell her how proud they are of her, but that she must take it a bit easier.

Easier! She wouldn't be Hermione Granger if _that_ was an option, would she? This is the only thing she's good at. The only thing she likes to do, the only thing getting her a pat on the shoulder. She hasn't got any extraordinary talents or features, except for her brains, capability for logical reasoning, and capacity to memorise large portions of theoretical knowledge. This is all she can. This is who she is.

Incidentally – all her exams so far went fine. The ones on Monday and Tuesday are no exception, neither is her oral in Interracial Relations on Wednesday. Only one more to go – the practical examination in Advanced Security Charms on Friday. She's fairly sure she'll come through that one without difficulties though. She had to learn these spells years ago, for sheer life-saving necessity. So on Thursday, she finally listens to her mum's advice, and 'takes it easy'. Meaning that she permits herself to get up without setting an alarm clock, eating a full breakfast in the cantina without hurrying, and buying a copy of the Daily Prophet then, to sit outside for a while, catch up with the world's affairs – which she completely missed out on in the past week – and enjoy a spot of sun and fresh air.

Except for the fact that the case of Trudie Jones (Hermione remembers the chatty Miss Jones well from her internship in the Ministry), who disappeared during a trip to Cheddar Gorge with her elderly mother, and was found some weeks later dead next to her mother, murdered by a killing curse) is closed at last as 'Murder by person(s) unknown', and a minor case of venality in the Goblin Liaisons Office, nothing much has happened, at least nothing that the Prophet would deem worthy of reporting. Ian Urquhart, drummer of the band ESBAT, has demolished a hotel room in Northern Wales. The concert they've given there was a huge success, sold-out, the band's management is considering an ancillary tour. Blah – blah – blah…

If it wasn't so pleasant to sit here, just like that, at perfect ease, she'd stuff the paper in the next wastebasket. As it is, she decides to stay here a little longer, and reads her horoscope even. Virgos suffer from the influence of Mars in the sign of Aquarius – tension – discordance – misunderstandings and, possibly, some cases of mild constipation, if one can believe the hack who makes _this_ crap up. Hermione smiles, pats her belly and thinks that her digestion is just fine, thank you very much. Next she reads even the sports section – which she _never_ does, under different circumstances. But Ron might appreciate the effort when they meet next time. Tomorrow evening, probably. She's made up her mind to go straight to his apartment and wait there for him as soon as she's through with her last exam.

And speaking of them – there's a full-paged article about the Chudley Cannons. Hermione smiles even broader. They're practising a new formation, in order to meet their next opponents for the European Club competition, some French team she's never heard of. The formation is called 'Bat Wing', and she resolves to keep that one in mind to impress Ron. Ron… She sighs, thinking how long they haven't seen each other now. Tomorrow, she'll make up. They've got the whole summer ahead of them, with nothing much to do but read a few books, on Hermione's part. The Cannons will play quite a few international matches, and she's resolved to accompany him. While he's training, she can tour the cities and do a bit of sightseeing. She long wanted to see Heidelberg, and Mont St Michel, and Marakesh. And in the evenings, they can be together. It's going to be so wonderful, for sure.

Ron – _Ron?_ In the very next paragraph, his name is mentioned – but in a very different context. According to _this_ article, he's been sighted during training, holding hands with Sidony MacDougal, the replacement Chaser… Hermione stares at the page with baited breath. What the –

She exhales again and shakes her head. Really, these people would make up _anything_ if it sold only one more copy of their bloody paper! She knows how these things come about. Ron probably helped her getting up or something and _snap_, here's your story. Bloody morons! Have they ever contemplated how much harm they could cause if someone actually _believed_ this crap? Do they give a damn? Possibly not. This particular writer must be a newcomer, anyway, given the lack of sensationalism of the 'coverage' – if he or she was a reporter of Rita Skeeter's format, Ron would be about to elope with that Chaser now.

Still head-shaking, and smiling in mild scorn, she gets to her feet after all and makes back for Coodle Hall, to practise her spell work a bit. Use it or lose it, right? On the steps, she practically bumps into Dean. "Hey there," he greets her with a smile. "How was it so far?"

"Fairly good, I hope. Of course, _after_ handing in my papers, I remembered a zillion other things I could have mentioned – but it's always like that, right?"

She's not _quite_ as debonair about this as she lets on and judging his grin, he knows it, but he nods and sniggers. "Right. But seriously, what are you aiming for – can't get better than an 'O' in any case, can you?"

"I don't think I'll be getting only O's," she murmurs, and it's no false modesty. Despite her track records, she is _never_ entirely sure about these things – even when holding the graded paper in her hands at last – she's bound to _still_ feel that she hasn't done as good as she might have.

His gaze wanders down to the paper she's still carrying around, and suddenly, his expression changes. "Did you – did you read it already?" he asks, his voice a tad higher than before.

"Yeah. Want to have it?"

He shakes his head, looking straight into her face now, as if he was searching for something. "No… Read it for breakfast this morning… Did you – did you read the – the article about –"

She laughs. "The article about the Cannons, you mean? Blimey, Dean! If I believed everything I read in the papers… Bah."

He frowns, and she can practically _see_ him think, but then he nods. "Yeah, right. I was just – you know how it's like."

"You mean you actually _believed_ this?" She is highly amused, all the more by his baffled expression. "Oh, come on, Dean!"

"Well, I… Anyway, I need to – got an appointment with –"

They part, and Hermione wouldn't have _remembered_ this little encounter even – if she didn't sit down for lunch with Pavarti and Padma later on. Pavarti has to pass the same exam like Hermione tomorrow; Padma's final is in Advanced Druidic this afternoon (she's got a dictionary on her lap while eating), after which she'll be straight off for Brazil for the holidays. Pavarti on the other hand is going to spend the summer with her new boyfriend; they'll go to Italy, if Hermione remembers correctly. However, after a bit of chit-chat about this and that, Padma says, with quite a grim scowl –

"Why don't you accompany me, Hermione?"

"Ah, Brazil in the rains… I'll rather see Mont St Michel."

_Both _twins stare at her in utter and complete astonishment. "You mean you still want to go there?"

"Yes, of course! I'm looking forward to – why are you _looking_ like that?"

"You _still_ want to go to France – with _Ron Weasley_?"

"Yes…?" Hermione answers, slowly getting a tad unsettled.

"Did you – you made up then?"

"Gosh, what are you thinking! I did nothing but study, but tomorrow –"

Padma bites her bottom lip, and Pavarti asks gingerly, "When did you last talk to Ron? Or – well, _hear_ from him?"

"We didn't talk since our little fight last week, but –"

"_Little fight?_"

"Oh, come on, you know how it's like. We don't get through a single week _without_ a bit of a brush."

"Hermione, you –" Pavarti looks deeply uncomfortable, and some dark feeling of premonition is curling up in Hermione's stomach, seeing her friends like that – because Padma looks even more uneasy. "Look, _we_ did meet him – last weekend, and… Well –"

"Well…?"

"Are you… You're still together, then?"

"Of course we are!"

"Oh, well, I'd say _he_ got a different impression of the state of things between you."

The two sisters exchange another worried glance, and tonelessly, Hermione murmurs, "What makes you think so?"

"Well, he said so," Padma murmurs at last, looking highly distressed. "He said you'd broken up with him –"

"_What?_"

"That you'd thrown him out, saying he need not come back –"

"But – but – I didn't _mean_ it like _that_," Hermione gasps. It's the last sensible thing she manages to utter. After that, she succumbs to a crying fit. The stress of the past weeks, the lack of sleep, combined with the outrageous idea that she should have accidentally broken up with Ron – without even _knowing_ so... Dean's stammering, the article in the _Prophet_ – it all engulfs her at once and it is far more than she can take. She hardly notices when Pavarti and Padma drag her up and lead her out of the cantina, she doesn't register that they're taking her to the Apparition pavilion and guard her back home to her parents' house. Faintly, Hermione notices the shocked expressions of her mother who fortunately is at home that noon and almost carries her stunned daughter up to her room.

It all happens in a daze. Hermione feels like someone in a coma, disconnected from the world surrounding them, eaten up by such intense misery that it feels almost tangible, like a blade stabbing into her chest. People come to see after her. Pavarti informs her that she excused her from the exam – Hermione, uncharacteristically, doesn't even know what exam her friend is talking about. Someone less thoughtful brought a weekend edition of the _Daily Prophet_, which announces with the usual scandal-mongering tones that the rising star of the Quidditch world, Ron B. Weasley, has been seen snogging with no less than three different witches on a Friday night party, which is the piece of news that finally breaks Hermione's anyhow low spirits.

She curls up in her bed, refusing to eat, refusing to speak even to her parents.

Her head is empty. Virtually empty. There is _nothing_ in there except a dull, booming sensation that resembles a headache. If any actual thought is still in there, it's the idea of Ron with that witch – _witches_, she ought to say. But whenever she does think of this, she gets so nauseated that she's pulling a complete blank again, and merely fights against the gagging reflex.

Nothing really penetrates the fog she's stuck in. Not Pavarti's affectionate ministrations. Not Ginny's irate ranting about her 'moron of a brother'. Not Harry's embarrassed attempts on consolation. Not Mr and Mrs Weasley's dismayed looks. Not George's offer to send his brother a self-timer dung bomb. In some sort of trance, she sees all these people come and go, but she can't connect to them. It all seems so very far away. Lying in her old bed in her old room, like a foetus, her arms swung around her knees, her mum tugs her up like she used to do when Hermione was little, and hands her handkerchief after handkerchief.

In the next few days, she refuses to leave the bed again, save for some trips to the bathroom. She still refuses to eat. She refuses to watch the films that her dad got for them from the video store. She refuses to read any of the letters that Ginny and Harry send her by owl. She refuses _anything_, until her parents finally confront her with joint forces. Her dad is waving with two oblong pieces of paper, and somehow, she comprehends that her mum's taken the next week off from work, and booked a trip to Madrid and Barcelona for the two of them. Of course, she'd refuse _that_ proposition as well, but Ben and Nicky Granger won't hear of it. Apparently, it's been quite a bit of effort to clear her mother's appointment schedule, and using a smart strategy of invoking a sense of indebtedness in their daughter, combined with stubborn insistence and paternal authority, they do elicit Hermione's consent to go to Heathrow with her mum tomorrow morning after all.


	180. On Beauty

He is accustomed to his mother's little eccentricities, but lately, he finds she's become truly weird

* * *

**- 4.53. -**

On Beauty

* * *

_Lady, fairest ever seen,  
Was the bride he crowned his queen.  
Pillowed on his marriage bed,  
Softly to his soul he said:  
"Though no bridegroom ever pressed  
Fairer bosom to his breast,  
Mortal flesh must come to clay –  
Even this shall pass away."_

_THEODORE TILTON_

* * *

With great care, the little elf curls strand after strand, while its mistress sits calmly in her chair, surveying her own reflection. Every now and then, she points out a blunder, which the elf hastily corrects, until every single hair has found its perfect place, and the witch flicks her wand to perform a fixing charm on her hairdo.

"Excellent," she murmurs and shoots herself a satisfied smile in the mirror.

The elf curtseys and beams, leaving in silence. There's nothing else it can do – the rest is based on natural grace and human magic alone. The witch has already spend an hour this morning with all sorts of spells and ointments, before having her hair done, and now comes the finish. She points her wand at her cheek, mutters the incantation and off comes a thin layer of crème – one that's responsible for her impeccable complexion and the soft rosy glow. Another spell fixes tiny bits of real mink fur to the witch's lashes, making them longer and thicker, and a third spell curls them all. There are potions that must be used to preserve the pearly whiteness of her teeth, potions – both for internal and external usage – to prevent her skin from wrinkling, and cellulite, and unsightly age spots, of which she's only recently discovered the first one on the back of her hand, and which caused her to throw a huge tantrum, until she found the appropriate remedy.

'There is no such thing as natural beauty,' her mother always used to say, and she's internalised that phrase since her infancy. People always praised her for being such a pretty little girl, then, but her mum thought that she might be even prettier and taught her the first set of spells to achieve this. Oh, she's learnt a lot since then. One might well say she's the country's greatest expert on the subject.

Making sure that she is alone, she opens the secret compartment of her dressing table and takes out the flask with the _special potion_. She's got twenty-five years to bridge and undo. At least, she always took care of herself, so she sincerely hopes that it won't be as difficult as it could have been otherwise. She could impossibly look as if she were his mother, right? The side-effects of this stuff aren't exactly pleasant – she's sleepy and distraught all the time – but it doesn't matter. She can _feel_ the changes it affects, really, _feel_ them. How her body feels lighter and lighter, and more – well, alien to her, in a way. She's used to much more painful side-effects of beautifying potions, that's one thing for sure.

She swallows her daily portion, and casting the flask a fey glance, she swallows a bit more for good measure, before cautiously storing it away again. It's a secret. Nobody must find it out. _He_ was very clear on that head, wasn't he? She cannot quite remember for sure, but she's got the feeling that he was. Well, with that bit done, she can go back to her usual routine.

Very carefully, she tips a few grains of purple pigments into a small crystal mortar, adding other substances and grinding and blending them assiduously until the texture is quite right. Then she takes a little brush and begins painting her lips, until she's achieved her famous trademark pout, seductive and promising. She takes another crystal pot and mixes rouge, and several others for the hues of eye shadow. Two flicks of her wand produce the jet black eyeline, making her gaze glowing and irresistible, and then she's finally done. One more, inquisitive glance in the mirror and she gets up to see the overall result. She critically pinches her waist, finding that she'll have to do something about this again, but for now, it'll do, and then she floats out of her dressing room and descends to the dining room, where her husband is already waiting.

Like every morning, he gasps when she enters, jumps up and makes a bow. "Good morning, my dear," he mutters excitedly. "You look enchanting, as always!"

She inclines her head into half a nod, brushes half a kiss onto his balding forehead and sits down opposite of him, smiling serenely. "Any news, my dear?" she asks him, before digging her spoon into half a grapefruit.

"Only the usual, only the usual," he replies absently, mesmerised as ever by her sight.

"That is good."

"And you, my dear? Any plans for today?"

"Oh, I believe I'll have to see after the thank you notes, my dear." She sips her green tea. "I've narrowed down the possible patterns to five. Perhaps you might want to take a look at them and help me choosing one?"

He expresses his delight, and she lets him. Of course he won't have a say in the final decision. His sole performance of good taste consisted in falling in love with her at first sight, otherwise he is deplorably ignorant of beauty, or style, or anything that matters. Predictably, he is incapable of even forming an opinion on the specimen she shows him after finishing her grapefruit, and with another half-kiss, she sends him off to work, relieved to finally have the house to herself.

Now she's staring at the samples for half an hour already, her head completely blank. What was it that she meant to do? The cards seem familiar, they ring a bell, but somehow, she cannot concentrate. Every now and then, she stares at her own hands, almost hypnotised. What… Her son sticks his head in. "Is he gone yet?"

She wakes up from her reverie. "Of course, darling. He's a punctual one, isn't he."

With a sigh, the young man comes in, glancing over his mother's shoulder and pointing at a lime green card on the table. "This one."

She quite agrees. Oh, but they always do. Her son has just as much taste as she. His father in looks, he inherited most other qualities from his mother, including the contempt for her present husband. The boy cannot even be bothered to take meals with his stepfather, and she isn't going to force him. It's enough that she, occasionally, obliges the silly little man by her presence. If there are no other purposes at hand, they only ever see each other over breakfast. His tiresome conversation distracted her from the sourness of her grapefruit, which has to be counted as an advantage, at least.

She gets up, smoothes her tight robes and gesticulates. "I need your opinion, darling." She pinches her waist again. "Look at this!"

The boy tilts his head. "Look at what?"

"I'm getting fat!"

"You're not _fat_!"

"And what do you call _this_?" She pinches he waist once more.

"One can hardly perceive it, believe me."

"But _I_ know it's there! When I was in my twenties –"

"But you _aren't_ in your twenties anymore!"

She casts him a scandalised look. "Sad enough, but I don't mean to advertise that!"

He suppresses a little groan. "Well, _you_ need to be happy with your own body. Do something about it if you will."

"That is _exactly_ what I will do!"

He pushes her chair when she sits down again. He loves his mother dearly – but he also believes that her obsession with her appearance isn't entirely healthy. She was always careful, but lately, she's become _really_ weird about it. "You look fantastic, Mum. Why are you always so worried?"

"I'm not _worried_, dear. Worrying gives you wrinkles around the eyes, you know?" She laughs, but it doesn't affect her eyes. "I am simply being careful, that is all. The better I look, the more unapproachable I am for your stepfather."

"Then just get a divorce, Mum! Holy cricket!"

"Divorce! Do you mean to halve your inheritance? _I_ would have to pay _him_ allowances, with his measly Ministry salary!"

"I'll never grasp how we got stuck with _this one_ in the first place!"

"You don't understand that, darling."

"No, I most certainly don't."

"Take a look at your girlfriend –"

"Which girlfriend now? We broke up four weeks ago!"

She looks surprised and twirls a strand of hair between her fingers, in exactly the same way Pansy did, he thinks with a little jolt of hurt in his bowls. "Why on earth did you break up?"

"Mum, I told you all that already!"

"Did you? Well, so tell me again!"

He rolls his eyes. "We broke up because I don't think she really loved me."

"But of course she did!" his mother protests loudly. "She does!"

"No, she doesn't, she's still hung up about that total – anyway, what's it to you? You hated her right from the start."

"I didn't! Did I?"

"Yes, Mum, most of the time, you couldn't stand her. On some occasions, you couldn't get enough of her, but _mostly_ you loathed her on principle!"

"How extraordinary of me..."

"No, as a matter of fact, you hating my girlfriends is a pretty common occurrence," he gnarls angrily, all the more huffed because thinking of Pansy always has that effect on him. God, he misses her. She is a silly, self-centred bitch, but he does love her all the same...

His mother surveys him, wondering what he just said. He's nibbling on a cookie, and suddenly hungry, she reaches out and takes one out of the open box, heartily biting into it.

He narrows his eyes. "What're you _doing_, Mum?"

"What? I'm hungry!"

He frowns and surveys her in turn. "Anything the matter, Mum?"

Is it? For her life, she couldn't say.

* * *

**Thanks to everybody who was so kind and took the time to give me a feedback on the last chapters, you are so great!**


	181. Forgiveness

_... because Dusty the Umbravita asked for it so charmingly... ;)_

* * *

Draco and Lucius finally talk

* * *

**– 4.54. –**

Forgiveness

* * *

_For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,_

_And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;_

_And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,_

_And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still…_

_And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,_

_And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal,_

_And the might of the gentile, unsmote by the sword,_

_Hath melted like snow in the glance of the lord…_

_LORD BYRON – The Destruction of Sennacherib_

* * *

Eight different Healers had given their everything, had forced the snake venom out of their patient's veins, and had applied their best knowledge how to revive the witch, but all their sincerest attempts had been vain in the end. No, Narcissa Malfoy had _not_ died that night; a bezoar had saved her life once more, indeed. But that was the best that could be said about it. As it was, she remained unconscious, and despite the Healers' many assertions that _in theory_, there was nothing keeping her from regaining consciousness because there was no lasting damage done, she would not wake up again.

She had been taken to her and her husband's bedroom, where she had been lying ever since as if she were lying in her coffin already. The ghost of her dead husband had not once left her ever since; two servants were in constant attendance round-the-clock, waiting in the adjoining room for the smallest signal of their masters, and diligently caring for their mistress. Narcissa was fed strengthening solutions, nourishment potions, why, they even tried it with cheering potions and charms, though they made not the slightest difference. The elves kept on bathing her, dressing and grooming her, and in a kind of ritual, her son would, three times each day, take a cloth and wash his mother's hands and face, and trickle the various medicines into her mouth.

_He_ had literally been forced out of the room after all, and it had taken all of Lucius' paternal authority to make the boy retreat. At first, nothing could have removed him from the sickroom; he had slept in his armchair next to his mother's bed again, and spent the rest of the day looking at her, willing her to make the tiniest move, show _some_ sign of life apart from simple breathing (and even her breathing was so flat that one had to be truly attentive to perceive it). Owls had been sent, but he had not read the letters himself. Instead the house-elves had opened the well-meaning notes from his friends, had read them out aloud to him, and had also written the answers, which had invariably been the same, namely that their master could not and would not talk to anybody, that he thanked them for their solicitousness, but no, he could not deal with them in any small way.

Theodore Nott had interrupted his preparations for his end-of-term exams and returned to England to personally see after his old school friend, but was sent away again. He had tried talking to Draco, but the boy's eyes had been glued to the motionless witch on the sickbed, he had not heard a single word of what Theo had said, and in the end, it had been his inconsolable father who had turned around for a moment and said, "Thank you, Theodore, but I don't think it's of any use. He'll – he'll contact you when he can."

Millicent Bulstrode had come, so had Gregory Goyle – they had met on the way even, Millicent just leaving again, Greg only arriving at the gates of the Manor, and there had been a startled moment of embarrassment, whispered words of concern for their mutual friend's sake – but the bottom line remained that neither of them had permeated the gloomy haze that surrounded Draco like fog clang to Azkaban Island.

At least, Lucius had found enough common sense within all his own grief to realise at last that his son could impossibly stay there, like this. It could not be healthy; in fact, the boy had looked almost as dead as his mother, just as motionless, just as frozen, doing nothing but stare at the body that was almost a corpse. Ironically, Narcissa looked a bit healthier even. Her eyes closed, her expression unfathomable, she emanated a kind of peacefulness – Draco looked every bit like the agony and bottomless anguish that he was actually feeling.

So Lucius had with given the boy a strict, though feeling lecture, had impressed on him that his mother would _not want_ _this_, that he ought to sleep in his own room and bed, and that, as appreciated his efforts for his mother were by all of them, he ought to resume something that at least resembled 'life'. Draco had struggled, argued, and cried, but at last he had surrendered. If Lucius could have seen that, instead of sitting next to her bed, the boy now sat in the library, in his mother's Music Chamber, or his own room, simply staring into nothingness – his father might have gotten second thoughts about his prohibitions, but as things were, he wasn't privy to any of this, because nothing could have removed _him_ from his wife's side.

Lucius and Draco could were both acutely aware of the tragic dimension of Lucius' decision to _not_ follow his father to the realms of afterlife, and it would have been impossible to say whose anguish was greater. Lucius was beyond himself with the idea that he had lost every chance to be with his wife on the long run. It wasn't so much the perspective – or rather the lack of anything deserving that name – of being a ghost, sentenced to eternally-lasting impotence, sentenced to roam the earth until the end of time. It was the knowledge that _she_ would – and soon, judging how things were now – go on to those realms that she belonged to, that _any_ soul belonged to in the end, and that he'd be separated from her _forever_.

His son, on the other hand, felt all this, on top of the grief he felt anyway for losing his parents like this, and what was more – he was torn up with compassion for his father. He was sorry for his mother, too, but thought that _her_ suffering would not last. His father would feel his loss until the end of time, and he knew enough of his parents to fathom the _extent_ of said loss.

It wouldn't do to speak these things out aloud though. He didn't dare to put his finger into his father's suffering, but in the ample of time he had to himself staring at the walls, he came to another sort of resolution. What use was in repeating the disastrous fate in store for his dad? None. But there were other things that needed to be talked of.

"Why did you come back, Dad?"

"I told you, didn't I? I could not leave your mother."

"But you must have known that, as a ghost, you wouldn't be able to defend her either."

Lucius chuckled drily, not taking his eyes off his wife. "My logical capacities were limited at that time, Draco. Just as well I didn't think of the simple amount of time it takes to return. But even if I had thought of any of this – I couldn't endure the idea to be parted from her forever just then. I wanted more time, you see? To be with her at least thirty more years or so – that appeared like a spot of comfort."

"But why were you so sure that you – you wouldn't end up together?"

"Don't you know that? Can't you imagine why?"

Draco swallowed and summoned all his courage to speak what had been on his mind for so long, but which he had never dared to utter before. "I can. But I want to hear you saying it."

Lucius nodded, smiling mirthlessly, as if he had waited for the question. He had waited indeed, and dreaded in the same moment. He knew he owed the boy an answer – an explanation… At least an explanation, even if he had neither justification nor excuses to offer.

"I killed twenty-two people. Human beings, I mean. I was absolutely convinced that this must mean I could never end up in the same place like your mother, who's never killed a fly in her entire life. I guess I should have asked her, eh?"

Draco was silent for a while, trying to sort out his thoughts but not getting anywhere. "Twenty-two people," he muttered quietly at last. He had been present during his father's whole trial; he _knew_ the figures. He simply couldn't wrap his mind around them.

Lucius sensed his son's troubles and offered hoarsely, "Ask me. Whatever you want to know, I will tell you. Just ask me."

"How – how _could_ you _do_ that?"

His father gave a little laugh, withdrawing his eyes from Narcissa and directing his gaze at his son instead. "I wish I had some better answer on _that_ head, but I don't, so here it is: I just _did_ it; it was perfectly simple. One flicker of the wand, two little words, that's all it takes – for someone like me."

Their gazes were locked for a minute, while Draco remembered the absolute _impossibility_ regarding himself doing what his father had just now described as being 'perfectly simple'. "Someone like you?" he whispered.

"Yes. Someone like me. I wasn't like your Aunt Bella, mind you. Killing never satisfied me, never gave me any thrills. Which makes it even worse in my books. She at least had _some_ purpose. To me, it was nothing. An incantation like any other, which I performed when I was told so, or when I thought it was necessary. I haven't got anything to say for myself other than that. When I did it, I was as indifferent about it as I would have been about casting a Shield Charm – or conjuring a cup of tea."

Draco couldn't bear to look at his father and averted his face. "Who were they? Those that you've killed?"

Lucius hesitated before he shrugged. "To tell you the truth – I don't really know most of the time. They were strangers to me and meant nothing to me. Eleven or twelve were Ministry men, Aurors mostly; I was either told to kill them or met them in battle. At least two I know of died because my curse went awry. Beside the Ministry men, there were the members of Dumbledore's order, some normal civilians... Two muggles." He swallowed hard and proceeded, "The first man I ever killed was a muggle. That one, I remember perfectly well, but possibly for the wrong reasons."

He gazed over to his wife on the bed and a little smirk hushed over his features. "It was on New Year's Eve, or rather, the first hours of New Year's Day. I don't remember him because the event in itself had been so remarkable, neither then, nor now, in my memory. I was nineteen, and – your mother and I had a huge argument – well, not really an argument, more of a gigantic misunderstanding, and I thought I'd never see her again. I was out of myself, really – completely and utterly out of it. And then I encountered that Muggle, and he – I think he said something that riled me, so at first I cursed and Cruciated him, and when I saw that nothing of this made me feel any better about myself, or your mum, I – well, then I just killed him."

"Just like that?" Draco whispered, wide-eyed.

"Yes, 'just like that'. I remember thinking that. I remember how I thought how everybody was always making such a big thing about killing, and how strange it was that I felt absolutely nothing about it, neither regret, nor satisfaction. That man's death… It meant absolutely nothing to me, and now I realise that he needn't have died in the first place if it didn't even make a difference to me, his murderer. I… This man meant nothing to me, I didn't care for him – but I didn't truly mind him either. And only now I understand that, little as _I_ cared for him, he's bound to have had a family, too, and that _someone_ must have felt very deeply about his death…"

He had steadfastly looked at his son during all this, and now his gaze returned to linger on his unconscious wife on the bed. Draco's eyes followed his, and even though _this_ wasn't what employed his mind most in this minute, he murmured, "What's Mum said about this?"

"I didn't tell her."

"You – you killed someone – basically because you were arguing with her, if I got that bit right, and – and you've never told her?"

The ghost smirked wryly, his eyes glued to his wife, and the smirk turned into a nostalgic, fond smile. "She never wanted to know these things. Look, Draco – I never lied to your mother. Never. But we had that unspoken deal, we – we didn't talk about certain things. She was upset enough as it was, and I didn't want to make things worse for her. And the other way round. She didn't tell me what she must have been thinking about some stuff, for example. She knew that I – I'd have done anything for her, and if I had seen that she – if I had seen the true extent of her horror, I couldn't have pulled that through, and _that_ wouldn't have done, you see? I'm not trying to make up excuses, Draco, I just hope you understand. Once I – once I had given that oath, back then, I couldn't have refused any order any longer. It's not as if _I_ had minded the paramount of them, but your mum might have. She – you know how your mother's like; she never believed in the Dark Lord or his cause. And if I had seen in her eyes that she disapproved, I – I… And then he would have killed her. Do you understand that?"

Draco nodded. Yes. _That_ bit he understood just too well. He, too, clearly remembered the feeling, and how he had dreaded that his mum would have to pay for his stupidity.

"So – she doesn't know any of this?"

"By now, she does. The plain facts, I mean. She read my confession."

"And what did she say to that?"

Lucius smiled; his eyes caressed the face of the motionless witch on the bed next to him. "She asked me how _I_ felt about all this." He didn't look at his son, but perhaps he sensed the boy's impending question; at any rate, he continued quietly, "I truly regret it. Perhaps not for the 'proper' reasons, but regret it I do."

"The _proper_ reasons…?"

His father drew his eyes away from his wife and looked at him again, lifting his shoulders. "I guess the _proper_ thing to feel would be… Would be how _you_ go about these things. To commiserate a life for itself. But none of these people meant anything to me, and even now, they're still – well, very far away from me. I regret taking their lives for other reasons. Because I finally understand that no matter how insignificant someone was _to me_, they still had – I don't know, wives, children, mothers, who mourned for them, mourn for them still perhaps. I understand how it is to fear for a loved person, I know the agony to think they're lost…" He looked back to Narcissa, his face a mask of misery. "And I deeply, _deeply_ regret that it was _my_ doing that brought your mother and you into this mess."

Draco was silent for some minutes, trying to process the things his father had said. Twenty-two people. _Twenty-two!_ The number seemed almost abstract. To take _one_ life was more than the young man could fathom; beyond that number _one_, there was vast nothingness, as if it made little difference between _two_ murders, or two-and-twenty, or two hundred.

He realised that, indeed, it made a difference to think of the pitiful victims as perfect strangers; the less one knew about them, the easier one's mind could rest, couldn't it? Draco knew for a fact that, as perfectly incapable he'd been to directly strike at old Dumbledore, or anyone else in that respect, as little had he felt affected at first by the concept to send the man a cursed necklace, or poison-laced drinks, that could just as well have killed him, _had_ nearly killed two uninvolved bystanders. Even then, even after learning that his ill-conceived traps had caught the wrong persons who'd merely escaped death by strokes of luck – _his_ luck as well as theirs! – he had felt little remorse. In fact, he had, then, felt not much at all except disappointment and growing fear.

Perhaps, he thought, it did make a difference that he, before it had been too late, had made that experience that killing, face-to-face _killing_, was beyond his reach, beyond his mind, his will, his heart. Perhaps that was all, perhaps he had simply been lucky indeed, and Lucius, in other but similar circumstances, had not. He believed he knew his father, he thought, too, that they were much alike. If Katie Bell had died from touching that necklace, Draco would have committed his first murder, and the thin line between possibility and impossibility would have been erased without him even noticing it much at the time... And with her dead, would he still have found it impossible to aim and hit at the old Headmaster?

He shuddered with that realisation. Lucius noticed it well, but didn't speak up.

Draco was lost in his thoughts, his eyes resting on his mother, too, but hardly seeing her. When he did though, another realisation came to him. His mother... His beloved mum, who cared for nothing and nobody in this world except for her nearest family, and whose indifference he had found as hard to endure as his father's deeds... Narcissa would take no life, none whatsoever; she'd not even eaten meat since she was old enough to figure out what it was and voice her repulsion. His mother had never, not once, stepped onto that thin, elusive line. He'd seen her fight in desperate circumstances that one afternoon in the Ministry. The Aurors she had duelled had aimed to kill, but she had not. She had used elaborate spells instead to disable them, but she had not once used a Killing Curse. Despite her utter indifference towards any of them, she had not defended herself by the same means – and Draco didn't mean to accuse those Aurors of doing what they had, because they had thought to be defending their mere lives against striking Death Eaters. Still, his mother had refrained from retaliating in kind. The only case (that he knew of, anyway) when she had seriously contemplated murder had been the Dark Lord himself, and Draco, avid law student that he was, didn't have to look far to understand the crucial difference. 'Sic semper tyrannis!' Tyrannicide was murder per definition, yes, but a justifiable case of murder, the only perhaps justifiable case at all.

He understood, like he never had before, and certainly not while conscientiously attending his law classes, that his mother could be justified in not _caring_ for anyone as long as she'd stick to the right side of the line. One couldn't reasonably demand a person to love all the world, and those professing they did love all the world might just as often be called hypocrites. Draco had often, if rarely in spoken words, accused his mum of being a hypocrite, and it dawned on him that the opposite might be true in her case. One needn't _love_ the world as long as one didn't inflict harm on others, and if nothing else, she had been truthful always in her expressed dislike, or indifference.

Did he, Draco, love all the world? He did not. He, too, loved scarcely anybody outside of his closest family. He did feel compassion though, concretely or abstractly as may be the case. Which would have to suffice.

Without noticing it, he had got up and walked over to Narcissa, settled next to her on the mattress and gently stroke over her cheek now. "I'm so sorry, Mum," he whispered, "I love you."

Only then he realised how absurd, at least without seeming connection this little gesture must appear to his father and thus he turned around, repeating louder, "I'm sorry, Dad."

"_Sorry?_ Why would _you_ be sorry, Draco?" Lucius replied in visible bafflement.

Draco took his time to answer, absent-mindedly groping for his mother's cold hand and pressing it with animation when he did speak up. He tried to explain to Lucius why he had been so cool, reserved, so resentful towards his parents in the past year; his voice was as unsteady as his sentences, often he had to search for words, or leave them unspoken, trying instead to communicate to his father with his looks what he could not put down in language. He talked about his feelings of overwhelming guilt to have deserted them, about his utter incompetence to deal with them in other, more fruitful ways; he told his father about his fears and feelings of loathing during the Dark Lord's reign, about the impossibility to confront the broken man as which his father had returned from Azkaban prison then, how the pouncing urge to talk had grown hand in hand with the unconquerable unspeakable palsy of his tongue, and how, at last, he had dreaded to have missed that one chance of reconciliation with his father.

"I cannot begin to tell you how cruel I find the idea of you having returned as a ghost to us, Dad," he muttered ruefully. "But if for nothing else, I am grateful that I can now tell you how much I love you and what a good father you've been to me, always."

The ghost looked back at him with an expression that his son found hard to read. "I love you, too, Draco. I just wish I _had_ been a better father to you. Before you were born – before you were _made_, more like – I was staunchly convinced that I'd be the world's worst father, that you and I would never get along, just like your grandfather and I never got along. Your mum believed in me though, and in the moment when you –" He gave a little laugh. "I can still pinpoint the second of your conception, Draco, and I remember that all of a sudden, I was sure that I could do this, that I would love you just as much as I love your mother, and that that'd be enough to prevail. And I do. I do love you every bit as much as your mother. Just that now, I understand that love isn't enough in itself, as far as being a good parent goes."

"You were the best father I, or any kid, could have wished for."

"No, I wasn't. I've loved you, and I've spoilt you, and I've tried to do anything to make you happy, but I didn't. In the important matters, I messed up big time. You're not happy –"

"I'm not happy because you're _dead_, Dad! And because Mum's like that!"

"Which I am to blame for, too."

"Oh, rubbish!" Draco exclaimed hotly. "Seriously rubbish! It's no use that you're trying to shoulder all the world's blame, Dad! It's as complacent as denying any blame at all!"

Lucius arched his brows in astonishment, half humorous, half irritated. "I beg your pardon?"

Draco exhaled, finding his own outburst quite silly, equally silly as Lucius' attempt to suddenly feel responsible for everything that had ever happened to either of them. "Sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to... But honestly, Dad, it – this – Mum... It isn't your fault. What truly kills her is being parted from you. Really – I know you know her better than I ever could, but… You must believe me this one thing. I _know_ it. I saw her when you were first imprisoned. I was here directly after you had died. I held her during your funeral, I forced her to come out of your grave again. Those werewolves killed her when they killed you. She might be breathing still, but that's all there is to it. She no longer _lives_. She merely _exists_ still. And it's not – it wasn't the poison, Dad, it really, really wasn't. If she could have had her way, she'd have finished it all directly after your death. I just didn't let her."

They both observed the dead-like witch on the bed with tenderness and kept to their silence for a long time, which was broken by Lucius eventually.

"Did the nightmares go away?"

Draco hesitated, amazed, and intent to give an honest answer. So long had he pondered on having this talk with his father, so often had he postponed it, until it had seemed too late. And now he saw that he couldn't even say how he felt about half of these matters.

"They're – they're getting fewer, and much less intense. Most nights, I sleep through, and if I don't… Yes, they _are_ getting better, I think."

"That's good," the ghost said very quietly, reaching out as if to stroke over the boy's head, but stopping before touching him.

"Go ahead, I don't mind," Draco said and attempted a smile. To be touched by a ghost was no pleasant experience, as he knew since making the acquaintance of his dear Myrtle. All the same he longed for it; he couldn't embrace his dead father, but he could let him stroke over his head instead.

Lucius was careful not to come too close, and once again surprised by the fact that death had robbed him of the possibility to _embrace_ his loved ones, but given him the ability to _sense_ them in some curious, wonderful way. Touching his son's head, he could feel the boy's troubles, inner contradictions and overall, the love he felt for his parents. Literally. He could _feel_ it. When he touched Narcissa's face, he felt a different, far less sentient perhaps, mixture of emotions, irritation among them strangely, inextricably blended with peacefulness and yes, _love_.

"I wish she'd wake up one last time so I could tell her too," Draco said in this moment. It took Lucius a minute to grasp what he had said even.

"She will," he cried forcefully, "she _will_!" In quieter tones, he went on, "But she knows anyway, Draco. Don't worry. She _knows_ it. And I'm sure, too, that she has heard you now."

* * *

'_Sic simper tyrannis!_' – 'Thus always to tyrants', meaning 'That is what is always supposed to happen to tyrants'; a phrase coined arguably by Marcus Junius Brutus after the assassination of Julius Caesar


	182. The Two Wands

There's something rotten in the state of this woman's mind ...**  
**

* * *

**- 4.55. -**

The Two Wands

* * *

_In combat forever by desire and ambition_

_There's a hunger still unsatisfied_

_Our weary eyes still stray to the horizon_

_Go down this road we've been so many times_

_PINK FLOYD_

* * *

From recent and rather unpleasant experience, she already knew about the tediousness of Ministry employees, but to have half a dozen of them trampling through her living room like a herd of stampeding hippogriffs is even less tolerable. She already admitted that, yes, Lee did contact her now and then, and she gave him money and Polyjuice Potion, which, yes, she brewed especially for him in order to help his flight. It isn't illegal, after all – if it were, she wouldn't admit to it, would she?

Nigel tries to conciliate his colleagues with little avail; he isn't the sort of man to make an impression on anybody, and if anything, the Aurors gaze back at him with mystified pity.

"I believe my wife was very forthcoming," he says in his awful little voice, "now could you please –"

"Where was his hideaway, Ma'am?"

"I don't _know_," she says for the tenth time at least.

Did he store things at her place? No. Did he intimate to her where he might be keeping his things? _No._

"Look, we've been through this before, gentlemen. I haven't got the faintest clue where my brother was hiding, or why on earth he would break into the Ministry of Magic just to obtain Lucius Malfoy's wand. I still don't see what he _wanted_ with that darned thing!"

It's true. She had no clue, and she wonders what else Lee kept secret from his big sister.

"He needed it to enter the boundaries of Malfoy Manor, and keep the servants locked in."

She bites her lips, trying not to get moist eyes. Thinking of his death still doesn't sit well with her. "There you go, then," she breathes, "I don't understand what you still _want_ from me!"

"Mr Malfoy's wand wasn't the only one stolen," some junior Auror pipes up and receives a withering look from his superior.

"You better wait outside, Egg!" that one snarls.

"More stolen wands, you mean?" she asks, managing to sound utterly disinterested. "And now you think – what – that _I_ had them? Go ahead, try an Accio. I've got no wand but my own."

"So I have your permission?" he asks suspiciously.

"Go ahead and have a blast," she confirms, watching him performing a mute Accio – without success, and then... Another one...?

"You mean two other wands were stolen?" she gasps, and her interrogator's reaction is as hostile as ever. "For heaven's sake," she explains, "you did the spell twice, man. I can count, you know? Hold on... Are you saying that you folks managed to lose three wands – and I can even guess whose wands it must have been!"

"Oh, can you?"

"Sure I can! If one was Lucius Malfoy's, I dare say the other two would have belonged to his sister-in-law and You Know Who! Good Lord, you lost You Know Who's wand?"

"I cannot confirm –"

"Oh, get over it, man! I don't _believe_ the nerve of you people! You lose You Know Who's wand, and still you pester _me_ instead of searching for it! How can that have happened, anyway? Don't you have security? Jesus!"

"Dearest, calm yourself," Nigel tries to interject, but is universally ignored.

All the same, they got nothing on her and finally, if ever so reluctant, have to leave. Nigel is sent off on powers of the Imperius Curse, too, and convinced that she is quite alone in the house, she opens the strong box containing most of her jewellery, among which, concealed by a charm, is placed the ring she received from Bee.

She contemplates the ring for a while with a strange, foreboding feeling in her stomach. This is wrong, her stomach tells her, it's wrong. She searches her conscience for confirmation, but cannot find sufficient foundation either. She's never been a moral person to begin with; she doesn't care three straws what's been happening to any of these people, and some of them, she's sure, had it coming anyway. Lucius Malfoy, ph! The world's better off without him. And is she seriously supposed to care for some foolish old man, some bloody war heroes, a vain old teacher, a dozen mudblood children? Honestly, she doesn't give a damn about either of them. So what should be bothering her, eh?

Well, Lee's death, that's different. He shouldn't have died. He _needn't_ have died. If only he'd stuck to _her_ plan, he wouldn't! That little idiot! Oh, she knew that he'd a long-held grudge against Lucius, and always had a soft spot for Narcissa. She knew this infatuation had soured into loathing over the course of the years, too. He'd coveted her as much as he'd despised her – his sister had _known_ that much, had counted on it in order to make him carry out her ploy. She should have foreseen that he'd seize the chance to get his own bit of revenge, too. Why didn't she?

She can't be sure. It's weird, isn't it? There are long stretches of time recently that she's no whatsoever memory of, or only a wuzzy sense of remembrance, as if she's been constantly drunk for the last eight months or so. She doesn't care to admit to it, but she knows she does drink too much, and regularly so, but... No. She's been boozing for the past twenty years, still her memories aren't clouded. Only recently – recently...

Her gaze bores into the small, cracked stone. It's _his_ fault, ain't it? _He_ is doing all this to her. Or is he? That'd be just like him. On the other hand... He's not been lying to her as far as she can tell. That statue is coming along splendidly; standing next to it, touching the rough surface, she could _feel_ that it is slowly coming to life, and once it has come to real life – once Ty is back with her... She'll toss away that godforsaken ring then and think no more of it. He's had his revenge, after all, hadn't he? Okay, okay. Harry Potter is alive still, but she's not so stupid as to try getting to _him_, after all. So far, she always stalled, and he never pressed the matter too hard either. Which is weird, if you think about it. You'd think Harry Potter was his number one target, being the one who got him killed 'n' all.

"Mum?"

She looks up, startled, finding Bee standing next to her, looking inquisitively at her and the ring in her hand, alternating.

"What is it, Mum?"

"Nothing... I mean..."

"Come on, Mum. You can tell me."

No, she can't. Or can she?


	183. The Visitor

Not everyone respects Draco's wish to be left alone to his misery.

* * *

**- 4.56. -**

The Visitor

* * *

'_You look like you could do with a friend,' she said, 'you look like you could use a hand, someone to make you smile,' she said, 'someone who can understand, share your trouble, comfort you, hold you close… you've everything but no one like the last man on earth.' _

'_And when I die,' I said, 'I'll leave you it all… please, leave me alone, please go…'_

_THE CURE_

* * *

"You dropped out of College then?"

He gave a start, both because he hadn't reckoned to be talked to, and also because he recognised the voice. Turning around, he looked into the familiar, if thoroughly unexpected face of Hermione Granger.

What the hell was wrong with those security spells; those morons from the Ministry had _sworn_ they'd see to having them properly restored. After everything that happened!

"How on earth did you manage to come in? Here, I mean?"

She shrugged, and there was a certain impish pride in her face. "Into Malfoy Manor, you mean? Oh, that wasn't easy, but I'm sure you're well aware that no fortress can be better guarded!"

"And still you've managed to intrude?"

"Yes, well, after some quite unsuccessful attempt yesterday, and a spot of very fruitless quarrelling with your house-elves – I got the idea to coax them into simply opening the gates for me." Seeing the perplexed question in his eyes, surely, she went on merrily, "I figured I was in need of some backup, so I persuaded old Kreacher to accompany me and have him talk your servants into allowing the both of us in."

"What? Who's _Kreacher_? And why the hell do our elves listen to him?"

At least she _looked_ embarrassed!

"He's their cousin, for all I know. Oh, and Harry's house-elf. You know, the Blacks' old servant. Sirius Black's servant. Harry inherited him with the house. Your servants really weren't at fault!"

Draco couldn't but goggle at the girl, completely taken aback and unable to utter a single useful thing. What was she talking about? And why would she _do_ such a thing?

"So did you?" she repeated in a very reproachful manner.

He had no idea what that person was getting at. "Did _what_?"

"Did you drop out?"

"What?"

"Did you?"

He looked at her, helpless, trying to figure out what the heck she was doing here, or what she might be babbling about, or why she was looking so positively angry. _He_ should be the only one _angry_ here, after all she had just broken into his house! "_Did I…?_"

"Drop out?"

"Drop out?"

"Oh, don't pretend being so thick! Did you drop out of College? I heard you did!"

There was massive accusation in her tone, making him feel like in one of those dreams where _nothing_ made sense. "I don't know, really… I suppose they chucked me out?"

"Rubbish! They know what's happened – I mean – that you have a reason not to – you know…" She had the decency to blush. "I just heard people on campus say that you wouldn't come back."

"Yeah, well – I don't _know_. I haven't thought about it. What do _you_ care!"

"I just care, that's all."

"But _why_?"

She shrugged. "You should come back, you know."

He snorted. "Is that right? I cannot see why. It's not as if I'd have to."

"But it's a waste of talent if you give up _now_!"

"And what's it to you! Why aren't you just glad! Your great moment to shine has come at last," he snapped back, increasingly annoyed instead of being simply baffled.

"Perhaps that's just it, isn't it? Where's the fun in having no competition at all?"

"I'm sorry to be the one spoiling your _fun_, sunshine; I had no idea it was my job to entertain you!"

"Come on, you know that's not what I meant. I – I was worried for you and –"

"Oh, get off it!"

"I heard what happened –"

"_Shut up!_"

She ignored the belligerence and gave him a very commiserating look that was cutting him to the quick. "I ran into Luna the other day in Hogsmeade and she said you refused talking to anybody –"

"Could have tipped you off I'm not in the mood to see you either!"

Unimpressed, she continued, "And then I heard people saying you had dropped out of school as well, and... Well, I found I just had to try."

"Which you did, and congratulations for overcoming our security measures. I was told they'd be unbreachable. Turns out they're not, well done! Now you've had your moment of triumph, can you please sod off again?"

"I will, but I want you to come with me –" Seeing him open his mouth, she quickly added, "I know, I know. Still I think it'd do you good to get out of the house for an hour or two –"

"What do _you_ of all people know about what's good for me!"

She smirked wryly. "Class in Basic Psychology with Professor Hatchett and an article in Witch's Weekly."

She delivered that line with such a deadpan look, he couldn't help it but laugh out loud. It even softened him up a little. "You're – you're just incredible, Granger."

"I know."

"_And_ totally off the rocker."

"Not sure about _that_. But I – I know how... No, I won't arrogate to claim I knew how you feel, but I... I remembered how _you_ once – how _I_ felt more downcast than ever in my entire life, and how someone who was almost a complete stranger to me, someone I was _not_ very fond of, talked to me and actually managed to make me feel a bit better about myself. I came to return the favour, if you want to call it like that."

It took him a moment to even remember that afternoon in Saint Mungo's, and he was soundly astonished by her claim that it had done _anything_ for her. "I – I don't think you can compare that, can you?"

"No, not as far as the extent of – of misery goes, of course not, but..." She avoided to look into his face and occupied herself examining the bookshelf behind Draco – but maybe that was just Granger being herself. "I just wanted to see how you are, Malfoy, and if there's anything I can do."

"There's nothing, nothing at all you can do, you or anybody else for that matter."

"And for the first question?"

He hesitated. "I... I can't really say. I reckon I'll be fine, eventually," he answered after all, struggling to be polite, at least. He knew she didn't mean any offence; she wasn't even here for the gossip – that wasn't like her. She deserved as good an answer as he could possibly give her. Still, he was too exhausted, and after assuring half a dozen times that he was _fine_, he got up and tried to see her out. She followed him to the door of the music chamber, but stopped there.

"You can still take the end-of-term exams, you know?" she said very urgently. "I have asked the Dean himself about this. All you have to do is send an official application, and formally give a reason why you couldn't take them. And before you say something – you'll only have to write 'death of a parent', that's enough."

He opened his mouth for a sharp reply and shut it again, slightly baffled. "You _really_ have _nothing_ better to do with your holidays than bothering the Dean, Granger?" he asked at last.

She blushed. "I had to see him anyway."

"Oh, really." He put his tongue in his cheek. "Why?"

"None of your –" She bit her lip and fell silent, but her cheeks turned even redder yet.

"There you go, you said it yourself. Your business isn't my business, and let me assure you, vice versa! I thank you for your – whatever you want to call it. Good day."

"If you've got to know – I had to see him because I missed taking one exam, too."

He snorted. "You? Missed an exam?"

"Yes, well..." She swallowed, flushed an even deeper shade of scarlet and mumbled, "Women's troubles."

_Slightly_ more information than he'd care for, wasn't it? "Oh! Uhm –"

"Listen, Malfoy... If I'm forced to form a study group with _Ernie_, I might start developing some nervous disorder on top."

He couldn't help it but grin. "Yeah, well… _That_ bit I _can_ understand, and utterly."

"There you go, then." She smiled again, bit her lip again, and added, "Come with me, Malfoy. Just for an afternoon."

Preposterous! He couldn't leave his mum! And that's what he told her in the utmost scandalised tones, but she insisted once more, "Come with me. Kreacher asked your butler; he said your mum doesn't even notice if you –"

"Be quiet," he said coldly.

"I'm not trying to be unfeeling. It's just – it's not healthy for you to bury yourself in here. Your mum will get by even if you leave the house for two hours –"

"As if _you_ had the tiniest clue!"

"She gets by if you're in here, too, doesn't she?"

Well, she was right in that respect, though he surely wouldn't tell her. To his own surprise, Draco noticed that he had been sitting in his mother's Music Chamber for three solid hours since last giving her her potions, which was even more useless because the piano no longer stood in this room, but had been moved to his parents' bedroom instead. What had he done all that time? He couldn't even say.

"What do you _care_, Granger! Just let me bury myself as I like!" he spat, made even angrier because he felt caught with his hand in the biscuit box.

She replied in apologetic tones, "It's not just me, you see. I came across Goyle of all people in Diagon Alley, can you imagine, and he's so worried for you!"

"And he cannot tell me so himself?"

"Apparently, he tried. You seem to have kicked him out."

"And you think _you_ will be better off?" he taunted and gestured at the open door, but she merely laughed.

"I'm far more persistent than Gregory Goyle. And more pleasant in conversation, I believe."

"You're underestimating Goyle."

She laughed again. "Yes, I used to do that, didn't I… I mean, it's not like he's an Oscar Wilde under the gruff surface, but – but this really isn't the point now. Look, Malfoy – I can stay right here and annoy the hell out of you. Or you dash up, make sure your mum is all right and follow me then."

"Follow you where exactly?"

"I don't know! The Leaky Cauldron?" Seeing his unwilling expression, she lifted her shoulders. "Or – an adventure trip! Right, that's it! You, Draco Malfoy, are going to be an explorer today. You are going to learn a whole lot about muggle pub culture!"

"Oh please!"

"I'm serious!" She winked at him archly, but added in a more serious tone, "It'd have the fringe benefit that you wouldn't come across anyone. No insolent questions, or stares."

He couldn't say why he eventually gave in. Perhaps because her suggestions mirrored what his father kept on telling him all the time. Fact was that he did; he did check on his mother, found her as motionless and apathetic as always, told his ghostly father he'd be back in a couple of hours, admonished Elsy to stay right next to Narcissa's bed (and fetch him in case _anything_ should happen!), and followed Granger out of the house, for the first time in three weeks.

She grabbed his arm and disapparated with him, emerging in front of a handsome Elizabethan house with an ornate sign spelling 'The Rose And Crown'. The inside was just as neat and welcoming as the exterior, and since Granger had mercifully charmed his robes to look like a muggle jacket, Draco didn't even receive the curious glances he had reckoned with.

"Where are we?" he sighed, squinting out of the window once more.

"Richmond Upon Thames. My parents live just around the – _hey Jeffrey!_" She waved at the stout barman and made a gesture.

He waved back. "Is that your young man, Mione?"

"No." Granger looked far more awkward than the blunt question warranted, and Draco noticed something. Granger had clearly spent the last weeks in a more sunny climate; she had a dark complexion, her hair was bleached to a dark blonde. Everything about her was tanned, but one tiny bit of skin wasn't – he had noticed it when she had waved at Jeffrey, the muggle barman. Around her left ring finger, she wore a natural ring of pale skin.

"Where's your pretty goblin-wrought engagement ring, Granger?"

Her cheeks flushed a deep scarlet and she pulled her hand away and out of sight. "Gave it back to the goblin who made it," she snapped venomously.

"You did _what?_"

"I gave it back," she muttered deliberately casual, sprang to her feet and walked over to the bar to get their drinks.

For a minute, he thought she had taken the matter of goblin rights to so far unimagined lengths, but as she was standing at the bar, he slowly processed the information. Goblin rights or not, if Granger had given that ring away, Weasley was either bound to strangle her, right before breaking up with her – or they'd broken up to begin with, and she had only returned the ring then. Oh well. So she had broken up with Weasel Bee? Good for her! He had never wrapped his mind around the idea that a person as clever as she could waste herself on an idiot of Weasel Bee's proportions, agree to _marry_ him even. Before he had heard of their engagement he had though it might just be a sex thing and she'd get to her senses again soon. Well, by now, she clearly had.

She returned with the beer, a bowl of peanuts and her normal expression, but he wouldn't let her off the hook so easily. "You ditched Weasley then?"

"I really don't want to talk about it."

"I really didn't want to leave the house either, yet I'm here. You owe me one, Granger."

She defied that claim, he insisted – as a matter of fact, he kept on teasing and pestering her until she succumbed and summarised what had happened. Apparently, Weasel King – moron that he was – had cheated on her repeatedly. Or something like that. When Draco expressed his surprise and sincere indignation, she merely arched a brow.

"Well, I don't feel entitled to condemn him for _that_ bit."

"Just how often did _you_ cheat on _him_ then?"

Little Miss Two Goody Shoes that she was, she hadn't cheated on anybody in the world, or he'd have to be very much mistaken!

"Exactly once," she murmured and pointedly looked elsewhere.

Oh. He feared he had a faint notion when that 'exactly once' might have taken place, and he, too, looked into his beer and took a determined swig. Still! "And you didn't feel entitled to be mad at him for doing the same _eight_ times more often?"

"It's not the same."

"Yes, it is! Just that he beat you quantity-wise!"

"He thought we had broken up. That's not exactly cheating, is it?"

"But you thought the same when –" He could _feel_ his cheeks turning pink and swallowed more beer.

"It's still not the same."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm me. I demand higher standards of myself than –"

He couldn't but snort and goggle at her. Unheard of, wasn't it? The rest of the world used one sort of standard for the others, and a laxer set for oneself, only Hermione Granger must make an exception of herself and insist on being all moral immaculateness. He shouldn't be surprised. That was just like her.

"You _are_ weird!"

She shot him a dagger look. "Perhaps I am, but since the only person I'm hurting is me, myself and I, I believe I'm entitled to my _weirdness_, as you call it!"

"I don't want to quibble, Granger. Go ahead."

"Go ahead with what now?"

"The story!"

"That _was_ the story! I told him I'm not having it anymore, gave him back the ring and that's it. The last I heard of him was that the Cannons have won against the Holyhead Harriers –"

"Holyhead Harpies, Heidelberg Harriers. For a girl dating a Quidditch pro for how many years, you've got an appalling knowledge about the whole thing."

She smirked. "Hard as it may be for you to grasp, I have no whatsoever interest in discussing _Quidditch_, least with my boyfriend."

"I just thought that he wouldn't talk of much else."

"True." She snorted and swallowed a good deal of beer. "I shouldn't have said that."

He grinned and volunteered to get them the next round if she could exchange a galleon for some muggle money. The fellow at the bar shot him a strict glance, making Draco wonder if Granger had forgotten something when hexing his apparel to fit into a muggle environment, but he needn't worry for long. In a flat voice, the barman snarled, "Listen, pal – just so you know – you try messing with that girl – I've got a .45 and a shovel."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. Leave her alone."

Draco laughed. "We're just friends!" He was amazed to have said that so naturally, and added quickly, "From school, you see?"

The barman didn't seem to listen. "She is a very good girl – much too good if you'll ask me. Always ready to assume the best of people. Don't you lout take advantage of that."

Draco smirked weakly, paid and returned to their table. "What's a 45, Granger?"

She didn't understand and he repeated what the barman had said. She covered her eyes for a second and sighed, before explaining that it was a muggle weapon and a corny line to begin with. "A .45 and a shovel – it just means he'll kill and bury you without anyone knowing."

"In that case I'd seriously advice Weasley to steer clear of this place."

She sighed. "He's never been here, and I dare say he never will."

* * *

**Thanks to everybody who took the time and trouble to leave a review for me! And thank you all sooo much for your patience! You're great!**


	184. Quod erat demonstrandum

**Author's note (and warning): Judging by the reviews, I know that some readers are very likely going to be very much disappointed, or even angry, by the progress of the story. With some of you, I've been e-mailing on behalf of this, trying to explain my reasons. Anyone I forgot, or who didn't yet write to me, can read my explanations at the bottom of this page - just skip the chapter ;)**

**To everyone else, and especially all those of you who were so very kind to review, or send me a mail: A million thanks! I did not forget you, and I can only beg your excuses for not writing back to you yet, and for letting you wait for so long with this new chapter. Sometimes, life REALLY interferes! Plus, I was actually on the verge of giving up (see my reasons above and below) but I love this story very much, and YOU GUYS really encouraged me not to drop it, so, seriously, everything posted from now on is for you and dedicated to you and you alone**. **You're wonderful, and so encouraging, and making me very, very, very happy**. **Tons of love to all of you, ccc**

* * *

Who will cast the first stone when it comes to portioning the blame...

* * *

– **4.57.** –

Quod Erat Demonstrandum

* * *

"_It wasn't the wine," murmured Mr. Snodgrass, in a broken voice. "It was the salmon."_

_CHARLES DICKENS – Pickwick Papers_

* * *

Draco became restless after another round of beer and some more positively belligerent stares from Jeffrey, the muggle barman; he found he had to look after his mum. What if... – Yes, Elsy had sworn to get him in case of the _slightest_ sign of disturbance or change. But what if she didn't find him?

"Relax," Granger said. "A house-elf can find his master anywhere, always."

"But I'm not her principal master; she's my mother's elf-in-waiting, you see –"

"If she had trouble finding you, she'd just have to ask any other elf in the house, Malfoy!"

"I still think I ought to check she's all right. Look, Granger, I – I'm sorry. Despite my initial objections, I do kind of appreciate your efforts, but I really need to go now." He got up and from the corner of his eye, he saw Jeffrey shooting daggers into his general direction. More out of habitual courtesy, and because that barman unnerved him, he murmured, "Why don't you come back with me for a nightcap?"

"Nah, I'd rather not..."

"Okay, I understand."

"Your father surely wouldn't appreciate me of all people sitting around in his house."

_That_ remark caught him slightly off-guard and made him automatically disagree. "Nonsense. You're most welcome!"

"As your guest or his?"

"As my guest, indeed, and incidentally, I am the blithering owner of the bloody place, if only technically, and can invite whomever I want!" he assured disingenuously.

She lifted her shoulders and smiled sweetly, muttering, "All right then. But just for another glass of beer," and he realised he had tricked himself. Darn it!

So they apparated to the Manor. Incidentally, Granger seemed to feel twice as uncomfortable as he, which meant a lot, because Draco was exceedingly uneasy. He might well be his father's legal heir, but bringing strangers into the house – for a nightcap – while Narcissa Malfoy was lying on her death bed upstairs... It was more than tactless, it was unfeeling, crude and every other thing that Lucius would surely not fail to point out to his son, and which the boy felt all the more acutely.

He knew, however, that Granger would misinterpret his queasiness, and since he wouldn't for his life discuss his mother's state of health with anybody, he thought that fake merriment was the second best option. For all he knew, she had to this day been once to Malfoy Manor before and it had nearly cost her life. He was determined that her second time around should – well, it could impossibly blot out the cruel memories, but he hoped that it could at least counteract them to a certain degree.

It was a ten minute walk to the house from the main gatehouse, and halfway, Granger once more objected timidly, "Your dad will go berserk if I –"

"You're no longer scared of him, are you?"

She hesitated before shrugging, "In fact – I am, kind of..."

"He is a ghost!"

"Doesn't really make him less scary, does it..."

Draco had never been scared of his father, never. Intimidated, yes, awed, indeed, and lately, repulsed, but he found it difficult to fully understand the extent of fear Lucius Malfoy had infused in _other_ people. He couldn't fully wrap his mind around it. To him, Lucius had been nothing but an over-indulgent, sporadically strict dad that he had, mostly, been able to wrap around his little finger. One look at Granger however was enough to show that she had very different associations to him, instantly making Draco feel guilty once more, and eager to make up. He did his best to talk her into loosening up, that it'd be fine and all that, and perhaps because it had all been her idea, kind of, she gave in and said no more until they reached the house, where she did refer to that _other_ night, only a little more than two years ago – "This looks so totally different now..."

"Which way did you take this afternoon then?"

"None really. The elf opening the gates for us apparated with us straight into the house. But this –" She pointed at the stairs going up to the main entrance of the Palladian part of the building. "I really do not recognise this."

"You couldn't recognise it. Back then, you came another way. The Tudor building is on the opposite side; I think you've seen nothing else than that."

Granger marvelled. "Exactly how big is this place?"

"_Fairly_ big." He smirked. "Big enough at any rate to be able abandoning a part that's connected with nothing but bad memories."

He led her inside and suddenly, he felt almost embarrassed by the vast, magnificent entrance hall in all its splendour, the portrait of Abraxas ruling supremely in the midst of it all. He beckoned at the painting. "That's my grandfather."

Thankfully, the old man pretended to be sleeping, thus a formal introduction wasn't called for. A fact which Granger seemed to appreciate just as much as his grandson. "He looks much like your dad. And you. Sort of," she muttered so quietly as if she were afraid he could hear her.

"Yeah. Every Malfoy in the last two hundred years looked roughly like this."

"And you're sure it's really your grandfather?" she joked on their way to the Amber Parlour. "And not some Malfoy who died a hundred and fifty years ago?"

"Pretty sure, oh yes. I remember him well enough. His bad temper is rather hard to forget."

"And what about your grandmother?"

"Nana?" He smiled fondly. "I don't remember too much of her. She died shortly before my sixth birthday."

"And your mum's parents?"

"Nana _was_ my mother's mother. Her dad died from cardiac arrest shortly after – after my aunt got herself imprisoned."

"Oh!"

He curled his lip. "I know what you must be thinking, Granger, and I would like to correct the mistake – my grandparents were good people. All of them. Well, perhaps I'll exclude my paternal grandmother, she's a bitch, but... The others – they were no Death Eaters, nothing like that. Grandfather Black might have been a stubborn old pureblood, and my father's dad was nothing if not recalcitrant, but they – I don't want you to think I'm the last of a long of row of committed mass-murderers."

"I didn't think that!"

"Fine. You just looked sort of apprehensive."

"To tell you the truth – I'm actually scared witless by the thought that – that... That your dad could show up and..."

So much for Gryffindor valour, Draco thought but didn't say. He had no mind to taunt her, what was more: he was similarly uneasy, so he retorted with conviction, "Oh, rubbish, Granger, _rubbish_. For a start – the entire house, it's mine now, if only technically. What's more – he isn't likely to notice, even. He doesn't leave my mother's side. Ever."

At that note, he excused himself to quickly go up and see if his mother needed anything. His father scarcely looked up when hearing Draco entering. "Had a pleasant day, son?"

"Mmh. Some friends from college… Actually, they're downstairs now, and I…"

Lucius smirked gently. "Yes, I see… This is really good, Draco. I mean it. Your mother would appreciate you mingling with people again, too."

"No, Dad, she'd hate it."

"_She_ hated other people, but she never minded you or me going out. It's no good to have both of us here, moping. Go along, Draco, and don't worry. I'll call for you, in case anything happens."

Feeling only a little guilty for lying to his father through his teeth, Draco went down again and found Granger, who, being her usual self, had sought comfort in a book and hardly touched the wine he had poured her before leaving. She looked up now that he came back and put the book away. "How is your mum?"

"As always," he said curtly, but rallied himself and smiled. "You found yourself a book, then?"

"Oh, I'm sorry – I shouldn't have – but I thought you'd be away longer –"

"My father seemed pleased that I'd have the chance to spend the evening with friends, so –"

She smirked. "Did you by any chance happen to mention who these _friends_ are?"

He grinned back, tongue in cheek. "I did not. However, if that offends you, I can go back at once and set that misconception right!"

She sniggered. "You wouldn't dare!"

"Try me!"

"No need – I guess silence on this matter would rather be the Slytherin way."

He laughed out loud. "And _you_ keep on accusing _me_ of being prejudiced?"

"You _are_ prejudiced, Malfoy. Who claimed that I wasn't? How does the phrase go – if it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck…"

"Now who between the two of us is supposed to play the duck in this scenario?"

"You, obviously. Slytherin was after all always associated with water, you know?"

"It's not the worst I've been compared to, so..." He raised his glass for a silent toast. "Thank you once more for joining me. I may have struggled, but I am glad that you succeeded. I haven't spoken to an actual human being – living human being – in… Ph, for quite some time. Except my aunt, but she's not too talkative either."

"I'm glad, too." She blushed and drank. "You got me quite worried – I mean, all of us –"

"Yes, that's what I imagine, of course! Ginny Weasley and Potter – I bet they're _sick_ with worries for my sake."

"Neville _did_ inquire after you half a dozen times," she said very earnestly.

He bit his lip. "That's nice of him," he said in the same manner, and astonished himself by finding that he truly meant it. "If I believed you were telling your friends about your visit, I would indeed ask you to say thanks to him, and hello, for me."

"Of course I'll tell them. Why shouldn't I tell them?"

"Seeing that you took me to a muggle pub where nobody – no wizard, I mean – knows either of us –"

"I took you there because _you _said you wouldn't want to go to the Leaky Cauldron!" she defended herself heatedly.

"Right… Sorry."

"No big deal. So I'll say hello to Neville for you. And Luna – Luna is pretty worried for you, too."

"Ah, my old buddy Luna Lovegood!" He laughed. "Is she still set for that expedition of hers? I forgot what it was all about… Something like the short-necked flobberworms of the Southern hemisphere?"

"I believe they're called broad-beeked Brimstone barnacles."

They both giggled, he refreshed their glasses and they toasted again, talking some more about their mutual acquaintances, the hottest piece of gossip being, apparently, that Pretty Boy Zabini and old Panse had gotten back together. Good for them, Draco thought, they really suited each other.

Next, Granger warmly recommended him to go see some play in the next week, and Draco grew increasingly astonished with himself. For one, he had to admit that he was actually _enjoying_ himself. He thought he shouldn't, with his parents suffering upstairs, but there he was, talking, laughing, and feeling at ease with the most unlikely of interlocutors, he couldn't – and wouldn't – help it. If even his dad said he should start mingling with people again, this wasn't so bad a start.

He was sitting in his armchair very comfortably, a glass of good wine in his hand, and listened to his guest talking about her holidays in Spain – hence the tan, he thought and his gaze fell on her tanned calves, which stuck out rather fetchingly from her plain muggle summer dress. She had really nice legs, he thought to himself and was rather startled when realising this, forcing his gaze away from them and accidentally (though Dr Freud might have something to say about the nature of such slips) ended up looking straight at her décolleté, which, again, looked quite fetchingly in that plain summer dress...

He had to realise – for the first time _ever_, really – that she had a really 'nice rack', as Marcus Flint, the old charmer, would put it. Preposterous! Girls of Hermione Granger's ilk didn't have breasts, or shapely legs! No bluestocking ever did!

He was exceedingly unsettled, all the more because it was true – her legs were really rather nice, so were her little feet in those unassuming sandals, and as for her _breasts_ –

How come he'd never noticed? He went through his mental pictures of her and came to find he'd never really seen her in anything else but her school uniform, or her college robes, or some thick winter cloak. He had not once, to his recollection, ever seen her in a dress! But he _had_, he remembered, oh boy, he _had_! That day of their graduation from Hogwarts, he'd seen her in some _very_ pretty dress, and he remembered that _then_, he had thought she'd been looking darned well, too! She'd looked so damned well that he had given in to her kissing him without any further thought even.

And what a kiss it'd been! And how good she had smelled, and how fervent her kisses had been...

He caught his breath, purposefully stared at his feet and counted to ten before daring to look over to her again. Luckily, she hadn't even noticed his little lapse, or perhaps she was just too wrapped up in her little excursion to Spanish architecture as she'd seen in Barcelona. Barcelona! Architecture! Thank god (or rather: his mum) that he had one or two useful things to say on that topic, because to tell the truth, he had really lost his track until here.

Unfortunately, their conversation went on lively and interestingly, and without registering it much, they had emptied the first bottle of wine and Draco opened the second, without even bothering for decanting it first. The more he drank, the less helpless he was at her legs' mercy; again and again he caught himself ogling them.

He _had_ to look, even though it weren't even that remarkable calves to begin with, were they! She really wasn't his type either! She was fairly short, and so were her legs and fingers. Her body, while being not actually overweight or anything, was a little on the plump side all the same. Her hair was as bushy and unkempt as it had ever been. She had a nice face – friendly, clever – but not beautiful in the conventional sense. No, she was not his type, not at all, she wasn't. All the same... He couldn't say what it was, but the longer he looked at his guest, the less he saw any of her shortcomings. He blamed the wine.

He remembered how she – how _they_… That had been one afternoon worth remembering! And there, they had both been pretty drunk, too. She had worn these stylish robes, and that neat hairdo, and blimey, she had smelled so good… He tried to push these thoughts away, but the sight of her tanned calves didn't exactly help. Her dress wasn't very special in itself, just a cream-coloured plain muggle summer dress, with little red Polka dots, but it made her complexion stand out the more. Under different circumstances, he wouldn't have remarked on that complexion either, but now he noticed it very clearly. She spent so much time indoors, she usually didn't have anything resembling a tan to begin with. And also, he _liked_, with few exceptions, 'pale'. He thought it looked noble. There was nothing 'noble' about Granger's appearance there, but all the more – well – _sexy_ – her bare feet in the sandals, her little toes that would _never_ see nail polish in _this_ life, her casual posture lounging on the elegant sofa, and that overall air of not even _trying_ to be anything like sexy to begin with.

A disconcerting thought. How come a girl like Granger had such alluring breasts, eh? How would it feel to cup these breasts with his hands…? They had _exactly_ the right size to fit into his hands like a glove – and looked both lush and firm at the same time… Oh, good Merlin! Realising what he was thinking there, he instantly got up and opened the third bottle as a replacement activity.

"I see you have improved your household spells," she joked. "I'd have thought you'd have to ask an elf to open a bottle for you."

"Hey, Missy, be careful with what you say. I happen to be capable of cooking a five-course dinner, and haven't shrunken a single piece of clothing in more than five months!"

"Five months and counting, eh?"

"Shoo! Also, the elves here _crave_ to be allowed doing even the smallest chores, but they must not be spoilt."

"No – you're the only one spoilt in this house, naturally!"

She wanted to banter? She could have it her way – but Draco intended to win, so he measured his best chances. "Until now, Granger. But maybe you'll allow me to spoil you a little, too?"

There it was again – his old friend, the blush. "Spoil me?" she asked, a good deal higher than her usual voice.

"Yes. My parents have a wonderful wine cellar – no reason to worry, it's all been tested since then. And our cook is out of himself with joy when he gets the chance to do some of his magic. He's not been cooking for any guests in months."

"I'm hungry, actually." She checked her watch. "But it's much too late already, I wouldn't –"

He grinned at her and called for Nobby, who appeared at his side in the next second, in a deep bow. "Master?"

"Can you get us something to eat? – What do you want, Granger?"

"Uh – a sandwich, perhaps? But really, don't you trouble yourself –"

The elf shot her a scandalised look, before gazing at his master again in a blend of servitude and reproach for bringing in such unappreciative visitors.

"You've heard our guest, Nobby. Sandwiches it is." The servant nodded, bowed, gave the girl another indignant look and disappeared. Draco explained, "You've hurt his professional pride now."

"What?"

"You implied he might be _troubled_ by a task as simple as obtaining a sandwich. That's as if I asked you who were the four Founders of Hogwarts, and begged you not to strain yourself with the answer."

"But it's a quarter to ten already!"

"Granger, believe it or not, but you are doing them a _favour_. They're bored out of their little minds. There is virtually nothing to do for them – my mother lives on strengthening solution, my father doesn't live at all, and all I ask of them is that they wash my clothes, and make me some toast here and there. There are eleven house-elves living here, sharing a job that could just as well be done by two."

She made a wide gesture, indicating at the room, and the gardens next. "And who do you think is taking care of all this? Who cleans it up? Who dusts off these impossibly high shelves? Who mows the lawns? Who –"

"They can do _magic_, Granger. One snip with their fingers, and the dust is gone. Another snip, and the windows are cleaning themselves. Seriously, for someone dedicating her leisure time to the welfare of house-elves, you know shit about them."

"Dobby was very unhappy here. He worked hard, and –"

He laughed flatly. "Dobby… You better not mention _him_ to any of the other elves."

"His family, yes?" she asked sympathetically. "They must have been devastated with his death –"

"I believe they were. But they were always devastated about him. He was Nobby's youngest, you know – the elf that was just here. And I know for a fact that Nobby frequently cried himself to sleep about him. Dobby wasn't – he wasn't how a house-elf ought to be –"

"He had no slave mentality, you mean!"

She had narrowed her eyes, but he merely shook his head. "What you fail to understand, Granger, is that house-elves, most of them anyhow, don't have the same mentality like human beings. They don't _think_ like this. In such terms. Dobby clearly was a case of his own, and yes, I believe he _was_ very unhappy here. But most of them are not like that. They're very – well, I guess the word is 'conservative'. Their families mean everything to them, and 'family' includes the human family they work for. Everybody has got a fixed place in that system, you see? They're very proud of what they do, and take it as a token of disrespect when you question the whole thing."

"But that's only because they've been beaten into submission for centuries!"

"Bobby!" he exclaimed, instead of a direct answer, and in the next second, another little elf Apparated by his side, bowing as deeply as Nobby before him.

"Master Draco," he cried, "has called for Bobby?"

"Indeed. Our guest has a few questions for you, Bobby, and I order you to answer them in complete sincerity, no matter _what_ she asks."

"Yes, Master!"

Granger looked puzzled, and Draco encouraged her to ask about the 'slave mentality', which she did, with a lot of 'uhms' and 'ers'. Bobby squinted at her in utter bewilderment. "I'm afraid I don't understand, Miss…"

"Let me put it this way – what would you like to do most? Let's say you had a free day. What would you choose to do? As a treat?"

Bobby looked at her as if she was speaking Chinese, and Draco specified, "Bobby – is there anything you would like to do rather than work here? Once again – I want you to answer honestly. Think about it, and be honest."

The poor creature looked frightened. "But My Lord, there is _nothing_ Bobby would rather do than serve the noble family! Bobby is _proud_ to be allowed serving My Lord! Is there something Bobby did wrong, or –"

"No, no. You're an excellent elf, Bobby, don't worry. You're doing beautifully. You see, Miss Granger here is concerned that house-elves in general must be unhappy with their lot. To always serve others –"

"It is an honour and a privilege for me to serve the family – for any of us, Master! You know it is!" he moaned. "There is nothing I would rather do!"

"Do you consider yourself a member of the family?" The servant smelled a trick question, judging his face. "Let me put it this way – what _is_ your family name, Bobby?"

"Malfoy," he replied like a shot.

Draco beckoned at Granger. "Quod erat demonstrandum."

She wasn't convinced, but in this moment, Nobby returned with a huge plate of sandwiches, beaming all over his round old face. Draco was privately pleased with the effort the elves had put in this small task; these were marvellous sandwiches indeed. There was French and Swiss cheese garnished with slices of mango and bits of pomegranate. There were shrimps and salmon, different chutneys and smoked Italian ham, goat cheese and pineapples, grilled mushrooms and foie gras, and Granger marvelled at all of them, unable to make her pick.

She did choose one with cream cheese and salmon after all, and in a rather playful mood, Draco bent forth and wiped a little stain of cheese from her upper lip. Granger was petrified with the touch and stared at him, looking as if she'd drop the whole sandwich if he just said 'Boo!' now. He winked at her and leant back.

"Relax, Granger. I don't bite. Well, not unless you want me to."

The sandwich nearly fell, and noticing the same, she put it down onto the table, or maybe she just wanted to do something else than stare at him. "I don't like being bitten," she snapped in a strained voice.

"Oh, but that's not true, is it?"

"Malfoy!"

He poured them more wine, and ignoring her unsettlement, he indicated at the bottle and exclaimed, "I would recommend you try the Gruyère next. It goes fabulously with the burgundy."

"You're really showing off now, aren't you!"

"With a bit of cheese? Come on, Granger, you can give me a little more credit than _that_. Besides – why do you think I'd do such a thing? Showing off? To you?"

She narrowed her eyes and curled her lip into an equally playful sneer. "You set some store by my opinion, I believe."

"Oh, that's what you believe?"

"Yes, I do. You've always wanted to prove me _something_, and even though the object may have changed, you never got rid of the habit."

"And what would be my _object_ now?"

"You want me to be impressed. That's why you lead me into this room, with furniture carved out of amber and ivory –"

"Granger, I'm sorry to let you down, but this parlour is actually one of the smaller, more modest ones." He winked at her. "I didn't want to intimidate you."

Disregarding the objection, she carried on, "That's why you have your cook prepare such a meal out of the blue, and try making me drunk with wine clearly displaying a label saying it was bottled in 1889."

He clucked his tongue. "Damn it. Should I have scraped off the label, you think?"

"Money doesn't impress me much."

"But Granger, what are you even talking about? I know this. And then, as a rule of thumb – money only impresses people you don't seriously want to impress in the first place. The civility which money will purchase is rarely extended to those who have none. Trust me to know what I'm talking about; until recently, I didn't have all that much of it myself. Money is just – _money_. It gets you goods, and the more you have of it, the more freely you can choose. When it allows you to get a _person_ with it, it's saying something about that person, not about money itself."

"Big talk, coming from you of all people."

"I'm no longer twelve. But if the wine, or the room, are seriously bugging you, I should also tell you that I'm not going to apologise for being rich. That'd be as silly as bragging with it is."

"I don't want you to _apologise_! I merely want you not to look down on people who don't have that much."

"I don't think I'm guilty of that charge. I may be looking down on other people, but not for their want of money. Their want of brains, of taste, of style, or wit – but not their lack of fortune."

She smiled nicely, and as if catching herself in a too benevolent mood, cried, "How could you _ever_ go out with Parkinson, then?"

He giggled. "Well, in her favour – I _was_ rather taken in by her questionable taste at the time."

"You couldn't be referring to yourself in that respect, could you!"

"On a second thought, I don't think I should! And _you_ shouldn't either – that'd mean the pot calling the cauldron black!" She blushed and choked on a bite of her sandwich. He gave her a moment to recover and added lightly, "After pining for Weasel King for nearly a decade."

He could see her exhale, and trying to adapt the same light tone, she answered, "Ron can be very funny."

"Funny like getting your thumb squashed in a closing door?"

"Only because he made fun of you!"

"In fact, I was rather thinking of _you_ there. I _vividly_ remember all the times when he wound you up, and you didn't appear to find it that _funny_ at the time."

Defiantly she replied, "We had our ups and downs, sure, but it wasn't all just crying in the bathroom!"

"So how come you accidentally broke up with him and he returned the favour by shagging half of the female population of Holyhead?"

She looked angry at this remark, but curiously, she seemed less angry with _him_ than the simple facts.

"Honestly, Granger," he went on, deliberately softly. "Love should be something else than not _always_ crying one's heart out."

"That's rich! What do _you_ know about _love_, I wonder? Susan didn't do much else but cry, and if I remember correctly, Pansy Parkinson didn't seem too happy with you either!"

"But that didn't have much to do with love," he answered, to his own astonishment. Funny. Until this very second, he had been staunchly convinced to have loved Susan indeed. But by his own working hypothesis he hadn't, had he?

"Perhaps you didn't love them – you obviously didn't! But they loved you! At least Susan did, I know that."

He felt guilty of that charge, but not incorrect in his original assumption. "All the same, it's not supposed to be like that. Take one look at your parents, or mine. You can give it another name if you please, but _that_ is what love's supposed to be like, in my opinion anyway."

He could read it in her face that she agreed, at least on this one point. "Well, I did see the light, at last, didn't I?" she mumbled and took another sip of wine.

No, you didn't, he thought and arched a brow at her. Granger clearly wasn't over the idiot – all her reactions to the topic belied that claim, but he decided he wouldn't push her. He was beginning to develop different designs for the continuation of the evening (her tanned calves definitely had something to do with that), and Granger's obvious anger about her ex would play along these very nicely. If she wanted to pay the fool back in coin – hey! By all means, Draco would support her vindictiveness.

"Well, _excellent_. So you're back on the fairground, as it were."

"The – the fairground?"

"Yeah. You know – up for a bit of fun. No longer forced to give account to anyone about whatever it is you do. Free as a bird. Free to do as you please. Ready for the ride wherever it may take you."

He smiled at her, suggestively boring his gaze into her eyes, until she looked away. "I'm not _that_ kind of girl!"

"What kind of girl? The kind that's having fun? Well, Granger, that'd be a pity if it was true. You deserve some fun. You got yourself jilted by someone not even playing in your league, you're hard-working, you're young, and clever. You should allow yourself some enjoyment, definitely. Life shouldn't be about work all the time."

She raised her eyes again, seizing him up, and he could see her mind at work, literally. She was wondering what he was up to, she tried to dispel the memory of the last time she let go her caution, and she clearly tried to convince herself of just getting up and leaving. She didn't, however, but went on sipping her wine, deliberately changing the topic, and he let her. He wanted her to feel comfortable. He wanted her to trust him enough to let go – he remembered very well how much _fun_ Granger could be if she let herself go, unlikely as it would appear on first look.

And he succeeded, as far as he could see. With every quencher of wine, she loosened up more, until she even began to play along the little innuendoes – not without reserve, but witty and the slightest tad provocative. This puzzled _him_ in return, _because_ she truly wasn't 'that kind of girl'. Not the flirtatious kind. Not the playful kind. But then he finally thought he could read her mind there – possibly because he could tolerate the alcohol better, and also because he was a little more experienced than her in that game. Yes, yes, Granger, increasingly tipsy, was wondering what the hell he was playing at, and enjoyed herself enough to not to play safe and simply go home. And she had just recently dumped her ridiculous boyfriend… Perhaps she wanted to pay him back? Well, if that was the case, he did not mind assisting her to the best of his abilities.

"That muggle attire –" He indicated at her dress. "These things are surprisingly becoming."

She frowned. "Are they? In which way?"

"Witches robes conceal much more skin, and you really have to guess about the body underneath. The muggles seem so much less prudish to me in this respect."

She glanced down and hectically pulled her skirt over her knees. "Er –"

"Leave it like that. You've got nice legs, why not show them?"

"Uh – that's only because I was on holiday after term's end, you know – that's why I've got a tan – otherwise I wouldn't –"

"I stand by what I said – why not show them?"

"What's so interesting about my legs, anyway?"

He laughed out loud. "Show me a twenty-year-old male who doesn't like to see a nice pair of legs, Granger, and I'll show you a weirdo."

"You – are you complimenting me on my _legs_, Malfoy?"

"Oh, come on, Granger, you're not as slow as you let on. I already complimented you on your legs two minutes ago, and you deigned to reply something about your holidays, as if that had anything to do with it."

"For the record – _you_ claim you like _my_ _legs_?"

"I'm not just _claiming_ that. I _do_ like them. For the _record_ – you, Miss Granger, do have shapely legs, and should give it some serious consideration to show them more often."

"Why, thank you!"

"Anytime. Now could you push back your skirt into the old position, please?"

She giggled. "Pervert!"

"Ouch, that hurt. _Pervert?_ For asking you to show me your kneecaps?"

"You know _exactly_ what I mean!"

"Indeed, I haven't got a clue what you could mean."

"Stop ogling my legs, Malfoy!"

"But _why_? You haven't put on that dress for people to look the other way, have you!"

"I hadn't reckoned that it would incite such excitement, either!"

He grinned at her and wriggled his brows. _Excitement?_ She left that one _wide _open, didn't she – but maybe he shouldn't exaggerate it if he wanted to make a pass at her. Talking to her, joking with her was all very nice, but in all due candour – by now, he was fairly determined to end the evening in a different way than they had started it. Granger, as inhibited and self-conscious as she was, was pretty good at kissing, and since she was bound to have gathered some experience since their last encounter, it wasn't unlikely that she… _Well_ – the last time, he had behaved like a perfect gentleman, Draco thought with some smugness, even though she had literally thrown herself at him, and it would have been so easy to induce her to do some more than just kissing. This time, he wouldn't let her get off _that_ hook, would he? He was genuinely curious how she was. Always so decent, always so brittle. He wanted to see that attitude crack. He wanted to look into her face when she threw all cautions to the wind – he wanted to be the one making her do that.

He kept on conversing with her, lightly, wittily, and smiling at her all the time. He paid her more compliments, which she was able to accept with growing confidence, and all the while he couldn't dispel his awareness that he was genuinely turned on by her, the longer he thought about it, the more. There was a sparkle in her looks that gave away how truly bright she was, and if there was one thing Draco had discovered since he was sixteen, it was that intelligent women were a lot more attractive than dumb ones. And more fun to conquer. When a truly clever girl finally gave in…

He wondered how she might be when she came. If she would bite down the moans because she wasn't _that kind of girl_, to use her own words. Blimey, he should really stop thinking about this – and thank god that he had undone the spells on _his_ clothes, so that the wide robes would conceal his growing arousal. The sight of which would surely have overtaxed her. And also, he needed the blood in his _head_, damn it, to continue their talking. Another _thank Merlin_ for her being so tipsy by now, or she would have noticed how distracted he was.

But fortunately, Granger seemed to think along the same lines, as far as Draco could tell. Really, he couldn't have accounted for her willingness to stay otherwise, her readiness to have one drink after the other, and her repeated question if Draco was _absolutely sure_ that his father wouldn't show up. He refilled their glasses for the umpteenth time and they toasted. "Here's to you, Granger. Thank you for coming here today. And thank you for staying."

She smiled vaguely and squinted at her glass while draining it pretty quickly. He took the empty glass from her hand, but instead of freshening it up once more, he just put it on the side table and got up. "Come on, Granger, I'll give you a tour of the house."

"You're trying to show off again, Malfoy?"

"Oh, sure, if there's a suitable opportunity. Though I had rather thought of finding a room. Unless you prefer that sofa." These words had the desired effect; she blushed up to her ears and coughed. He chuckled softly. "Relax, Granger. This house has some hundred bedrooms. And you're so drunk, you really shouldn't try apparating home. Make your pick among the bedrooms, that's all I'm saying."

She blushed even more. "Of course – I didn't…" She rallied herself and took a deep breath. "I hope you do enjoy yourself embarrassing me as much as you possibly can!"

"Nah… Just pulling your leg a little. You look cute when you're embarrassed. Not quite as cute as when you're livid with anger though. Can I make you angry somehow?"

"Just go on like this," she growled and shot him a fake furious glance.

He unceremoniously took her hand and pulled her up to her feet. She swayed slightly and he automatically swung his free arm around her shoulders to keep her steady. "All right?"

"A bit – tipsy – perhaps…"

"Ah, never mind. Come on. We'll find a place for you."

Well, her accusation was true, after all, as he realised to his own surprise. He had always taken Malfoy Manor for granted, and not thought very much about it. It was simply 'home'. A vast, elegant, stylish home, all right, and he had always thought that he had never seen another place that could remotely compare to it. He had begun missing it during his self-imposed exile, but since finally returning home, he hadn't once taken the opportunity to actually look around himself. As he led Granger around now, he became acutely aware just _how_ splendid the whole house was, and this was less a question of the fortune spent to furnish it, but a matter of taste and style applied meticulously over the centuries, and taken to even higher levels yet when his mother had become its mistress. His mum...

He shook himself, and luckily, Granger was busy marvelling duly at a Vermeer – she marvelled at _every_ famous painting they passed, and Draco was proud to praise his mother's excellent taste in turn. The eyes of some dozens of his ancestors followed them, but mercifully refrained from commenting. This wasn't the first girl they had seen him with, and they were basically too conceited to condescend talking to strangers in the first place.

Granger would have agreed to the first guest room he showed her, but that, of course, wouldn't do. He was having too much fun with this. He had one hand in the small of her back, like one would do with a guest – not too low, not too pushy – and talked to her just so quietly that he had an excuse to bend slightly to her ear. The hallways were dimly lit at this time of night, but he could still see that the tiny hairs on her arms were standing up, making him enjoy himself even more.

He opened another, random door with his wand and lead her in. "I don't think this one got a special name – not to my knowledge, anyway – but I think it's a lovely place all the same. Please note the soft carpets. And I think you in particular would appreciate the fact that it's a five minute walk away from my parents."

He smiled at her and pulled her over to the bed, zestfully flopping onto the mattress and pulling her with him. "Are you pleased with the suspension?"

"You're impossible, Malfoy!"

He playfully rocked back and forth, setting the springs in vivid motion. "I'm just trying to be a good host and find you the best of resting places."

"And in passing, you try mocking me as good as you can!"

He stopped and gave her an earnest smile. "No, I'm not. Absolutely not. _Mocking_ you is the last thing I got on my mind at present, actually."

"Well, how would _you_ call it, then!"

He contemplated the question as much as her. "_Teasing_, at the most.I guess I'd rather call it pleasing, though. If anything, I want to _please_ you. I want you to feel comfortable."

"If that is the case, I can assure you that I _am_ comfortable. This is a wonderfully _comfortable_ room, I am sure it'll suffice to sleep here magnificently, and your duties as a _host_ are done with."

"Oh, very well. Then I can concentrate on the more interesting parts."

"And that would be...?"

"The free style improvisation." He bent forth, gently reaching out for her and chucking her under the chin to look at him. She gave a start and looked at him in something bordering on panic.

"What are you doing?" she asked in a little, high-pitched voice.

"Just wondering," he replied calmly, holding her gaze and trying to soothe her with the softness of his look. With his free hand, he stroke a strand of hair from her cheek, which she answered by squeezing her eyes shut. She also stopped to breathe.

"You don't ask me what I'm wondering about, Granger?" he continued gently, "You see, I would very much like to kiss you now, but I cannot be sure which of the three likely responses you would choose..."

"Three...?"

"One – you could punch me, and knowing your right hook, I'd be much adverse to get another sample of your talent for boxing."

She sniggered and visibly relaxed. "I like that option," she cried. "Just as a matter of interest – which would be the other two?"

"Oh, for a second or two there I was worrying you might be getting a heart-attack, or some spontaneous bout of paralysis."

She laughed some more. "And the third?"

"The third?" Their gazes still locked, he bent over towards her and slowly, almost experimentally, he brushed a little kiss on her lips, but didn't back off again. He let go of her chin and tracing her jaw line, put his hand in the scruff of her neck and seized her very close. "Number three was actually my favourite possibility," he whispered against her cheek, and he could feel the tiny hairs on her skin bristling with electricity. "As a matter of fact, I had – a tad optimistically, perhaps – hoped you might kiss me back."

He kissed her again, longer this time, but just as softly. While her reaction wasn't exactly passionate, she at least didn't pull away either and he was set to count that as a success. ""Don't worry, Granger, I promised I'm not going to bite you unless you want me to," he muttered under his breath, then put his free hand around her waist, before continuing to gently nibble on her lips.

He could feel her tension vanish bit by bit, and at any rate, she diffidently began to return the embrace, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his hip, and eventually, she also kissed him back – shyly, hesitantly at first, but with increasing vigour then, too. Not breaking away from the kiss, he repositioned himself, pulling up his legs into a tailor seat and turning around so he faced her fully, and pulling her closer, she rearranged her legs as well, and pulling her closer and closer, he made her sit on his lap after all.

God, she scented just as deliciously as he remembered, and she kissed even better. He let his hands run up and down her back, through her wild hair, along her arms and back again, then pushed her hair away and started to place a trail of little kisses on the side of her throat, starting with the spot directly underneath her earlobe and going all the way along her shoulder, her arms, wrist, and finishing with every single of her fingers. She sighed very encouragingly, fondling his hair, too, and he made his way back, kissing and licking the sensitive skin of her inner arm this time and making a detour along her décolleté.

Speaking of it – the warm, soft but firm lushness of her breasts felt even better under his hands than he had imagined, so good in fact that he was instantly aroused and before long, he played with the strap of her dress, pushing it over her shoulder inch by inch, waiting for her to stop him, but she didn't. Only when her top slipped down to her waist, she gave a little whimper and blushed, and he could also see why. He had never in his life seen such a bra before. It was a plain white thing without any saving graces – other than the fact that it contained a pair of seriously alluring breasts. He was used to girls making an effort of putting on their sexiest underwear when there was just the remotest chance of getting laid. But Granger hadn't known that when coming for a visit this afternoon, had she… Somehow, this notion was irresistibly charming, and he stopped undressing her for some minutes to kiss her lips again, reassure her, make her forget that silly self-consciousness.

She forgot her distress soon enough, fumbling with his robes and shirt in turn. Bit by bit, she unbuttoned the latter and kissed his chest with unexpected verve. She traced the fading scars on his chest with her forefinger and asked with a soft tremble, "Is that – from Harry's curse?"

"No… That one left no scars." She hesitated; he could read the silent question in her eyes, and shrugged helplessly. "Just don't think about it."

"Don't you?"

"Not in that way." He smirked. "Scars aren't that bad, Granger. These aren't. I rarely think _how_ I got them, but they keep on reminding me _why_ I have them."

To his surprise, she kissed him very vehemently after this little interruption and pushed him back on the mattress. She crouched over him, continuing to snog him while she dealt with his belt and nuzzled the tiny hairs underneath his navel, which came so unexpected in a way (this was _still_ Granger, after all!) that he was turned on beyond words. No way in hell she could miss on his erection _now_, but she didn't seem to mind – in fact, he heard her give a low chuckle that sounded slightly triumphant, and she divested him of his trousers. He didn't begrudge her this victory, and both naked save for their shorts, respectively knickers (which didn't match her bra, but that didn't mean they were any more enticing – in themselves, that was), they continued like this – hands and fingertips, lips and tongue, teeth and nails, they caressed every inch of each other's bodies. He licked her and bit her, he nibbled and sucked, pinched and prodded and probed her until she was a panting, wriggling mess literally beseeching him, only to add –

"Can you – please – can you turn off the lights?"

"Sure I _can_, but… I don't understand why I should," he replied, perplexed.

"Because – well – I don't like – I can't –"

He frowned, backed off and looked at her. Her face was flushed and awkward-looking (he had believed they were past _that_ stage), but thinking he understood, he shook his head and smiled at her. Bless her for being so small, so it was easy to pull her up and lift her off the bed. His arms around her waist and shoulders and continually kissing her, he manoeuvred her backwards, until turning her around so he stood behind her, in front of the large mirror of the antique wardrobe. In the mirror he could see her embarrassment, and how she tried to avoid seeing what they were both looking at.

He bit his tongue to keep himself from commenting on the utter primness of her bathing suit, the traces of which were clearly visible for the utter lack of anything like a tan. The skin of her breasts and belly was almost as pale as his own, it had the colour of skin that had never before, not once, seen the sun, and while the bathing suit's imprint in itself had a rather comical aspect, it threw into sharp and favourable contrast the colour of her small, dark pink nipples, and a cute little strawberry mark she had on her tummy, right next to her bellybutton.

"Look at yourself," he murmured into her ear, gentle and imperious at the same time. "Don't be so shy, Granger. _Look_." He had his left hand in her waist, and used the other to stroke her hair out of her face. "You can see yourself? _I've_ goggled at you for the whole evening, so much in fact that I thought you must notice –"

"I did," she said so quietly, he rather saw her move her mouth, than hear her.

"Oh, did you? I guess in that case, _I_ ought to be the embarrassed one among the two of us… But I'm not. Why should I be embarrassed for taking delight in eyeing a pretty girl?"

She flushed and cast down her eyes. "You needn't sell this to me, after getting down to my underwear already," she said, sounding slightly reproachful.

"I'm not trying to sell you anything. What are you so scared of, Granger? Hm? You're a Gryffindor, after all!" He chuckled softly and kissed the side of her neck, before continuing, "I ogled you the whole evening because you are _sexy_. As a rule – when I sleep with a sexy girl, I want to _see_ her. I want to see your body. I want to see your face. I want to see your eyes when you come. You understand what I'm saying?"

Oh, she did, judging by her shiningly pink cheeks, and tried to turn around, away from her own reflection, but he didn't let her. Instead, he went on in tender persuasive tones, complimenting her on countless little things – her bronzed complexion, her sweet little ears, the softness of her skin, her beautiful breasts... To his own surprise, he realised that he meant every word of it, and that wasn't just because he was so turned on by now that he could hardly contain himself.

Kneading her breasts, he whispered into her ear how exciting it was to touch her, how much he lusted after her pert, pink nipples, how he wanted to dip his tongue in her alluring bellybutton. He went on kissing and caressing her, and let his fingers glide over the material of her knickers, seemingly random at first, but more and more decisive, slipping his fingers under the seam and out again. In between he kept on reminding her to _look_ at herself, until she was sufficiently self-assured, and had traded her embarrassment for timid enjoyment again.

She didn't repeat that he should turn off the lights when he led her back to the bed. She not only let him pull off her knickers – she helped him to do it, lifting her hips and laughing. She seemed to suspect though that he would plunge into her at once, and sounding sceptical, she asked him what on earth he was doing when he started to lick his way down to her crotch.

"You just wait," he replied matter-of-factly.

She gave a yelp of surprise and got tense when he started to lick over her folds. Not stopping, he groped for her hand and pressed it reassuringly, and finding her clitoris, began to stroke it with his tongue and gently pull it with his lips. She moaned and whimpered and wriggled; it was almost ridiculously easy to make her come. To give her a moment to catch her breath again, he slowly kissed his way up to her breasts, fondling and licking and sucking on her nipples, then slowly but persistently shoved two fingers into her and pulled out again, while stroking her nub with his thumb.

He was enchanted by her reaction. Truly enchanted. The sound of her moans was heartbreakingly appealing, her parted lips, her half-closed eyes, her flushed cheeks, how she threw back her head, how she trembled, her fingers clawing his flesh and her nails raking his skin. He had slept with other girls, and for all he knew, he hadn't been half-bad at it either – but he had hardly ever felt such success, such contentment with his own doing. His own erection was throbbing almost painfully, but still he hesitated and rather pressed himself against her thigh, literally humping her, panting against her nipples with arousal.

"You are _very_ sexy," he growled in her second orgasm's aftermath, climaxing only seconds later himself. Exhausted and out of breath, she threw her arms around him and pulled him close, helplessly pushing her hips against him.

He gasped. "I want to sleep with you, Granger. I really, _really_ want you."

"Oh! But you just – er –"

"Well, give me ten minutes, obviously."

"Hmm…" was all she said in response.

"Is that a yes?"

Instead of a verbal answer, she grinned and let her hand glide down to his crotch, firmly grabbing his spent, over-sensitive member. He winced back with her forcefulness, but in the next moment came to realise that she knew what she was doing. She swept over her thigh to wet her fingers before she ran over his head once more, slowly pumping him.

"I see you've got some plans for the meantime," he whimpered and let his head sink back against the cushion.

"You like this?" she asked and sounded as if she truly meant it.

"You bet I do –"

By now she was pleasuring his balls, pressing them, running her fingers against his scrotum and back again and his erection returned with a vengeance, feeling even harder, more pressingly urgent than before.

"Oh Mary," he panted, prompting her ministrations to come to a crushing halt.

"Did you just call me 'Mary'?" she cried indignantly.

"Mary, as in Mary Mother of God," he specified breathlessly, longing for the continuation of her caresses.

She didn't go on, however, but shouted, "Oh God!"

His eyes flew open. "What! What?"

"Condoms! I forgot! Oh shit! Shit, shit, shit!"

"Calm down, Granger –"

She didn't let him finish though, but kept on panicking, hectically cleaning her thighs by courtesy of his shirt and ranting on how she _could_ have forgotten, _she_, who always kept on lecturing her friends and _oh Lord_, what if something had happened –

He snatched her wrist with one hand and snapped the fingers of his free hand before her face. "Hey! _Hey!_ Listen to me! _Nothing_ happened! Nothing _could_ have happened! In the past thousand years, not a single Malfoy ever impregnated any woman accidentally. It's _impossible_, you see? You _see_?"

Her frenzy toned down to a milder, still disbelieving agitation. "What?"

"There's a curse on the family. To lift it, it takes rather elaborate magic in order to allow anything like pregnancy happening. Okay? Don't panic. It's okay."

She shook her head. "No! It isn't! I hardly know you, I can't be having sex with you without a condom!"

Excellent point, he'd give her that. He actually admired her presence of mind; even in the proverbial heat of the moment, little Miss Gryffindor still remembered the _essentials_, despite the fact that she must have drunken seven or eight glasses of wine, not to mention the beer in the pub. Draco had never understood, nor sympathised with the habits of some of his Quidditch pals – making girls so drunk until they'd surrender to pretty much anything. And this wasn't just a question of common decency – it was a question of self-respect, of vanity even. He wanted her to want him, consciously, willingly _want_ him. And that was just the thing, wasn't it? She was completely drunk.

"And you're not going to. Hang on." He gave her a rueful smile, pecked a kiss on her lips and murmured, "Excuse me for a second, will you?"

He rolled around and groped for his robes on the floor to search for his wand; finding it, he flicked it and muttered a charm to transform one of his socks into the required article. She curiously watched him, and he could tell that she tried to avoid looking at his stiff, red penis. He was partly amused, partly bemused by this. Having used the time to brace himself, he put the condom on the bedside table before turning back to her.

"Granger?"

"Hm?"

"Let me assure you beforehand that I would _love_ to sleep with you. Seriously. A blind man could see how very, _very_ much I'd love to do that. But –"

A suspicious sparkle shone in her dark brown eyes. "_But?_" she asked sharply.

"I mustn't."

"Wh-"

He put a finger on her lips to silence her and went on, "Tomorrow morning, you're going to wake up and find yourself in bed with me which, I'd bet my life on it, is going to be a terrible shock, and you will blame it on the wine, but ultimately, you'll blame it on me. And rightfully so. I –"

She pushed his hand away and sat up, snarling, "No need for excuses, Malfoy. You just sobered up earlier than I and realised who you were just about to shag, eh? That's alright."

Now it was his turn to "What?"

"No problem. Honestly." She got up and started summoning her clothes. "I'm the idiot here, you see. I'd actually managed to convince myself that you'd become a different person."

"What the hell –"

"Spare your breath."

She stepped into her knickers, turning her back to him, but he could discern the furious trembling in her voice and he didn't quite understand what he had done to make her so angry. He'd only tried to do the right thing, hadn't he?

"Granger, I –"

"_Shut up!_"

He got up to and reached out for her shoulder to make her turn around to him, but she slapped his hand away. Her eyes glistened with ire and she shouted at him, "Take your dirty hands off me or I'll curse them off for you!"

He was perplexed, but he didn't have enough blood in his head for much rational thought, and certainly, he would not be yelled at only for wanting to be a nice guy! "Hey! Are you crazy?"

"Clearly! Or how else would I have manoeuvred myself into _this_ mess?"

"I haven't got the foggiest what you're even talking about!"

She was close to exploding and he could almost see her inwardly counting to ten before she answered, "You 'mustn't' sleep with a mudblood, Malfoy, _that's_ what I'm talking about, that's what _you_ are talking about, if in ever so much more euphemistic words –"

He was staring at her, aghast. "No," he managed to utter hoarsely, and after clearing his throat, she'd already put on her bra again. "No," he repeated, louder and firmly, "no, you've got that wrong."

"Oh, have I?" Sarcasm wasn't her strong suit, or maybe it were the tears of fury in her eyes that belied it. He could have slapped himself.

"Granger, listen to me for just one second, okay? Please! _Please!_"

Arms akimbo, she mastered a parody of patience. Feigned patience would have to suffice, Draco thought desperately.

"You have _no idea_ what I'm talking about, Granger, and I don't mean that in any confrontative fashion! It's just that you mistook me utterly and _completely_. All I meant, and please hear me out, all I meant was that I should not make a pass at you after feeding you half a barrel of alcohol first, okay? That is _all_! I'd love to make love to you and why on _earth_ I should care about your parents being muggles in this context is beyond me. I know I've got a crappy track record in that respect, and you're absolutely justified to doubt me, but I want you to know that on this single charge, I am not guilty."

She was silent, staring at him and her feet alternately. He dared to take a step closer towards her and tentatively reach out his hand. "I'm just trying to be _less_ of an asshole, you know? I don't want you to wake up tomorrow hating me."

"So you admit to being an asshole to begin with," she gnarled, but there was a hint of playfulness amidst her righteous indignation that let him pluck up hope.

"Yes, well, you can paint the horse but that doesn't turn it into a zebra, right?"

She sniggered despite herself. "Anyway, I ought to go."

"Rubbish. Honestly, Granger, _rubbish_. You stay right where you are, and I'll treat you to the best breakfast our cook's got to offer in the morning."

"You don't think you can pacify me by exploiting the poor house-elves, do you?"

Yes, yes, definitely a broad ray of playfulness shining through the thunder clouds there!

"I recognise that tree, Granger. Been there, discussed that. Here's a suggestion – right after breakfasting with me, you'll go down to the kitchen and have a good long talk with the whole lot of them and see for yourself how pitiful they really are. But I should warn you – they're very sensitive, and if you affront them, you'll be served black pudding and haggis the next twenty times you're here!"

"I'll come back to that offer another time, Malfoy. Look, I cannot sleep here. You may have saved yourself from blame, but if I wake up here, like this, tomorrow morning, I'll definitely hate myself."

"But why?" He stepped closer and snatched up her hand, overcoming her reluctance by squeezing it tightly. "Because you almost got the enemy laid? Really, Granger, how very biased of you."

"Hey! Who got laid by whom here, eh?"

He closed in on her, grinning, and took her other hand as well. This time, she let him without restraint. "Technically? No one! But I see you point, you want to portion the blame, do you... Let's see... The way I see it, you seduced me by looking so very tempting..."

"Oh, will you cut it out!" she cried, but giggled, and allowed him another – last – step towards her. Not letting go off her hands, he put his arms around her waist and pecked a little kiss on the side of her head, and then he managed to stir her back to the bed while covering her face with more little kisses. She protested, but not very convincingly, and when he found her lips at last, her knees, pressing against the bed, were already giving in and so was she, because she kissed him back.

He was kneeling over her and his erection was back, too, making her laugh. "Speaking of recognising a tree," she whispered.

Under different circumstances, there'd have been a whole lot of jibes on the tip of his tongue, about the lovely compliment and whether he got her permission to quote her. His tongue, however, was otherwise employed and so was his mind. He faintly chided himself for making the same mistake twice, but in that very second, her hand glided between them and she began rubbing his cock, and when a couple of minutes later she started to suck him, it'd have taken the superhuman strength of Saint Anthony of the Deserts to resist her.

She was incredible, which he kept on telling her whenever he had enough breath to do so, and he paid her back in coin as soon as he got the chance. When they were finished after all she was lying in his arms, scarcely capable to speak, but murmuring still, "How did you do that?"

"What?" he asked back, almost equally spent.

"The – the – the…" Instead of fishing for a proper phrase, she simply took his hand and put it between her legs. "The way you – you touch me there, and – and – it's really – I mean –"

He angled for her clitoris and gently stroked it, making her hiss. "You mean that?"

"God, yes –"

He didn't know what to say, so he just continued stroking her, once more wondering how it was possible that this girl had been together with her boyfriend for – god knew how long, really, but it must be some years – to the point of agreeing to _marry_ the dimwit, and yet she seemed so genuinely surprised if one caressed her most obvious erogenous parts. He was on the verge of actually asking her exactly that, but found it strangely tactless. Personally, he had never thought much about any of this. And yes, naturally, upon his first attempt with Pansy back then, he had been perfectly clueless as well. He had been _so_ clueless in fact that he had hardly known _what_ to do, and this included the most crucial bits. But since then, he had shaped up and learnt a lot, and literally 'in passing'. It wasn't exactly difficult to locate the spots that girls liked being touched at; one merely needed to pay the tiniest bit of attention and remember which touch elicited the biggest responses, that was all, basically trial and error!

She purred with delight, pressing her sweat-covered body against his, reminding him of something, and he archly said, "This, my dear, is your clitoris. Just say it. I'm sure you've heard of it before and have a most intimate relationship with the little darling –"

"I wish," she sighed and spread her legs some more to give him better access.

"I am _shocked_ to hear you say that! Scandalised, indeed! Allow me to pay it all due respects." He began to roll the small nub between his thumb and forefinger until her breathing became so flat and excited that she sounded like suffocating. "As you've surely noticed," he continued in the manner of a lecturing teacher, "it is a spot most responsive of rubbing –" (he rubbed) "– of pushing –" (he pushed) "– of rolling –" (he rolled) "– or pinching –" (he softly pinched) "but the liveliest reactions are usually prompted by oral stimulation."

He crawled down, spread her legs further still and flicked his tongue against her clit until she whimpered again, her fingers pulling his hair. "Quod erat demonstrandum," he said at last, utterly pleased with himself and grinning broadly. "Another very happy object for devoted care is _here_ –" He inserted a finger into her. "The terminology has not been fixed terminally; personally I call it pussy, but especially women sometimes object to this name, and prefer, medically – 'vagina' – or more inhibited, 'jewel case' –"

"What?"

"Yes, I know, it's a little odd – but not unheard of. How do _you _call it, yourself?"

"Uh – I call it – nothing," she gasped, "actually – I don't – it's not really – come up…"

"What a shame!" He inserted a second finger, and went back to licking her. Before long, they were at it again – and again; licking and sucking and prodding and probing each other from orgasm to climax and back to orgasm again, they managed to pleasure each other all through the night without having sex in that one, very technical, anyway common, sense of the term, although one could argue that they did not much else that night but have sex, which was a point of contention they very amicably discussed between two rounds just before daybreak.

Golden sunlight was flooding the room already when she finally erupted under his tongue and nimble fingers one last time, her voice rasping and hoarse from all the moaning and groaning and screeches of delight as he greedily lapped up her juices and licked his way back up to her face with just the tiniest detour for some more sucking of her provocative little nipples which were hard as stone and super-sensitive after hours and hours of his most diligent ministrations and which would have been enough to turn him on again instantly if he hadn't felt like collapsing with exhaustion.

She had curled up in his arms, her cheek on his chest and her hair, yet more unruly than anyway, after six hours of pretty ecstatic call-it-what-you-will-ing, tickled his chin. Perhaps he would have been intrigued by that trusting gesture, hadn't he been so pleasurably exhausted as well, but as things were, he wrapped his arms around her, used his last bit of strength to pull up the blankets and kiss the top of her head before falling comatosely asleep.

* * *

_Quod_… That which was to have been demonstrated.

_The civility which money will purchase_… Quote by Charles Dickens

* * *

**Author's note (and explanation): **I know, I know. Some of you just HATE this pairing. But honestly, what chance did I have? When I began writing this story, OotP had just been published, and I was 100% convinced that Lucius was going to die before the end of book 7. This entire story was conceived on the basis of this premise - hence the title and all that. Well, he did not die, as we all know, and in order to bring the story to its ending, I had to invent a way to make him die, which inevitably meant inventing a whole new story-line. It also meant that Draco, time-wise, wasn't going to be a war-traumatised late teenager who'd have different things on his mind than sex, relationships and what else. Now I do have that thing of being very much against pairing off central characters with characters nobody ever heard of in canon (can I say that I HATE this entire Astoria Greengrass business? Who is SHE, eh?). My choices for finding him a girl in canon were limited. No way I'd have him end up with Pansy, and while I was playing with the idea of getting him together with Millicent, I did find out in the course of time that I had other plans for her. Ginny is Harry's girl and Luna - in my eyes anyway! - Neville's, so I focused on Hermione, who - again, speaking only from my personal point of view - was stuck in a bit of a disaster with her 'authorised' partner Ron anyhow. I could never ever stomach that pairing (and no, I was never involved in any shipping wars, I just thought they didn't suit each other one bit for various reasons). So Hermione it is. I am REALLY sorry (I mean it!) that some of you loathe this so much. My only advise would be (and I don't enjoy saying this): stop reading right here. I'll miss you, but I cannot make you happy :( Anyway, thank you for sticking with me for so long, cheers and all the best, ccc


	185. Persuasion

**Author's note: **Thanks a lot for your feedback (you know who you are ;) ), and this time another warning of a different sort: half of the following chapter is definitely rated M. In other words: it's pure unadulterated porn. I could say that it actually serves a purpose (which is true!), but to make it short: if you're sensitive to this kind of thing, stop reading after the first half.

* * *

Awkwardness was bound to ensue.

* * *

– **4.58.** –

Persuasion

* * *

_To associate with other like-minded people in small, purposeful groups is for the great majority of men and women a source of profound psychological satisfaction. Exclusiveness will add to the pleasure of being several, but at one; and secrecy will intensify it almost to ecstasy._

_ALDOUS HUXLEY – Beyond the Mexique Bay_

* * *

He had no idea what time it was when he opened his eyes again, and for a few seconds, he was also thoroughly puzzled _where_ he was, and what was tickling his nose there. Then came the first few memories and with them a shock of gigantic proportions; he squeezed his eyes shut like a small boy believing the monsters under his bed would disappear if only he shut his eyes tightly enough. And then... Then, a broad smile spread on his face, as the awkward memories became more detailed; he didn't merely recollect who it was that he was sharing a bed with, no – instead, he enjoyed some very vivid memories of how they had spent the previous night, and _good lord_, it had been such a perfect thrill. Who'd have figured?

Granger didn't seem to have moved an inch. Her legs entwined with his, her cheek on his chest, and one of her hands just inches above his private parts – well, they certainly no longer were private to _her_ now… He sniggered under his breath and tightened his embrace on her. _Who'd have figured!_ Who'd have figured that the two of them – of all people! – would ever end up like _this_? Who'd have figured that Granger of all people was such a wildcat? Weasley must have starved the poor woman. Or her desire for revenge was even bigger than he'd figured.

He would have fallen asleep again, when it hit him. Oh _shit_ – he had to get up and see after his mother! What time was it? Blast it! How _could_ he have forgotten! Very carefully, he tried to disentangle their limbs and let the sleeping girl glide off his body without waking her up. She did though, blinking in utter confusion, and giving a start when recognising the face before her.

"Shhh…" He made in his most soothing voice and put one finger onto her lips. "It's okay. You go back to sleep, I'll be back in half an hour."

"What?" she murmured, visibly trying to appear in control, but much too drowsy.

"I've got to go up and see how my mum's doing. You sleep some more, and I'll get you a fabulous breakfast when I come back."

"Come back…?"

He slipped out of bed, in the wardrobe mirror he could see her startled expression with his complete nakedness, and he turned back to her, amused by her vain attempt to somehow pretend that she wasn't directly looking at his penis. He knelt down on the bed and bowed down, putting a little kiss on her forehead. "Indeed, _come back_. Unless, of course, you don't want me to, and rather want to sneak out of the house unnoticed yourself."

She looked caught, as if that had been her thoughts precisely. "Urm… _No_, course not… I just – I – breakfast sounds _fantastic_, I…"

"Good. See you in half an hour then."

After getting dressed, he rushed up to his mother's room, and had to admit that he was far more awkward than he let on. Yesterday, all this had seemed simple enough, and _Merlin_, it had been worth it. But _now_, he'd have to face his father for a start, and he was strangely afraid of it. Did he have the last night's events written all over his forehead? Would his father guess? Would he throw a tantrum? Worse – would he be so put out, possibly, that he'd for once leave his wife's side and hover down to chase the poor girl out of the house? Draco stopped short. Oh god, in _this_ respect there wasn't much he'd put past his father, dead or not.

"You are late!" the ghost shot at him when Draco quietly entered the room.

"Yeah… 'Twas a long night, I reckon…"

"And more important than your _mother_?"

"I'm sorry, Dad! I just forgot to set an alarm clock – or ask the elves to wake me up…"

"Your mother has been sitting next to your bed through every single childhood disease, for _days and weeks_, and _this_ is how you repay her?"

"I said I'm sorry, Dad, and I _am_," Draco muttered helplessly. His father's attempt to guilt-trip him didn't miss its target; he suddenly felt like shit, the worst son ever, somebody so ruthless and unfeeling that he would actually spend a night of sexual pleasure while his dying mother was lying in a coma next door. Well, not exactly 'next door', but that was merely due to the house's vastness...

Narcissa Malfoy was as 'fine' as she could be in her state; Draco checked at once and tenderly stroke over his mother's hand. But Lucius wasn't soothed so easily; he kept on glaring at his son in utmost indignation. "Speaking of the elves – Elsy told me you weren't in your room this morning," he snarled, lurking.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and hoped he'd somehow get through this without a major drama. But whom was he kidding here? The time had come to own up, and he should consider himself lucky that his dad couldn't hex him. He sighed deeply and shut his eyes, waiting for the thunder storm to come. "That's right. I – I didn't spend the night in my room. I – had a – erm… A visitor, and we – used – another room…"

"A visitor! So that's how you call it? With your mother in a coma next door?"

Draco's heart sank. His father was just too right, wasn't he, how dare he amuse himself with a girl while his beloved mum... "I'm so sorry, Dad, I... Look, I didn't really want to go out in the first place, but you – you said it was all right, and then – then..."

He forced himself to look at his father, but to his greatest astonishment, he found this one smirking now. "Boy, you want to be _glad_ that I'm not like your grandfather. But Draco – don't neglect your duties to your mother for the sake of some –"

"Dad," he groaned. "Don't – I didn't – you… Look, I promise this won't happen again, okay? Let's just – not talk about this right now. I don't… I don't know what else to say."

"The chick's still there?"

He hesitated, but nodded at last. "Yes… And I promised her a breakfast, so…"

"Oh, so it's someone you care for, then? Do I know her?"

"Dad, _please_! I'm still slightly hung-over, and – you don't seriously think I only offer breakfast to the future Mrs Malfoy?"

The white face turned from amusement back to anger in a split second. "_This_ is Mrs Malfoy, Draco! And she'll be for a very long time still!"

"I didn't mean – you _know_ I didn't mean to say _anything_ about Mum!"

Lucius' anger dissipated as quickly as it had come; he returned to gaze mournfully at the motionless figure on the bed. Draco checked her pulse, washed her face, throat and hands, and urged the strengthening potion down her throat next. He knew as well as his father, he thought, or better perhaps, that Narcissa Malfoy wasn't going be the present Mrs Malfoy for much longer, and this wasn't because her son had the remotest plans of finding himself a wife. They had tried everything, and her condition was getting weaker each day still.

He felt guilty for having indulged himself like this – with his mum fading away here and his father desperately trying to make himself believe that they weren't going to lose her eventually. He tried to make up by taking extra-care, but –

"It's okay, Draco… There's nothing else you can do." He shot his father a disbelieving glance, but Lucius was earnest. "Go… It'll be all right. You've got a guest, haven't you, and I… I'll look after her."

"You don't mean that."

"I do. This is _good_, Draco. It was really about time that you – well, that you started to resume your life –"

"Dad, please, I –"

"I'm serious! And I'm sorry that I was so rough on you. You've been sitting in this room staring holes into the walls long enough, and you're doing no one a favour with it, not your mother, nor me, nor – least! – yourself. Go back and take care of your guest, and take as long as you please. Elsy and I can manage on our own for a bit."

"But –"

Lucius stopped him with a gesture of his hand, and smiled at him. "Go, Draco. We Malfoys aren't known to neglect our guests, I believe."

In fact, neither of them were known for being hospitable either, Draco thought but wisely kept his mouth shut. Especially his mother, who had despised every single girl he'd ever brought home, would surely hate the idea of a stranger in her house. Alas, it was much too late for such consideration, and incredulous, but far from disobeying his father, Draco slipped out and rushed down to the kitchen, ordering a huge breakfast tray, but insisted on taking it up himself. The house-elves gave him an odd look, but he didn't feel like justifying, and simply marched upstairs again. Curiously, his awkwardness wasn't getting better, but quite the opposite. Facing his father was one thing… And no easy job, come to that. But facing Granger now… Oh-oh… He couldn't wrap his mind around this. How _could_ this have happened? Did he regret it? Did she? Would there be awkwardness? _Of course_ there would! What sort of question was this! He wouldn't have _believed_ that he had spent a whole night, until way after sunrise, with _Granger_ of all girls… Merlin!

He caught himself grinning broadly with some of the last night's recollections. What did people say about still waters running deep? Well, Granger obviously was one of those still waters! All that wanton frenzy, wasted on _Weasel King_ for so many years… He had always thought she had been throwing herself away – little had he known how right he was in _every_ respect there…

Before his anxiety could get the better of him again, he had already entered the room, finding Granger half-way dressed and shooting him a very embarrassed look while she was angling for her sandal under the bed. Curiously, this put him in a slightly better position than he had expected, so he could joke, "What _are_ you doing there?"

She blushed so badly, she literally shone like the sun. "I – uh – getting dressed…?"

"Tut tut. Bad, bad girl. Take that bra off at once." He laughed brightly at her stumped expression. "Take it easy, Granger! Here's tea, coffee, orange juice, mango juice, toast, an assortment of jams, porridge, yoghurt, and my favourite part – loads of fruits."

"Why's that your favourite part?" she asked suspiciously.

He made a mock innocent face. "Why, I thought I could feed you with strawberries and grapes, or pick them out of your navel with my tongue!"

She stared at him, and one needn't be a Legillimens to read her mind in this second. Eventually, she got that he was only joshing her, and relaxed, if only the slightest bit. He poured her some coffee and ushered her to sit down again, and clearly confused, she did, still only wearing her underwear and one sandal. She registered the same, and muttered, "That's not fair. You got to get dressed again, too…"

"Oh! But that's easily solved, Granger. I'll just make another strip for you, shall I?"

In response, she sprayed her coffee over the no longer pristine sheets. He did take off his robes, but didn't proceed with trousers and shirt – that would have overtaxed the unfortunate girl too much – and they managed to pretend they were simply having breakfast, as if nothing had happened, or as if Granger was sitting there in more than her underwear. Yet – Draco felt more roguish than could be good for him.

"Tell me one thing, Granger, will you?"

"I'd say that depends."

"Okay… Tell me – how is it possible that you are so easygoing – nay, adventurous, insatiable really, in bed – and the rest of the time you pretend butter wouldn't melt in your mouth?"

More coffee on the sheets, more scarlet on her cheeks, and she coughed, "I choose not to answer this insolence!"

"Insolence? Dear, I was trying to pay you a compliment there. Not for my life I had fathomed just _how_ marvellous you could be. It's – a true revelation, and what a pleasurable one to boot!"

She bit her lips, but didn't look as put out as he had anticipated. Instead, she turned towards him, lowered her gaze and stared at her cup, and muttered, "Are you… You're taking the piss –"

"No, I am not! Absolutely not!" he replied pretty earnestly. "You were – just amazing, just – _wow_. I don't have better words for it. I was – well, _surprised_, naturally, but not only _surprised_, I –" He made a gesture to suggest utter speechlessness, and smiled seeing the effect these words had on her. For some reason, she relaxed.

"Thank you," she whispered and smiled faintly, too.

"You're welcome! Anytime! Right now all over if you're in the mood!"

She threw a cushion at him for an answer and knocked over Draco's own cup of coffee. Scalding hot liquid ran over his lap and he jumped, and so did she. "Oh gosh! I'm so sorry – _oh!_ I – where's my wand – I can –"

It wasn't lewdness in this moment making him jerk off his trousers, though Granger imputed it on him before seeing the red marks the hot coffee had made on his thighs. She apologised a sound dozen times, until finding her wand at last and telling him to hold still. She cautiously touched the sore skin, and after a few more strokes, his thighs were as pristinely pale as they had been before, and the pain stopped immediately, too. Granger immediately looked the other way again, and very pointedly so, making Draco laugh and shake his head.

"Why don't you just _relax_, Granger? This isn't anything you hadn't seen before, and _sans_ shorts, too."

She groaned. "How long are you going to harp on about this, Malfoy?"

"Actually, I haven't thought about this. As long as you keep on blushing so sweetly, I guess."

"Forever, then? I don't know about 'sweetly', though."

"What are you so embarrassed about?"

"Why aren't _you_ embarrassed at all?"

Well, he _had_ been embarrassed. But compared to Granger, he felt almost mundane, and said most casually, "Granger, we're two adults. We've been having fun – well, at least I had. The way I understood it, you are perfectly free to do whatever you please, right? So am I. And to be very candid with you – it's been quite a while since I last had anything that'd deserve the term 'a good time', and I _did_ have an _excellent_ time last night. I fail to see why I'm supposed to be _embarrassed_ about this."

"You didn't look that self-confident when you went up to see your parents!"

He shrugged, and decided to be honest with her. "I… I was afraid that… If my father –" He saw her face turning livid, but gestured at her to let him speak out. "I was afraid he'd come down here and turn you out of the house. _That_ would have been utterly humiliating for the both of us, don't you think?"

"Daddy dearest finding out?" She jeered angrily, but he shook his head.

"Daddy dearest coming down here and make a huge scene and drive you out, after I had just promised you to treat you to a nice breakfast, after I – after I had such a good time with you. I'd have dropped dead with shame."

The angry expression vanished; she merely gazed at him, and accepted that he went back to sit beside her, wearing only his boxers and the button-down shirt. After a while, she said flatly, "Why did you do that?"

"I think it's utterly bad style to have a guest and not treat them to the best breakfast the kitchen's got to offer."

"I mean last night."

He chuckled. "_Why?_ Good grief, woman! Like I already said – I've had the most miserable time lately! And yesterday – I don't even remember when I last felt so easygoing with someone – and I don't even mean the naughty bits now – but you are very sexy, and – excuse my bluntness, but I was just smitten with you!"

Once more, her cheeks coloured, but she smiled. "You forgot I'm muggleborn, all of a sudden?"

"Come on Granger, I thought we'd already covered that bit. I could not care less whether you're muggleborn or not!"

"Ph! _Men! _As soon as spotting a bit of skirt, they discard all their major principles!" she cried jocundly, and added, "Do purebloods do it better then?"

He made a thoughtful face. "Let me see… Nope, I believe I can say with total confidence that they totally don't. What about the male part of the species?"

"I couldn't say. No point of reference. I've only slept with purebloods so far."

He laughed and nudged her. "How very biased of you!"

"And this coming from you of all people! Your photo should be in the Encyclopaedia Britannica underneath that term!"

"Ah, bah. Here, have a strawberry, so you stop making such unjust accusations!" He shoved a strawberry into her mouth, and delightedly watched her eating it. She _was_ sexy in her own way, even now, that they were both sober, and awkward, and she was wearing that unbelievable bra again. He still tried sorting out his thoughts on that head – what it was that made her, _Granger_, so curiously appealing for him all of a sudden – when he was startled, realising that he was getting pretty randy again.

She seemed rather preoccupied, nibbling on another strawberry, utterly oblivious what an effect this had on him. He picked up a handful of grapes and bent forwards, towards her. She shrank back, staring at him for a second and lowering her gaze then, bashfully.

"Come, Granger… Let me feed you."

"I'm too old for feeding, Malfoy!"

"I disagree. You've got exactly the right age to be fed with grapes… And berries… And anything else that makes your mouth look like this."

She sniggered despite herself, he could tell. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"Oh, yeah." He bent towards her a little more, hesitating just long enough to see that she didn't withdraw, and placed a little kiss on her shoulder. She protested, but still did nothing else, so he closed in and kissed her lips, that tasted of strawberries.

"We can't do that," she groaned in between two kisses.

"I beg your pardon, but we did, and we can."

"But –"

"Tell me that you didn't enjoy yourself, Granger, and I'll leave you alone immediately."

She meekly shook her head. "That's not the point!"

"That is _precisely_ the point. Just remembering last night makes me lust for a re-enactment, in fact for some more than a simple re-enactment, and since I certainly got the impression that you seemed fairly pleased, too…" He let his hand glide up her side – her décolleté – the side of her throat until his fingers cupped the small of her neck and his thumb rested gently, caressingly on her jaw line. "I told you, didn't I, how much I'd crave to sleep with you as soon as you're no longer drunk and in control of your wits again..."

"I am," she said, trying to keep her voice firm but faltering on the edges. "And my wits are telling me – nay, _urging_ me to get out of here at once!"

"That's a real pity – a tragedy – disaster," he declared with mock solemnity. "You mustn't leave me like this, fair maiden!"

She chuckled and shook her head. "You're _impossible_!"

"Yeah, and a little desperate, too –"

"I can tell, yeah," she taunted him with arched brows. "In fact, you remind me of my cousin on his last birthday party when he tried hitting on _every_ girl because he was just _so_ desperate."

"Your _cousin_ tried getting off with you?"

"Don't play scandalised, Malfoy. I thought among purebloods, that's pretty much inevitable."

"Doesn't make it any less disgusting! So – did he succeed?"

"Who? Dylan? God, no!"

"Because he's your cousin –"

"Yeah, that, and because I was with Ron, and –"

"But you no longer are," he stated archly.

"Doesn't follow Dylan's chances were getting any better."

"I wasn't thinking of the poor fellow. _I_ on the other hand..."

"You what?"

"I'm neither related to you, nor am I that desperate to try hitting on any girl I chance to meet."

She snorted, laughing. "Aren't you? I had the impression you would have tried it on with _any_ girl last night!"

"You think that because I was drunk. However, I am completely sober by now, and so are you, so –"

"Sober enough to tell you that you can spare your breath for the hot coffee."

"So you only seduced me because you were _drunk_? Ouch, that hurts!"

"I? Seduced _you?_ Get off it!"

During this little exchange, that didn't sound very promising in itself, Draco hadn't moved an inch and neither had the girl, who might profess her desire to be left alone very verbosely, but who hadn't in fact disentangled from his hands either. Well, perhaps she simply enjoyed to have her vanity flattered some more by his come-ons, but Draco wasn't one to give up so easily. He'd been serious. In this moment, he didn't have much else on his mind than his genuine desire to sleep with her. If it was possible, he craved this even more than last night. Dishevelled as she was there, her bushy hair a beehive, her eyes bloodshot from the lack of sleep, and once more dressed in that ridiculous set of unmatched underwear, that hideous monster of a grandmother's bra and the little green cotton knickers with their small blue flowers print, the forlorn sandal on her left foot – he was convinced to have rarely seen anyone more enticing. She smelled almost like she always did, a blend of apple shampoo and a French shower, but this was mixing with the distinct, sensual odour of sex, and as she was returning his looks boldly, challengingly even, he couldn't dispel the recollections of that clever little face contorted by pleasure. He _wanted_ her. He wanted to be inside her and see her face, he wanted her to look straight into his eyes when she came...

The sheer idea aroused him endlessly, a fact she must be perfectly aware of because he was sitting so very close to her.

"Yep, you seduced me," he purred in her ear, closing in on her, "in fact, you're doing it again just now..."

"You're stark mad," she whispered but still didn't withdraw. He rubbed his nose against the sensitive skin underneath her ear, inhaling her delicious scent, and enjoyed the fact that this was sending a shiver through her entire body. His lips grazed over her throat, the arch between her neck and her shoulder and back again; a sigh escaped from her lips and that was all the encouragement he'd still needed. He gently nibbled on her earlobe, elicited another sigh, an unconvincing little "We mustn't...", which he chose to ignore, and not much later, he was kneeling above her, supporting himself on his left arm and using the other hand to much advantage on her breasts while kissing her with all his fervour and grinding his hips against her crotch. She'd made no further attempts to resist; in fact she'd given in very willingly now, joining his rhythm, one of her hands cupping his buttock and pressing him even closer, the other hand clasped in his hair.

He rolled around with her until she was on top, originally only wanting to have an easier access to the clasp of her bra in her back, but pleased beyond words when she resumed the grinding movements of their hips, so pleased in fact that he had difficulties focusing on the darned clasp, and increasingly despaired to get the bloody thing open. _She_ had a much more practical approach to a similar problem – she simply ripped his shirt open, making the buttons pop all over the bed, laughing throatily when she bent down to caress his chest and leaving Draco thoroughly enthralled by such an unanticipated proof of passion, while the warm moisture of her lap rubbing against his throbbing member, just divided by some flimsy bits of silk and cotton, drove him out of his mind.

Taking off one's pants usually doesn't pose much of a problem to anyone older than three in full possession of their mental powers. It can be a dilemma of titanic proportions though to any lovers in the heat of the moment, when breathless impatience collides with absentmindedness and the sheer impossibility to disengage for just half a minute from grinding one's body into the opposite one's. As it were, they were both yanking rather helplessly on each others' undies; on Draco's part it was all the more complicated yet because his cock got stuck in the waistband of his boxers. Granger moaned with frustration and proceeded to free him from that silky incarceration and when he felt her fingers grabbing him, he very nearly came in her hand at once.

He bucked up against her with tightly shut eyes, trying to inwardly name the ingredients of Felix Felicis to prevent himself from climaxing just yet, which worked so well indeed that he could spare fifteen seconds to divest her of her knickers as well. For this, he had flipped her to lie on her back again, the sight of her body arching towards him, the stiffness of her nipples, her glistening sex and her half-open mouth almost enough to be his undoing when he luckily thought of the condom still innocuously resting on the bedside table. He quickly put it on, glad that the cool tightness of the latex cooled his feverish desire to a certain degree, but not for long, oh, not at all, because seeing the girl writhing and wriggling underneath him with need was like the most sensual thing he'd ever seen.

Kneeling between her wide-open thighs, he crouched down to kiss her and rub her dripping wet folds with his hand. She moaned, threw her head back and budged up, pushing herself against his fingers, grabbed for his hard-on, half-pulling, half-shoving him where she wanted him. He rubbed himself some more against her entrance, turned on by her ragged breathing and needy little moans, then cupped the back of her head with his left one to make her look at him while pushing himself into her pussy with excruciating slowness, keen to watch even the most diminutive reaction in her screwed-up face. It was worth it; the expression on her features priceless, her anyway big eyes widening with every millimetre he intruded further, her mouth trapped in a silent cry, stifled noises gurgling in her throat, her fingers digging into his hips so hard that he was sure they were bruising. Once his whole length was accommodated inside her, he made a halt, as much for teasing her as for collecting himself, then he beat a similarly slow retreat. When she felt him slipping out of her, she flexed her inner muscles so decidedly (and unexpectedly, too!) that he changed his mind and dealt her a couple of deep, firm pushes, that she answered with some rasping "_Oooohs_" and matching movements of her hips, then he took her by surprise and glided out of her after all. She protested angrily if ever so inarticulately, shoving her hips up to him, and he enjoyed teasing her by pressing his member against her without entering. She went nearly mad under his hands; he'd never seen anything like it, the tension of her body like a bow string on the verge of tearing, the look in her wide eyes somewhere between outrage and begging, the way she sucked on her bottom lip and made these most peculiar little noises that reminded him of brawling baby kittens.

He might have enjoyed his little game some more, but Granger was an opponent to be reckoned with. She pulled him into a tight embrace, then made him roll around until she was on top of him and grinned down wickedly. She grabbed his dick and pulled on it so fiercely that it almost hurt, pumped him a couple of times, then slowly and with relish lowered herself onto it. This time, her eyes were closed, and a deep, longing groan escaped from her lips as she began riding him with ever increasing pace, her unforeseeably muscular insides pulling and tearing on him with every move. Draco could merely lie there and try not to suffocate with glee as he was meeting her frantic pushes halfway, one of his hands cupping her bouncing breast, the other supporting her buttocks, lifting her up and pushing her even further down when she slammed her hips against his. He sucked on his fingers next, shoved them between them and began working on her clit, happily registering the desired result as she climaxed hardly a minute later, her body slackening and sinking into his wide open arms.

"Oh _god_," she panted between two kisses, "God, god, _god!_"

He bedded her in his arms to give her a minute to catch her breath, then turned her around and made her settle on her hands and knees. Once more, he pressed himself against her, then positioned himself and entered her with a single, determined push. She literally screamed out, but met his rhythm, soon biting into a cushion to muffle her sharp yelps of pleasure, thus only egging him on more. He was panting and groaning and cursing under his breath like mad so much he wanted her and his ambitions were only heightened when he felt her spasming on his cock once more, wailing and trashing in her orgasm and he still didn't let her off the hook. He drove into her so hard, so deeply that he feared she must split, but judging by the incredible sounds she uttered, she was having at least as much fun with this as he, and when he realised that he would not be capable to hold it off much longer, he flicked her around one last time in order to see her when he finally came.

"Don't stop," she gasped, her face flushed and her eyes shining as if she were feverish. Oh, he was far from stopping, quite the opposite, and almost frantically pushed back into her. She'd slung her left leg around his hip, enhancing his pushes still, and her pussy sucking him in again, too, but he didn't need much more encouragement anyway. The sweet avalanche of his climax rolled over him not two minutes later and buried him completely; he could not breathe, he could not move, all he could do was pretty much collapsing in her embrace.

He couldn't have said how long they'd been lying there like this, interconnected tightly and unwilling to part. They both tried to catch their breath again, with Draco pressing his face against her shoulder and panting loudly, and Granger greedily inhaling so deeply that her entire body was shaking. He was still sort of semi-stiff, and the movements of her body, combined with the after-spasms of her vaginal muscles, were more than enough to drive out the semi for a full-on despite the fact that he was still on the brink of fainting. Granger felt it too, groaning but opening her legs further and flexing her insides on purpose now. Draco couldn't have done anything if his life had depended on it, so he incredulously witnessed how her pussy began gnawing on him with miniscule but extremely effective moves. Her breathing quickened soon, too, and so did his, and without much further ado, they continued where they'd stopped no more than five minutes ago.

So this was how they spent the afternoon, in-between making good use of that certain spell which Granger had used earlier to remedy his burnt thighs, and it over and over again worked its miracle, or otherwise they'd have been too sore to move, let alone continue shagging. If he'd have had any time to calm down enough to grasp a rational thought, Draco wouldn't have _believed_ it.

Little Miss Prissy was just incredible, just – just – oh, he failed the proper words for the revelation that she was. That thing she did with her muscles was a trick that she ought to teach in university classes, her unprecedented command of the perfect blowjob was sadly missing in the schedule of lectures, too, and while she was working all these wonders with a body that he, until yesterday, had never ever noticed, or if noticed, shrugged off as 'not his type', she didn't once appear to actually know, or rather: think about, what she was doing, or that she rightfully earned a medal, and she still had that air of surprise, which really turned him on, and spurred him to do anything to make her enjoy herself yet more. There was nothing calculated about her or anything she did, all her moves and reactions were genuine and unaffected and so charming in an odd, for Draco uncommon way that he was completely bewitched by her when the late afternoon turned into the early evening. The way she looked at him, her dark eyes wide, sucking on her trembling bottom lip while he moved in and out of her with excruciating slowness, so slow and gentle that he was driving himself insane, and making her utter some low, throaty, gurgling noises that left him worrying that she might suffocate.

He told her how fantastic she was, and she looked as if she didn't have an inkling what the heck he was talking about, and couldn't care a hoot right now either, because her focus was elsewhere. Her kisses were hungry and breathless, and gave him the impression that she thought the same like he – to squeeze out this moment for all that it was worth, because it was unrepeatable. He felt so overwhelmed, and grateful, that he wanted to eat her up. The next best option was to cover her with kisses and seize her as close as he could, entwining their legs and arms and fingers. This had got to be the best shag he had _ever_ experienced. The best fucking shag that any man in the history of the world could ever have had. Sodding Don Juan himself could impossibly have had any better shag, damn it.

Glued to his side, her face on his chest and randomly playing with his navel, she sighed, "Although I am sure I'll never ever be capable of moving ever again, I got to get up soon..."

"You can't!"

"I know! I'll have to levitate myself or something..."

"No, I mean, you mustn't!"

She chuckled. "Actually, I must."

"Unless you're donating a kidney or something, I don't think you can convince me that you _must_. Additionally, I can impossibly let you go."

She laughed a little louder yet. "I'm a big girl and can see myself out, thanks."

"That's not what I'm talking about. I can't allow you to leave this bed, young lady."

"But I'll have to. I'm appointed with my parents."

"Just send them an owl you're coming later. Tonight. Or tomorrow. Or perhaps next week."

She laughed and disentangled their limbs. "You _are_ nuts."

"Isn't there anything I could do or say to persuade you to stay a little longer?"

"Thanks to your _persuasion_, I'm too late already!"

She summoned her clothes with her wand, stepped into her knickers and put on the funny bra again, of which Draco had become especially fond by now. The idea that this boring article concealed such exciting breasts appeared the perfect metaphor for the girl herself. All plain and casual and unapproachable on the outside, only to turn out so amazing once one got inside…

She examined herself in the mirror, found most of the love bites he had given her, and Draco chanced to know the appropriate spell to remove them. In unfamiliar tenderness, he tapped his wand against each one of the little bruises, while massaging her shoulders with his left hand, and covering them with little kisses.

"You cannot just remove one and replace it with another, Malfoy," she protested meekly.

"When can I see you again to give you some new ones instead?"

She twisted her neck to look at him, wide-eyed. "You want to see me again? I mean – like _this_?"

"Trust me, Granger, you are one of those people whose conversation I thoroughly enjoy, but if you make me choose between conversing and shagging, I'm afraid it's a hard one to call."

She struggled with his embrace and turned around to him. "Stop it, Malfoy!"

He grinned. "I was serious, you know?"

She grinned, too, but much more sardonically. "You just wait until all the blood has found its way back into your brains, mister."

"Oh, come on, Granger. Look at it reasonably. Summer's about to begin. You've got ample of time at your hands for a change, your original plans for the holidays were foiled, and you've got some vengeance to do with your former fiancé – "

"Oh, will you get real! Let's assume just for a minute – I mean – much as I'd like to, I could _never_ tell Ron this!"

"Honey, much as _I_ appreciate the idea of mortifying Weasel Bee to the point of giving him a heart attack, you should think a little less vindictively and more self-indulgently. Isn't it enough, really, that _you_ would know about your revenge? While he's screwing some continental Chasers – girls who are at pains to remove their moustache every morning –" She got a giggling fit, and he proceeded, tongue-in-cheek, "You would be screwing his arch nemesis –"

Still sniggering, she exclaimed, "Who needs some more years yet before growing the first fluff on his upper lip!"

"Hey!"

She stroke over his cheek. "You see? Nothing," she said, "not a hint of a stubble –"

"You're purposely deviating from the topic at hand."

"Because this topic doesn't even qualify as a _topic_, Malfoy. You're in a sex-induced delirium."

"Absolutely not. Well, perhaps a little. Which, let's not forget it, is entirely your fault..." He closed in; she retreated step by step, until backing against the wardrobe mirror, and he stroked a strand of hair from her temple. "Listen, Granger. This is – quite perfect, really. No strings attached. You've got an ex to offend, and I… I could really do with some diversion."

She shook her head. "There are plenty of girls who'd volunteer to distract you, Malfoy. You really don't need me for that."

"Thanks for the implied compliment, Granger, I appreciate it." He winked at her. "But you're missing the point here. I – well, I went out with quite a few girls, and… Well, it always went kind of pear-shaped. These things never work out when the two people involved expect different things. You and I, however, are definitely on the same page. I'm not looking for a love story and neither are you."

She stared at him, perplexed, and he bent down to kiss her, but she turned her head away. "I'm… I'm not the right kind of girl for – for that kind of thing…"

"I beg to differ! You're a natural!"

She laughed, but continued, "No – I meant… I'm not the sort of girl having an affair. I –"

"I don't know if you're _that_ sort, but I hadn't pecked you as the type for one-night stands either..." He laced a kiss on her shoulder and she let him. "Come on, Granger – let me see you again. Unless you didn't enjoy yourself – in which case I'd recommend you joining an actor's class, because you're _fantastic_ in pretending…"

She shook her head, shuddering when he kissed his way up to her ear. "You know what it's like. It's – look, I _did_ enjoy myself – I needn't tell you how much. This was – was – well, just unbelievable, wasn't it, but… I'm not like that, normally. And neither are you, as you will remember once your blood rises to your head again. I guess we were _both_ lucky –"

"Oh yes!"

"_Lucky_ that your father didn't walk in here, because I have a feeling that I wouldn't have been the only one he'd have chased out of his house –"

"Rubbish, Granger!"

"You know I'm right. And _my_ friends would simply kill me – that, or never look at me again – if they knew what… Look, I know you can keep a secret. _This_ is our secret. It was – it was the most singularly incredible thing I've ever done, and that's just the thing. _Singular_ is the key term here. Let's just leave it at that."


	186. Hermione Is Appalled

What goes around, comes around.

* * *

– **4.59.** –

Hermione Is Appalled

* * *

_Nemo cum diabolo iocatur impune._

_WALTHER – Proverbia sententiaque_

* * *

Her mum dishes up the soup, and Hermione can tell that she's throwing her daughter a lot of curious glances. "So, sweetheart… Jeffrey tells us that you've been on a date yesterday…?"

"That was no _date_," she gnarls and stares at her soup bowl, angry with herself for taking Malfoy to the one pub her parents regularly frequent. So much for her private life! So she guesses it's time to divert their attention. "You know him, incidentally, under the moniker _Nurse Malfoy_. I told you, his father was killed and his mum was viciously assaulted, too, and has had a nervous breakdown afterwards. I just meant to get him out of the house for a few hours and start socialising again."

It's true, after all! That _was_ her plan! And to a certain extent, she stuck to it, too, before deviating so _grossly_…

"Oh, yes, you said! So how is he?"

Totally _crazy_, is the first thing popping to Hermione's mind, but she deems it wiser not to say that out loud, and instead mutters, "Heads up."

"And what about his poor mother?"

Hermione shrugs. "I've no idea. He starts bristling as soon as she's mentioned. In fact, I don't even know what it is exactly that she's suffering from, only the usual grapevine. But from what I saw, she seems bedridden and his father's ghost stays by her side at all times. I mean it. _All_ times. Which is spooky when you think about it."

Nicky Granger nods sympathetically and a little spooked, too. To her, the sheer existence of ghosts is still on the unbelievable side. The Grangers, of course, have never seen one and have to take their daughters word on it. And speaking of it – of taking their daughter's word at face value – Nicky doesn't seem to quite buy in into Hermione's impromptu remodelling of yesterday's events. She doesn't say anything directly, but instead keeps on asking and asking, and Hermione, keen to avoid the subject altogether, is deeply unsettled by her mum's scrutiny, asking all these questions, grinning increasingly mischievously all the time, and since Hermione is just incapable to fully hide her embarrassment, even her dad joins in the interview session.

"So what did you do all day to be so late?"

"Study…?" 'Male anatomy', crosses her mind and she can feel the heat in her cheeks. She bows over her soup and tries to expel these images in her head. It's not only Malfoy's body that keeps on popping up – as if that wasn't awful enough – but also her own, in the nude, involved in all kinds of – mmhhh – _things_ that she hasn't been _dreaming_ of. _Ever_.

What has she been doing all this time with Ron, eh? If sex can be like _that_ – oh well… Maybe Ron would still be with her if _they_ had – had – mhh – tried some of these things, too… Maybe Ron wouldn't have felt compelled to get off with every fan crossing his path if his girlfriend had been less of a bore… How is it possible that she can get such a reaction out of _Malfoy_ without even _thinking_ about it – when all her attempts with Ron were so lame – and she _tried_, Merlin, she did. She so wanted to please him, but somehow…

Yes, it all went pear-shaped, and she can't say why. She's been in love with Ron for _years_. She couldn't even say how it got started, but it was a long time ago at any rate. Just that somehow, not much ever happened between them, and when they finally, _finally_ got together, the timing was wrong somehow. Not that it would have been better earlier on, with Voldemort on the rise and all that… But when they did become a couple, it wasn't quite the right moment either, she thinks in retrospection. At first she was so anxious because of her parents. Then came the NEWT year with all the stress of getting prepared for the exams, _and_ Ron's incessant jealousy because of Victor. All right, and her own jealousy, too. And when they reconciled, their ways had split already, with him starting to play for the Cannons, and Hermione going to College. They were both busy to no end, but with different things, and both did not really understand the other one's concerns any longer, and were too impatient. All this is true – but it isn't much of an explanation why the sex between them was always so – so… Well, in fairness – she hasn't had the slightest idea anything could be missing there until yesterday.

Last night… God, she can't pretend she hadn't known what Malfoy was up to. She's not stupid, and even if she was a bit tipsy (ok, ok, downright drunk, alright!), she does recognise a guy hitting on her (well, in that case she for once did). How he kept on eyeing her with that kind of smile, the way he talked to her. Yes, she saw through his attitude. And she deliberately stayed; she felt strangely flattered. The triumphal feeling was just too good to go. Ron getting off with all those witches – she was delighted to see that _she_ could get off with someone, too, and not just _anyone_. It's not like she made out with Ernie Macmillan, after all! Malfoy is handsome, she knows for a fact that quite a lot of girls are after him. But what is more – she couldn't possibly affront Ron any more than flirting with Malfoy of all people. Okay, okay. If she got back with Viktor – _that_ might hurt him even more.

But Viktor is out of the question for various reasons. For a start it would confirm all of Ron's former suspects, and she begrudges him this sort of justification. What's more though – she's aware that Viktor has some real feelings for her, and using him to get back on Ron would be so ignoble and dastardly. Of course, she hasn't the least inclination to let Ron – or anybody else – know what happened there last night. She'd just drop dead with shame. But yesterday, she somehow forgot how impotent her revenge was going to be. Or rather… _Her_ revenge plan consisted of a bit of snogging. _That_ she would have been able to admit. Maybe. Just all the other stuff definitely isn't. And _that stuff_ wasn't what she had in mind when realising that Malfoy wasn't averse to a little repetition of their graduation day snogging session.

'That's your punishment,' she thinks. For playing with fire. Really, how could she believe that she was the mistress of the situation? This _was_ Malfoy after all. And distraught as he may be, he's still as glib and canny as he ever was. Jesus, the man has a way with words, hasn't he? And no matter what a smart girl she is herself, in _that_ game she's just no match for someone like him. Unlike her, _he_ knew what he was doing. God, he did, didn't he… Feeling her cheeks redden and her parents observing her, she jumps up and pretends to look for something in the fridge.

"Now at least I understand why she's come over," Ben Granger says to his wife with thinly veiled irony. "She came to raid the fridge. Nothing to eat in College, daughter?"

"Can't I just visit my own parents?" she snaps back without turning around. She knows he's joking, but she's not up for a suitable comeback. She hasn't slept for more than three or four hours, she's physically exhausted beyond words, and the state of her mind is even worse off. Her usual day for visiting her parents is Sunday – tomorrow, that'd be – but since dishing up that little white lie to Malfoy in order to flee from his sphere of influence, she felt compelled to act as if she'd told him the truth. Swiftly wondering if that was such a good idea after all, she comes to think of herself on her own in school right now – alone and without _any_ diversion from the memories haunting her! – and finds this is the smaller evil. _Slightly_ smaller evil.

She somehow manages to get through dinner, and later on watches a movie with her parents. They've borrowed a French movie from the video shop, a really nice one as far as she can tell – because she's so tired and exhausted, she can barely keep her eyes open – loads of romance and pretty pictures of Paris. There's a short comical montage of a whole lot of people making love – well, not like they were having an orgy, but many couples photographed one after the other – and instantly, Hermione feels her face coloring once again. At least this time, her parents aren't looking over.

She's seen herself in each and every of the shown situations this morning! Oh, for goodness' sake! She's not that lewd! She really isn't! She is a prude, as Ron never stopped informing her! As a matter of fact, she was always so self-conscious, she insisted to turn off the lights whenever she got the chance! But Malfoy didn't let her do that, and the way he talked her into that really worked for her in that moment, and… She squeezes her eyes shut, remembering this particular bit. What's she been _thinking_! Well, nothing much. She got lulled in by his gentle, persuasive talking, his supple fingers tracing her body and _somehow_, miraculously, she bought into all the crap he told her, about how 'sexy' she were, how beautiful. She remembers something Susan once told her, how Malfoy made her feel special, 'the most special girl in all the world' or something of that ilk, how sweet he were and how charming – and that he meant nothing by all that, that it was just his way. Hermione tends to concur with the assessment. That's exactly how he made her feel, too. Special. Desirable. Irresistible.

She can only shake her head at herself for being so naïve. She just _isn't_ the type of girl for a one-night-stand with a stranger – oh, if only he _was_ a stranger! But no, the one time _she_ steps out of line, she ends up in bed with her childhood enemy, one of the smuggest, most arrogant, dastardly idiots _ever_, if you think about it. Okay, all right, so he did better himself. On the outside. Well, he had to, right? He may have ridded his vocabulary of certain abuses, and have behaved decently in the last two years – but that hardly makes up for being a prat for the rest of his life! She's been engaged to the number two on the idiot list, and now she got herself laid by the unrivalled number one!

She cannot get it out of her head, and it becomes even worse once she's lying in her bed in her old room. She's been so tired all day, she thought she'd fall asleep at once, but now she doesn't. Instead, her mind is assaulted by all kinds of very vivid flashbacks; visual, audio and else. Just how silky his hair was – what sort of conditioner can make your hair so silky? Seriously! She's got to try out that one, too! And what was that thing he did with his tongue, and – how come he managed to push buttons with her of whose _existence_ she had never known before?

She's never experienced _anything_ like this, and it bugs the hell out of her that it hasn't been Ron to elicit such a response, but damned Draco Malfoy. Surely, it must have been the alcohol. Yes, he made her drunk, that's it! But then she remembers this morning, when she definitely wasn't drunk – intoxicated, inebriated, yes, but unfortunately not with alcohol. She'd been genuinely disappointed – cut to the quick, in fact – when he didn't want to sleep with her last night. She'd felt so ashamed, and rejected, and while she by now believes him that he merely wanted to be a nice guy, he unwittingly jumped on the bandwagon of her old anguish with Ron, of always doubting she was good enough, pretty enough, interesting enough. That, together with the so far unimaginable pleasures he'd given her before that (what that man can do with his tongue, good lord!) had made her yearn for more. Oh! What she's done! And what she's _said_! Oh Lord! The mere memory of all the awful things she's screamed out makes her head glow in the darkness, and despite herself, the heat spreads, and she can feel a pleasantly itching sensation in a lower department of her body. How dare he! How _dare_ he making her do and say these things! She'd like to get worked up and be angry, seriously angry, but instead, all she does is getting turned-on again. _Again?_

She can see her own reflection in the large antique wardrobe mirror once more, sitting on top of Malfoy and riding him, she can hear his groans, her own frantic pants, she sees his hand cupping one of her breasts and playing with her nipple, his half-closed eyes lingering on her bouncing breasts, how he's egging her on, his member pushing into her, his fingers pressing her – that would have been her 'clitoris', she's learnt – how come Ron never found that bloody thing – and she very clearly, much too clearly, remembers how some inner dam burst and she felt like _exploding_, like melting away in the heat… How he would lick and nuzzle her most private parts – parts that not even _she_ has ever seen before – _he_ has had his entire _face_ down there; not that in these moments she had given that as much as a _thought_ because it felt so damned fantastic. The stuff he did to her with his tongue – she thought she was dead and gone to heaven…

Somewhere in those reflections, she does fall asleep, but not even in her dreams, he lets her to her peace; she is haunted by far too many, far too wanton ideas of his swollen member throbbing inside her, making her freak out completely, no matter how hard she struggles to keep her self-control, and in the morning, she's hardly as recuperated as she ought to be; instead her knickers feel damp, and the muscle ache is killing her at last. She's not used to any physical exercise, let alone hours of ecstatic shagging.

At least her parents seem to have forgotten all their jibes of the previous evening; they're sitting at breakfast table together, and leave her alone. Only when her mum offers her yoghurt with fresh strawberries, and Hermione recollects the last morning's use of these products and squeezes her eyes shut – apart from this, her life slowly returns to its usual uneventfulness. For approximately forty-five minutes.

They all hear the marching band, but none of them bothers. Her father says something about a fair; her mother tips it's the Waterstones' silver anniversary. Hermione doesn't even listen, until it becomes unmistakable that the band has stopped before their house and doesn't go away again. It dawns on her that they're not playing muggle music either. This is a hit by the Weird Sisters; Ginny was humming it all the time last summer. '_Baby, can you swish my wand – up to the moon, back, and beyond – let me set your cauldron on fire – you're pent-up with the same desire…_' In the same moment when she recognises the tune, remembers the lyrics, and for the first time notices how improper they are, really – she wouldn't have figured how loose Ginny is! – she suddenly realises that any band playing songs of the Weird Sisters has no business here, let alone make a stop before her parents' front door.

Her parents have gone over to the hallway to have a look, and Hermione hurries to follow them. Her dad has opened the door, and outside there is a band, and not just _any_ band, it's the Weird Sisters themselves, clad in their most eccentric outfits. What'll the neighbours _think_! And what's the _Weird Sisters_, the most famous and popular band in the whole English wizarding world, doing in a muggle street in a muggle suburb in Southern muggle London?

One song's ended, and grinning broadly, Myron Wagtail intones the next one straight away. "_Come on and fly with me, there's room for two on my broom. Come on and jive with me, and come back to my room. Come on and bounce with me, baby, and join my rainbow bubble charms. Come on and dance with me, sugar, let me swing you in my arms. Come on and sing with me, hum along the tune –_"

Her father wakes her from her stumped reverie and shoots her a very odd glance. "Any idea what's _this_ supposed to mean, daughter?"

"I have absolutely no clue," she groans, still hypnotised by the bass player's orange-dotted top hat, and Kirley Duke's pink, fluffy moon boots.

By now, the neighbours have all come out, too, goggling at the strange sight before the Grangers' house. "_Come on and climb with me, sweeting, to the mounts of ecstasy. Come on and dive with me, darling, to the depths of the blue sea…_"

"Maybe they'd like some beverages," Nicky Granger cries brightly and vanishes in her kitchen again, and Hermione stays behind, desperately searching for an excuse to make herself invisible, too. Where's Harry with his cloak when you need him!

Her father turns to her and smirks very suggestively. "Now _what_ exactly were you doing the other day?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Did you take part in some competition and win these blokes?"

She lifts her shoulders and tries to expel a growing suspect. "_Come on and drink with me, let me taste your honey mead. Come on and kink with me, 'cause your kisses are so sweet. Come on, come on, c'mon now honey. Come on, come on, c'mon now sugar…_" Myron Wagtails keeps on crooning, and Hermione forces herself to do _something_ and marches out.

"You mustn't be here," she cries, trying to be louder than the music so that they can hear her, but also trying to be not _too_ loud to keep the neighbours from overhearing. "These are all _muggles_!"

Myron Wagtail doesn't miss a tune for an answer, but the bass player shouts back, "None of our business. This _is_ 27 Seymour Street?" She nods, and he continues, "Well, then we've got the right address."

"Maybe you're in the wrong _town_ though?"

"You're Hermione Granger?"

She nods once more. "I am, but –"

"We were asked to come here and play for you all day long, and should you leave this place, we are to follow you along."

"Follow me? All day? Who asked you that?"

"Sorry, gal, I cannot say."

"Oh _please_!"

"I don't _know_, sweetheart!"

She opens her mouth, but in that moment, Gideon Crumb, the bagpipe player, grabs her arm and starts to dance with her. He winks at her and says between two lines, "A nice suitor you've got yourself there, Miss. Always nice to meet our fans!"

She hasn't got the heart to tell him that she doesn't qualify as a _fan_ – she only _knows_ some of their fans, Ginny foremost, and Ron had all of their stuff, too – _Ron!_ Maybe he wants to make up with her? Beg her to come back to him? Perhaps he's thought that –

"Was your client Ron Weasley?" she asks, breathless and filled up with hope despite hope.

"The Quidditch guy? From the Cannons?"

"Yes! Yes, that's him!"

"Interesting… He likes our music, then?"

"He's your greatest fan!"

"Now that's nice! Should put that in our résumé…"

She tries to ask once more if it was Ron, for reassurance, but Myron Wagtail blares another ear-shattering chorus, and she has to repeat the question three more times before she can elicit as much as a shrug. "I don't know. We got an owl and four thousand galleons to do the gig, that's all I can say."

"Four thousand galleons? Is the boy _crazy_!"

"Hey! We're worth every knut of it!"

"No – I mean yes – it's just – awful much money…"

"He's a Quidditch pro, sweetheart! They're not exactly starving!"

But he's been saving his money to buy that house… The one they meant to move into, once they were married… Now he's spending _four thousand galleons_ on a band… She isn't sure if she's mad at him, or bewitched, or both, possibly. Well, she shouldn't be too angry with him to spend the money they meant to use for their wedding and the house – after throwing the engagement ring into his face – but –

Her mum comes and saves her, urging the band to make a pause and have some drinks. "I think it was Ron ordering them," Hermione tells her quietly, incapable to keep herself from beaming, but her mother isn't likewise enthusiastic.

"_That's_ this man's idea for making up for cheating on you? Engage a fancy band and pretend nothing had happened?"

"He didn't cheat on me, technically –"

"Call it what you will, then!"

"But Mum, he – he – that's just Ron, he… He's a little – _impulsive_, now and then!"

"You say _impulsive_, I say shitheaded!"

"Mum!"

"It's true!"

"You don't know him!"

"And whose fault is that! How often did we invite him to come around with you!"

The band continues to play; Hermione and her mother continue to argue. Mrs Granger reminds her daughter of the countless times when she cried her eyes out because of Ronald Weasley, insists that he'd have to show a bit more than empty gestures of grandeur to reconcile Hermione's parents, admonishes her child to get the boy out of her head once and for all, famous bands or not, and in the end, Hermione storms up into her room, sobbing once again. And still the Weird Sisters are dashing outside.

Four days, three bouquets of white roses and a splendid gift later – oh, and _what_ a lovely, lovely gift – Hermione is finally convinced that it wasn't Ron who's sent her all this. Ginny defied the idea straightaway, saying that Ron was still in Heidelberg (Ginny suggests McLaggen as the generous donor instead), but Hermione had still believed that this might not stop him from having gifts and bands sent to his former fiancée's place. The last owl confirmed Ginny's notion (one of them, anyway) though. Hermione hastily unwrapped the present, finding herself looking into her own face all of a sudden. She was holding a beautifully crafted mirror, with a golden handle and ornate carvings and dark red gems on the back.

'You should take a look at yourself far more often. It's worth it,' the attached card said in a familiar handwriting, and within a split second, Hermione understood it all, and her cheeks flushed once again. What was the wretched boy _thinking_! How could he! Why _would_ he – torment her – like _this_! She so desperately tried to forget – not quite successfully so far, admittedly, but at least she was trying! – and _he_? Keeps on bringing the subject up again? What is _he_ playing at!

She was on the verge of smashing the mirror on the floor, but held back for several reasons. She isn't the temperamental type to begin with – well, not if Ron doesn't annoy the hell out of her. Also, though she prefers to deny it, she is the tiniest bit superstitious, even if she'd never admit to that, and breaking mirrors – oh well. Don't try your luck. Last but not least, the mirror _is_ utterly beautiful. It even has the Gryffindor colours. Was he aware of that when purchasing it? Might that have been his object to begin with?

Oh, what does she _care_ what he meant by it! It's oh so obvious, isn't it? He wants to humiliate her! And damn him, he isn't doing half bad. Hermione has rarely felt more ashamed of herself!

Not only is she bothered by flower bouquets and antique mirrors, her own subconscious doesn't leave her in peace either. There are the pangs of conscience, telling her that this is no one's fault but her own, how _could_ she behave like this! Then there are the various dreams at night, that all involve naked skin, white satin sheets and sensitive body parts. And even at day, she occasionally trails off and catches herself shivering with the memory of certain touches, grey eyes piercing hers, slender fingers groping her, harking through her hair and tracing her curves. She's tried to make the best of it, meaning: imagine _Ron's_ face instead, but it doesn't really work. Ron simply never _did_ any of this. Well, he did sleep with her, but – he didn't... He never made her feel this way. They were _making love_; with Malfoy though, she was having sex, sheer, pure x-rated sex...

This is so unfair! Despite his faults, Ron is a nice, well-meaning boy, while Malfoy, despite her resolutions to be nicer to him, is basically a selfish, arrogant prat. _Ron_ should be the thoughtful, tender lover, and Malfoy should be the one going after nothing but his own release! Swiftly, she wonders if this isn't typical for the whole sex issue – the prats are good at it, because the whole business is good for nothing to begin with – but she can practically _hear_ her parents' snigger in her head. Her parents think Hermione is too inhibited, which is probably true, but still nothing that parents should tell their daughter! It's bad enough that her fiancé kept on blaming her for being so prudish!

Ben and Nicky Granger went to university in the Seventies. To their daughter's amusement and occasional distress, they just never fully _left_ the Seventies, somehow. Nowadays, they may well be respectable dentists with a pretty house in the more affluent suburbs. But they still listen to their Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin records, they still believe the Tories were the modern equivalent to slave owners (an opinion that Hermione shares, but not to the same _extent_); her father still has all these posters in his study opposing the war in Vietnam, and slogans like 'Make Love Not War', and a huge portrait of Che Guevara, while her mum fondly revels in memories of burning her bras, and gets her old guitar out to play Bob Dylan songs. They're basically hippies that somehow missed the Eighties, Nineties, and the turn of the Millennium, too. That their only child went to an 'elitist' boarding school with mandatory uniforms, and blushes when someone on the telly mentions the word 'sex' and was too embarrassed to admit the first time she's been buying condoms – they're still trying to square with all that. Which only embarrasses said child even more.

On Friday night, the _Apollon_ stages their latest production – '_Morgana's Last Will_', and Hermione goes there together with Ginny, Harry and Pavarti Patil. Pavarti's present boyfriend Lester has taken the male lead, but not even his girlfriend thinks the evening is going to be much of a success. "Don't even _ask_ me what it is about. It's a whole lot of wailing and screaming and several people doing themselves in with daggers and swords, and a flagpole on one occasion… I was told that's how art's supposed to be nowadays," Pavarti mutters when they're taking their seats.

"Sounds terrific," Ginny retorts with a wry smile. Well, it turns out that half of what Pavarti announced is true. In the first act, half a dozen people are dying, there is ample of fake blood and even more screaming about. Pavarti's boyfriend Lester is playing the part of Will, the seventh husband of a manic-depressive witch called Morgana, played by no other but Pansy Parkinson – 'story of _her_ life,' Pavarti comments dryly – who recounts her life, which was ruled by every thinkable vice, like murder, incest and keeping her respective husbands under the ban of the Imperius Curse until she forces them to kill themselves. Hermione thinks she cannot take it much longer when they're finally relieved by the curtain for the pause.

"I told you," Pavarti sighs. "Don't you say I hadn't warned you."

"Well, it _is_ art, I suppose…"

"It _is_ the most incredible _crap_, if you ask _me_," Harry says under his breath, reaping a nudge from Ginny.

"Well, _I'd_ say it is an avant-garde take on modern pureblood society and war itself," a familiar voice behind them says, and Hermione's heart misses several beats. Oh _no_! What's _he_ doing here?

"You would know all about _that_, Malfoy, wouldn't you," Ginny groans and turns around to shoot him a put-out look. Well, that everyone's looking over to Malfoy gives Hermione a moment to try mastering her deadly embarrassment. If only they keep on staring at him for the next half an hour, perhaps she can prevail!

"Indeed, Weasley. But what are you even doing here if you dislike it so much?"

"What are _you_ doing here – I thought you were keeping some mourning period or something?" Ginny snaps back, and this time, _she_ is nudged by Harry and Hermione simultaneously.

"Stop it, Ginny," Harry hisses. "That's not for joking!"

Malfoy has merely cocked a brow and glares at Ginny before turning to Pavarti and Hermione and giving them a little smile. "To answer the question – I was told lately that I ought to start going out again –" Hermione feels like fainting. – "I thought a night at the theatre might be just the proper thing. Though I must say, as much as I acknowledge the author's commitment to the refurbishment of recent history, I don't think this is _quite_ the right thing for me."

Ginny just sneers. "Too bitter to recognise yourself on stage?"

"Too much blood. I've seen far too much of that," Malfoy replies coldly.

Hermione feels exceedingly uncomfortable with pretty much everything about this little encounter. Not only that she wouldn't put it past either of the two to start hexing each other before long (Ginny isn't exactly patient) – the sheer presence of Malfoy makes her queasy, and she quickly excuses herself to get some drinks. She's got to join the queue at the bar, and gazing over her shoulder, she sees Harry whispering into Ginny's ear in a very urgent manner, while Pavarti talks slightly more easy-going with Malfoy and Blaise Zabini. Good heaven's – Hermione hasn't even noticed him before – and he's a tough one to miss, ol' Pretty Boy! But what's far worse – Malfoy is coming towards the bar, too, meeting her gaze with a grin.

"Good evening to you, Granger," he says when he's caught up with her. "I don't think I had a chance of greeting you properly yet."

She tries to smile. "Hmm. Good evening to you, too."

"You're being all inhibited again, are you?"

She can feel the heat in her cheeks and looks away. "Cut it out, Malfoy!"

"What did I say then?"

"Just – just leave me alone! _Please!_"

He sniggers. "Are you scared that I'd compromise you in front of your friends?"

Oh, no need of that. She trusts herself to embarrass herself without anybody's assistance! She doesn't say anything, she can only shoot him an imploring look, hoping that he'll find _some_ decency in himself to drop _that_ subject, once and for all. He continues to laugh and looks straight into her eyes until she can't bear it any longer.

"Why are you doing this to me," she says very flatly, afraid that someone else could hear. "Come on, you can't claim I had been anything but nice t-"

"_Nice?_" he interrupts her, but drops his voice to a very confidential whisper next. "You've been very _nice_ indeed, though it's not _quite_ the word _I_ would have used… Look at me, Granger."

She reluctantly obeys, unsettled by the glint in his eyes, and he goes on in the same low whisper, "I don't mean to _do_ anything to you. And you can relax; I won't say anything – _inappropriate_ – in front of Potter. Or Gingerhead."

"I hadn't thought you would. That'd be an even greater humiliation for you than vice versa, I imagine!"

He furrows his brows. "Humiliation? Now here's a big word!"

"Oh, I think your buddy Zabini would certainly sneer at you!"

"He might or not – but why do you assume I'd give a damn for what he thinks of me?"

She opens her mouth for a reply, but shuts it again. "_Please_," she repeats at last. "This is so unfair – I – I don't think I deserve your scorn, I –"

"Whoa-ho, Granger. Easy now. Let me clarify a couple of things before you start throwing hexes at me, okay? Neither am I trying to _humiliate_ you, nor do I have the least bit of _scorn_ in mind. I also fail to see what you think I'm '_doing to you_'."

"The flowers? The mirror? The _band?_" she presses through gritted teeth, straining to keep her voice down.

"You cannot be seriously offended by either of that, can you?"

His grey eyes linger on her; his expression is indecipherable. Cold tinges are running down her spine, while her face feels like burning, and in a last desperate attempt, she growls, "You think this is funny, do you? In school, you went out of your way to annoy me in every possible way, but the times have changed, and now –"

"Now…?"

"What do you _want_, Malfoy?"

"I told you. Didn't I tell you?" He chuckles softly, his eyes piercing hers. "I want you to allow me seeing you again. You didn't answer to any of my owls –"

"Until yesterday, I hadn't the slightest idea they were from _you_ to begin with!"

"– so I thought I'd try meeting you personally, here, tonight. That is all," he continues, ignoring her interruption.

"And I believe _I_ already told you that's not possible!"

"Please remind me – why not?"

"Because I'm not the _type_ for what _you_ seem to have in mind!"

"What _do_ I have in mind, in your opinion?"

With all his aplomb and suaveness, he grins at her, the right brow and corner of his mouth slightly arched, and if she ever felt like punching right into that smooth, arrogant face, it's now. She throws up her hand in gesture of exasperation and futility; she just can't bring herself to speak it out aloud, and it's not even because she's standing in the middle of a theatre foyer. "Just leave me alone, Malfoy! I'm serious," she croaks at last, lamely.

He smirks in feigned innocence. "But we're just talking, Granger. Where's the harm?"

She knows he's joshing her, because _he_ knows in turn how awkward she is about any of this, but what can she do? She cannot bring herself to speak out loud _any_ of the things going through her head, to address just a single of the crucial points – and he knows it, and pretends to be conversational, the bastard!

"You want to talk?" she asks cuttingly. "All right, let's _talk_. So – you didn't enjoy the first act?"

He gives a little laugh. "As I said – I appreciate the author's good intentions, but no – I didn't _enjoy_ it, no. Too close to home, I reckon. I have all my hopes up for the second act, though."

"Do you?" she asks faintly – she had actually hoped he'd leave before that.

"Oh, yes. Obviously, the character of Will represents the present society – which did, after all, overcome old prejudices, just like the war, and made a new start. I have faith that Will is going to free himself from Morgana's power and force her to retreat. We'll get a happy ending, I'm sure."

Despite herself she asks, genuinely baffled, "You see all that in _that_ play?"

"Well – it's a bit of stretch, perhaps. I was trying to find a bright side while battling down the urge to be sick all over the place during act one." He shoots her a smile that makes her heart miss some other beats, she can't account for it.

"I reckon you came here because of Parkinson?"

"Beware! That's Zabini's job, poor sod. But while I'm aware that the entire theatre is full of friends and relatives of the actors, I will admit that I came with the sole object of seeing you."

"Malfoy!"

"It was you telling me to come here and see this, after all."

"What?"

"You mentioned this play the last time we met, remember?" She does and can only groan, and he continues merrily, "And since you refused answering any of my owls, I found this was the ideal chance to meet you."

"Oh, will you get off it!"

"Come on, I _try_ to converse as decently as I can, but you've asked me!"

The barman interrupts them and asks for their order, giving Hermione a minute to think of something to say. "How is your mother?"

His face darkens. "Fine," he says very curtly. "You've requested me to spare certain topics, Granger, and I would like to ask the same of you. _Alright?_"

The last question sound almost like a threat, and she winces back. "I'm sorry, I – didn't –"

His demeanour changes back to 'friendly'; he clearly forces himself to smile. "I know you didn't. That's not like you, I know. And if you want to do me a real favour, you shut up Little Red Riding Hood as well. Please."

"It'd be a whole lot easier to shut her up if you just kept out of her way, Malfoy."

The barman has served their drinks and while Hermione is still nestling with her purse, Malfoy has already paid them. "Keep the rest," he tells the barman and snatches some of the glasses. "I'll keep out of both of your ways as soon as delivering the drinks –"

"Thank you!" she exclaims with heartfelt relief.

"– _if_ you promise me to go out for a cup of coffee with me next week."

"But –"

"Come on, Granger. A cup of coffee in the Rose and Crown. Where's the harm in that scheme?"

All she can say is that she gives in reluctantly, and that he does stick to his word – two minutes later he is gone, and from the corner of her eyes, she sees him, Zabini, and two other Slytherin guys in a far away corner of the foyer. Harry has managed to bridle his girlfriend, too – or rather, Ginny seems to have forgotten all about Malfoy as soon as he has left. Lucky her! Hermione would be truly happy if she could claim the same for herself, because the second act begins, and she cannot bring herself to forget that Malfoy is sitting four rows behind them. She cannot forget that she's agreed to go out with him next Thursday either, and to her eternal shame, she cannot even bring herself to forget for more than five minutes what happened the last time they've gone out…

Up on stage, Pansy Parkinson harasses poor Lester a.k.a. Will and tears his robes to shreds – but Hermione can only think how she did basically the same with Malfoy's shirt. Will tries to push her back, he begs her, he beseeches her to have mercy – and Hermione thinks how she's done something very similar with Malfoy just twenty minutes ago, at the bar. Morgana throws herself at Will, battles him to the ground and straddles him – Hermione tries to shake off the memory of herself in exactly that position Saturday morning. Will is lying on the ground – more blood, more wailing – he seems to be dead – and Morgana loses her last scraps of sanity over his lifeless body. Now _there's_ something Hermione can truly relate to – the insanity part at least.

"I've lost my _Will_," Pansy Parkinson cries with exaggerated pathos, and stammering some more 'my Will's' she grabs a sword at last and rams it into her side. The curtain falls, and the audience breaks out with frantic applause.

Harry grunts, "Don't encourage them yet!"

"Personally, I'm applauding because it's finally over," Pavarti retorts, and all four of them laugh.

"If I should hazard a guess, I'd say your relationship to Lester is rather star-crossed," Ginny says and arches a brow.

"You can say that again. If only the sex wasn't that darned good…"

Ginny laughs out loud, Harry goggles at Pavarti with his mouth hanging open, and Hermione pointedly looks the other way. Yes, Pavarti – and Padma, and darned Lavender, too – have always been much more easy-going than Hermione; they've always talked about their respective boyfriends in far more detail than Hermione cared to hear, but being _so_ blunt about _that_ topic is truly shocking for her. So Pavarti only dates Lester because they're having great sex…? It has never crossed Hermione's mind that such a thing was _possible_! Well, last week still, she hadn't thought it was possible that there was any such thing as 'good sex' – or 'bad sex' at that instance – either; she had thought Ron and she had been doing it the only possible way!

* * *

_Nemo_… Nobody teases the devil without punishment.


	187. A Matter Of Perspective

Everything is just a question of the right perspective...

* * *

– **4.60.** –

A Matter Of Perspective

* * *

_'Sexy' is the thing I try to get them to see me as, after I win them over with my personality._

_MIRANDA HOBBES_

* * *

The afternoon is lovely. There's no debating it. The weather is lovely, the conversation is lovely – Hermione would even claim that the tea tastes lovely if anyone asked her. It's just – _lovely_. So bloody lovely in fact that she's scared out of her wits. She's sitting in the beer garden behind the Rose and Crown, her third cup of tea on the table before her, and Draco Malfoy at the other side of that table talking as nicely as he possibly can. Which isn't meant derisively – his conversational skills are truly astonishing. She hadn't believed him capable of it. She already knew that he's well-read, clever and quick-witted, now she's also compelled to admit that he's very polite and got quite impeccable manners – how _did_ he manage to hide these so successfully for so long! – and in a more lucid moment, grinding her teeth, Hermione also acknowledges to herself that she'd call the same behaviour 'charming' if it was _any_ other boy sitting there. Calling Malfoy _charming_ would be asking a little too much though, wouldn't it!

The smug bastard is sitting there, looking like something out of a magazine cover, smiling at her, listening to her, making her feel like the world's most interesting person, on his feet as soon as she's emptied her cup and hurrying to get her a fresh one. It is _creepy_, really creepy, if only it wasn't so damned lovely. They talk about magic, about books, her parents and mutual friends, about the temporarily pigeonholed Potions Book, about College, about the question whether, and if so, when, Malfoy might resume his classes, and once more Hermione tries to talk him into taking the end of term exams. They talk about the hideous play, about music, about the differences between a pub like the Leaky Cauldron, and the muggle Rose and Crown. They talk about _everything_ but three things – neither of them, as if bound by an unspoken agreement, mentions Mrs Malfoy, or Ron, and neither of them refers to their little – faux pas – last weekend either.

The afternoon really _couldn't_ be lovelier as far as Hermione is concerned, and when she looks at her watch and tells him that she's got to go, he smiles at her, pushes her chair, helps her into her jacket and makes not a single allusion. She wishes he would, because his politeness makes it virtually impossible for her to decline when he asks her if she'd like to go out for dinner at the weekend. She squirms a little, and tries to pretend she had just _so much_ to do –

"It cannot be healthy to be as studious as you even in the holidays."

"I'm still banking on your return to school in September, and for this I need to shape up in Theory of Law so I can kick your butt."

He smiles good-naturedly. "We ought to discuss that going-back-to-school thing some more, I believe, because you seem to be labouring under the delusion that I'd go back at any rate. Because if I didn't, you wouldn't have to study that hard. You're far beyond Macmillan's level already."

"I would thank you for the compliment if being compared to Ernie constituted anything like a compliment to begin with."

"Come on, Granger, even someone as studious as you has to eat every now and then. Plus it was you who told me I needed to get out of the house once in a while –"

"Which is true, and I recommend you meeting up with some of your buddies –"

"All my _real_ friends are abroad, sunshine, and the last time I met Pretty Boy is enough to chew on for the next three months."

"What about Montague," she suggests weakly. "He –"

"He talks about nothing but Quidditch, whereas I, on the other hand, would just _love_ to debate Plato's _Politeia_ some more."

"What for? You're a right Thrasymachus in your own right already!"

"See? That's exactly why I'd rather dine with you, Granger. I know heartily few people even capable of such a joke, unjust as the allegation is in itself, of course."

They go back and forth like this for twenty minutes, but in the end, she still says yes _somehow_. It's not as if she couldn't see through his game; he's being just as cunning as he ought to be as a Slytherin, exploiting her weaknesses and knowing exactly where _not_ to tread in order to persuade her. She can be studying for as long as she pleases, she'll never be a match for that kind of sophism, and perhaps it is nothing but defeat making her cave in at last. 'Does this count as a date?' she wonders when she's back in her room on campus. No… _No_, this isn't a _date_! Just two acquaintances meeting up for dinner. No big deal! After all, she's been earnest in her attempts to get him back to life. His father might be dead; his mum might have been raped and lost her sanity – but Malfoy still has a very long life ahead of him, and it's no good to shut oneself up and away from the world. Well, not even she is entirely convinced of her own reasoning in this case here. It's safe to say that _he_ will become a much better Law Wizard than her, if one compares their two performances!

Most of Saturday passes by pretty uneventfully; she finishes two books she ought to read for the next term and starts with a third one. The Patil sisters drop by Saturday night with a bottle of wine and ample of gossip – Padma has just returned from her holidays in Brazil, where she's got herself a very dapper 'Latin Lover' as she calls it. _Diego_ – 'gift of the happy holiday gods' – and Pavarti talks a lot about her Lester.

"No Latin Lover, that's for sure – but _geez_, you should see his amps!"

"What's _amps_?" Hermione asks cluelessly.

"Stomach muscles. Come on, you know what that is! Ron must have those, too! All Quidditch players have!"

"Oh, _those_ muscles – yeah, I reckon he's got some of 'em," she murmurs and begins to feel very uncomfortable again.

"Girl," Pavarti exclaims and raises her glass. "You know what you need? Apart from finally getting this little idiot out of your system? In fact, what I have in mind should help getting him out – you need to find yourself a nice young chap and get laid."

Hermione splutters her wine and coughs, but luckily, the girls mistake her. "Don't be so shy, Hermione! We're all adults!"

God, she's heard _that_ line before. "I don't think I – I'm really not the type for such – _things_!" Oh yeah, she's heard herself saying _this_ one, too!

"Not the type, ph!"

"I'm not! I – I can't – I don't want to –"

"You wanna keep on yearning for Ron Weasley instead, yeah? Good riddance, I say!"

"It's not that easy! We – wanted to get married, and all… I don't think I –"

"No one's suggesting that you find yourself a new soul mate, Hermione. These things do take time. But you really ought to resume your _life_, for a start! Go out, have fun, flirt a little here and there, and for goodness' sake, if you come across someone acceptable, just take him home and ride him off."

"Pavarti!"

"Just saying as it is," Pavarti replies boldly.

Her sister butts in, "You shouldn't get up your hopes too highly, though. It's fairly unlikely you'll find someone half as good as Ron – _these _things take practise, too."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Sex. When you've been together with someone for two years, you're spoilt by his standards. No one-night-stand can live up to that, but that really shouldn't detain you."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asks in genuine bewilderment, because recent findings proved the opposite of Padma's statement, that's for sure!

"Only because the sex with the interim guy initially isn't as good as with Ron, you shouldn't give up on it completely."

"No kidding, girls, but the sex wasn't even that good," she mutters wryly and plays with her glass to avoid looking at them.

"All the better!"

"_Better?_"

"Yeah! So you are less prone to disappointment. Go out and about, Hermione! The world's full of hunks, let them spoil you a bit. You deserve it."

"You – you can't be serious!"

"Of course I am. You simply Colloport the door to your room shut, and don't let him out again before he hasn't given you at least one orgasm."

Hermione's face has adapted a deep shade of scarlet. _Orgasms_. Good Lord! Now here's a term she's never contemplated for as much as a _minute_. She _did_ have some of those with Ron, every now and then, right? She must have. Oh yes, she had. Though in retrospection, they seemed _fairly_ accidental. And with Malfoy… Erm… Well, she'd like to deny it, but she's had a whole lot of _those_ with _him_ last week, if she's honest… She still wonders how he's accomplished this. Damn the man, but he's got technique!

"You think there's a spell to get orgasms?" she asks hopefully. Maybe Malfoy used magic to trick her?

"No spells, just nimble fingers. Really, as far as sex is concerned, you ought to forget that academic approach."

For some unfathomable reason, all those good advises circle around in her mind when she prepares herself for going out Sunday night, absent-mindedly humming the Weird Sisters' _Baby you can swish my wand_ under her breath. She rarely makes an effort getting dressed up, because she doesn't want to appear vain, and because she thinks it's a waste of time anyway. Tonight however, she puts on her best lingerie – she's worn it like three times in three years; she uses the perfume her mum's given to her last Christmas, and some smoothing charms on her hair. She even borrows mascara from her next door neighbour Celine, a French exchange student, and on a second thought, some lipstick as well, and while she's at it, she also asks Celine if she can lend her some nice dress.

The girl makes big eyes. "Meeting someone special, Granger?"

"Nah… Just someone who delighted to insult me in school. Wanna look my best, you see…"

Celine grins wickedly. "Oh yes. I see! Give 'im 'ell!"

When Hermione Granger, infamous swot and bookworm, enters the small but very stylish Italian restaurant in Muggle London at half past eight, she's still humming, and dressed in the most exquisite French Muggle fashion that an average college student can afford – a chocolate brown dress that covers everything from her knees up to her neck, but which is a promise nonetheless, and an off-white stole, matching Celine's ballerinas. Well, Hermione tried on every pair of Celine's more high-heeled shoes before, but she was afraid of breaking an ankle before she'd even make it to the restaurant.

As well-mannered as ever lately, Malfoy jumps up when seeing her, bows his head slightly, takes off her stole and pushes her chair to sit down. She asks him why he would even know such a place – it's run by Muggles, after all! – and he says that his father used to have lots of Muggle business connections and that this restaurant was one of the places to which he'd take them out to. Hermione is slightly astonished, but has little time to wonder, because he's back to eyeing her with that certain expression that unsettles her so much.

"Good heavens, Granger," he groans under his breath. "You really like to make it as hard as possible, right?"

"Excuse me?" she asks in genuine bewilderment. This was her attempt on 'flirty' and 'tempting'!

"I've given you a promise and I have no intention to break it, though I'm afraid I'll be bursting."

"Bursting...?"

"Just one compliment, okay? I promise it'll be the last one! You – you look _stunning_. Okay, having said this, I'll keep my mouth shut on this topic, I swear."

"I never forbade you to compliment me, did I?" she asks quietly, pretending to wipe a non-existent lint off the tablecloth.

"You didn't? Well, isn't that fabulous!" He grins broadly. "Great dress. Great hairdo. _Is_ that lipstick that I'm spotting there? And the perfume is _wonderful_, too!"

"You can smell _that_?" Jesus, she overdid it – she knew she'd blow it somewhere – she didn't want to appear eager and now _this_ –

The grin widens. "When taking off your stole, naturally."

She shrugs vaguely. "My mum gave it to me."

"Bless her."

She's on the verge of taunting him for having accidentally complimented her Muggle mother, but somehow, she doesn't want to be the one breaking their truce. At least, she manages to keep her mouth shut on _his_ apparel – paying Malfoy a compliment would be a bit too much, right – but if she didn't know better, she'd say he's been just as careful in getting groomed and dressed tonight. He's wearing a dark grey Muggle suit and a black shirt of some very fine material, and even though he's always worn his hair like this, as far as she can remember, it looks even smoother, _silkier_ tonight. Gosh, how good that hair felt under her fingers –

She rallies herself and they have a toast. "To you, Granger," he says in a low voice and looks straight into her eyes. "Thank you for coming tonight."

"Thank you for inviting me."

"My pleasure."

She smiles and sips her wine. 'Go out and flirt a little here and there,' Padma and Pavarti said, right? 'Get laid', they said, 'don't let the guy out before he hasn't made you come at least once!' All right then. In a way, Malfoy is the best choice for this even. She _knows_ he can't give the secret away; Ron will never hear of this, nor anybody else.

Malfoy orders for the both of them – in Italian – although she supposes he's just showing off. They talk, they smile, he doesn't cease piercing her with his gaze, and Hermione returns those looks much more boldly than she actually feels. If there's one thing she feels, it's a certain pride. Or rather say, she's flattered. Malfoy does have Views, with a capital 'V'. Voldemort, the Death Eaters and his father might have perished, but that doesn't change a thing about the fact that her parents are Muggles, while he can trace back sixty or more generations of wizards bearing his family name, and is more than just proud of it. Still, that doesn't deter him from wanting to get off with her – that day two weeks ago, he told her so many times how good she was as a lover, something she had never heard before, had never even thought about. Good enough at any rate, it would seem, to make him ignore her lack of a wizarding family tree, which causes her a strange feeling of victory. Victory over Malfoy and his Views, and even more Victory – now here's another capital 'V' for sure! – over all these little sluts that Ron got off with.

"Can I convince you to go somewhere else still, later? For a drink, perhaps?" he asks her over their second glass of wine.

"When do you have to be home?"

He laughs. "I'm a little too old to be curfewed, don't you think?"

"No, I meant... Your mum... When do you have to –"

His eyes narrow for a second, then he smiles again. "There are exactly three things I _have to do_ each day. That's looking after my mother at eight o'clock in the morning, at two in the afternoon, and usually before going to bed, though today I've given her her potions before coming here already. I will see after her tomorrow morning, too, but apart from this I am perfectly free to do whatever, whenever I like to."

Hermione would like to ask what's the matter with Mrs Malfoy, but doesn't. Whenever the topic comes up, he makes it clear that he doesn't wish to talk about it, and she respects that, so now she asks lightly, "And what _would_ you like to do?"

He contemplates her with an impish expression. "You really want to know, Granger?"

"Or I wouldn't be asking, would I?"

"I remember a very unmistakable prohibition in that quarter."

"That didn't keep you from trying every trick in the book so far, either."

"The _book_? And what book would _that_ be?"

"I believe it's called 'Twelve Foolproof Ways To Charm Witches'."

He breaks out in merry laughter. "Two points, okay," he gasps. "One – there's a _book_ with _that_ title?"

"Yep, that book exists for real." Oh yes, it does – Ron has memorised it by heart! And for what, please, _for_ _what_ – to pull fan girls!

Malfoy giggles. "And secondly – did you just imply you _are_ charmed, then, or did I mistake your meaning?"

"I won't dignify that question with an answer."

He grins. "You _are_ charmed! For if you were not, you would have told me straightaway."

"Maybe I'm just being polite?"

"Come on, Granger, admit it. You do find me charming."

"I do find you less insolent than usually, but that's not saying much," she says as coyly as she can.

"I guess that means I simply need to try harder."

"Why are you so keen on making a charming impression on me in the first place?" She smiles suggestively, but the question is real enough. She doesn't get it. Of the cuff, she could name at least half a dozen girls in College alone who'd be more than willing to get off with Malfoy. None of them remotely as annoying as Pansy Parkinson, and most of them decidedly better-looking than Hermione, too. In _that_ respect, he really need not despair.

"Why? You really don't know?"

"I haven't got the foggiest, I assure you."

"And you're not going to slap me when I tell you?"

She arches a brow. "Try me. I don't know what I'm going to do before you've told me."

They're interrupted by the waiter serving the first course. Malfoy doesn't even glance at the food, even when the waiter seems to ask him something about it; he merely nods, gives some reply in Italian, and continues to pierce Hermione with his gaze.

"Sorry for the interruption," he murmurs quietly.

"No problem, that's his job," she replies, quite drowsy by the intensity of his gaze on her. The colour of his eyes looks different in the candlelight, almost iridescent, and the mischievous sparkle in his expression only heightens the impression.

In this moment, the music softly floating through the air is changing from some Italian aria to a song by the Weird Sisters. '_I'm a martyr at my mistress's mercy_,' Myron Wagtails croons, and both Malfoy and Hermione register it poignantly. '_She makes me beg, she makes me kneel, I can't describe how she makes me feel, she isn't happy unless I'm down by her feet trampling all over me to seal my defeat..._'

"Excellent song," he whispers and shoots her a suggestive glance.

"Yes, and an interesting choice for such a place like this," she agrees in the same cheeky fashion. "I wonder what made them think of this."

"I presume it was a guest's request..."

"Possibly... Anyway, you were saying...?"

"You were asking… Ah, yes. Why I am so determined to charm you, yes? Well." He licks his lips and smirks softly. "I hope to be able persuading you of a little repetition of your visit to Malfoy Manor. Excuse my candour, but that was the –" He falters, smiles and continues, "_The _most amazing sexual experience I've ever had. _You _are stunning, and if it was only up to me and what _I_ wish, I'd drag you out of this place before we'd even have had starters, and instead devour _you_ for the rest of the night. There you go, I've said it."

She can feel the redness of her cheeks, and feels a bit overpowered. The compliment is ringing in her ears, and her natural scepticism has no chance against the nervous flutter in her stomach. "You – you mean that?"

"I mean every single word. I want you. Now. And badly. But if my chances to succeed with you were increased by it, I'd happily sit through dinner and ten other plays as abysmal as the one last week."

He speaks very nonchalantly, a soft smile playing around his lips, fixating her with his light grey eyes. In that moment, and she can't say why, she feels as if she could see him through somebody else's eyes. Not her own, not through eyes that actually _know_ him and have countless memories defying the favourable impression. Just in this moment, she can see a tall, lean young man that looks bloody fantastic and is quite aware of that fact, just like he's aware that he's intelligent and charming. She knows that if she was someone else, someone who was _not_ broken-hearted, someone who could _not_ remember a thousand unpleasant incidents with him – if she was that other girl, she'd do exactly that. Get up and go home with that guy at once, and milk him for every bit of pleasure he can give her. She knows he can. He's proven that already.

He interrupts her musing. "I count it as a first success that you did _not_ slap me for that confession."

She can't refrain from sniggering. "Why would I slap you for flattering my vanity?"

He sniggers, too. "I didn't even try _flattering your vanity_. I was just being honest."

Whether it was his declared aim or not, she _is_ flattered, excessively so, and in a kind of trance, she picks up the napkin that she's spread over her thighs to protect Celine's dress, rumples it and carelessly flings it on the table. "Come on," she says and gets up. "No starters, then."

She needn't say that twice. He's on his feet in the same moment, takes a handful of banknotes out of his pocket and throws them on the table with the same indifferent gesture with which Hermione disposed of her napkin, comes over to her side and puts the stole over her shoulders. His expression is somewhere between surprise, delight and mischief, and he doesn't let go off her shoulders immediately. Instead he bows down to her ear and whispers, "I promise you, you won't regret it."

His breath tickles her; she's getting goose bumps and can't help it but giggle. "_You_ should be the one with regrets. You've just laid down five hundred pounds for a dinner we haven't even had."

He offers her his arm and she takes it. "I don't even know how much five hundred pounds are in real money, and I could not care less."

"Under different circumstances, I'd have a very distinct opinion on that attitude."

"Oh, I'm sure you have, and you must tell me all about it, by all means. As soon as I've regained focus," he growls under his breath, squeezing her arm a little tighter.

'_I am biting my time as long you're not there_,' Myron Wagtails keeps on singing yearningly, '_I'm craving your presence, your sweet tender care..._'

Malfoy bows down towards her, his nose very nearly touching her jowl. "God, you drive me crazy," he whispers and a mighty shiver runs down her spine, making her arch against him.

"Lost the thread again...?" she mutters dizzily. He's not the only one there; in all truth, she's drawn a complete blank in the last thirty seconds.

"You have that unique gift of distracting me completely, sunshine..." He makes her turn around to him, apparently solicitous of fastening her stole and in passing grazing her chest, which has a similar effect on her like a jolt of lightening. "As a matter of fact, it's a little hard for me to concentrate right now. I've got a thousand things in my head right now, and though half of them definitely evolve around your mouth, they've got nothing whatsoever to do with your conversational skills."

Damn the man, damn him, _damn him_ – but to tell the truth, she's really got to pull herself together not to kiss him at once, right here and now. He's as apt with words as with his tongue, isn't he, no matter which use he makes of his mouth in that respect. She's as captivated by his sly talking as she is by the mischievous glint in his eyes, smiling at her like that, and the only thing she can say is, "So what are you waiting for?"

Yes, what are they? While Myron Wagtail sings about his desire to have his mistress '_roast him over the fires of ecstasy_', the two of them hurriedly head out of the restaurant, and disapparate in the staircase before the door is fully closed again, re-emerging in front of the gates of Malfoy Manor. He barely touches the wrought-iron gate when it already swings open, and they all but run along the long, winded avenue leading up to the Manor House, tightly entwined and only stopping now and then for a snog. In the west, the last rays of the sinking sun on the horizon tint the boundaries in a deep, eerie red, and under different circumstances, Hermione would be struck by the overwhelming beauty of the gardens and the edifice itself, but as things are, her heart is beating much too quickly to register anything much but her company. He smells so good! She's noticed last time already – and that afternoon back then – and now, his scent is mixing with all the various smells emerging from the vast gardens, roses, lavender, rosemary, just like freshly cut grass and wood, and hundreds of other things she doesn't recognise as easily.

She tells him exactly that when she's nibbling on his throat, once more overwhelmed by its softness, making him snigger and reply, "Ditto!" before returning the favour and making her tremble with anticipation.

"This is incredibly beautiful," she whispers helplessly, beckoning at the view of the lake, the smooth surface reflecting the sunset. They come to a halt to admire the view; well, at least she does, for a moment. He's got no eyes for it, perhaps because he's seen it every day of his life, perhaps because he's got 'other things on his mind' presently. He runs his hands along her sides, pulling her into the tightest of embraces, and then they start to kiss in a way that is making it crystal clear that _both_ of them haven't been thinking of much else this evening, and with her last scrap of common sense, Hermione manages to object – "We can't – not _here_!"

He chuckles and presses another kiss on her lips before groaning, "Right… You _do_ keep on distracting me… So – where would _you_ like to go?"

"Er… What do you mean, _where_?"

"Well, we can go to my room straightaway, of course…" He starts sucking on her earlobe. "But I thought if you like the view so much, we could also stay outside –"

"We'll be seen!"

"No one is going to see us."

"Your parents! Your servants!"

"My parents' room faces the lake, too. It's impossible to see us here from that angle. And our servants are a very tactful lot. Don't worry."

Only now she grasps what he _really_ means. "I'm not – you – you must be _kidding_!"

"Not really, no… I'd quite fancy taking you leaning against a tree."

"_What?_"

"Or we could go skinny-dipping, and do it in the reeds." Seeing her stare at him, he laughs out loud. "Don't look at me like that! I'm just making suggestions! _You_ tell me what you want, and we'll do it."

She sees that he's serious, and the question stumps her. Leaning against a tree! Doing it in the reeds! Who does he think he's dealing with? Until meeting him, she only ever had sex in a bed, or on a classroom floor in the Astronomy Tower, with all lights turned off!

"Are you out of your mind? What do you take me for?"

"Yes, I _am_ a little out of my mind, I can't deny this, because I take you for the sexiest woman I ever was so lucky to lay my hands on, and the sheer _thought_ of touching you, fucking you, seeing you writhe in ecstasy absolutely blows my mind!"

She cannot but stare at him in utter disbelief. Nobody, ever, talked to her about wanting to 'fuck her' – she'd have punched the living daylights out of anyone trying – but Malfoy makes it sound like the most natural thing in the world. As a matter of fact, his candour (or bluntness, depending on one's point of view) has the very opposite effect on her; instead of wanting to slap him, she'd rather want to throw her arms around him and let him have his evil ways with her as he pleases. How does the man do it! That's truly beyond her.

For a start, they continue snogging and making out, his nimble fingers are all over her, and before she can stop him, his hands glide up her sides and to her throat, and with one, sudden move, he rips Celine's dress, from the turtleneck down to the waistline.

"Oh, no!" she cries, staring at the costly article and the damages it's suffered from that outburst of unduly passion. "Oh my goodness! I borrowed that from my neighbour!"

"What?"

"That wasn't mine!"

He chuckles. "You've borrowed a dress for meeting me for dinner tonight…?"

"Yes," she replies meekly, lifting up the shreds of the dress and dropping them again, shaking her head in resignation.

"That's – cute. I feel so honoured! You've borrowed a dress to go out with me!"

"I don't possess anything that would – anyway… Now it's completely ruined!"

"Forget about it, Granger. Either the elves will manage to mend it without a trace – or we'll get your good neighbour a new one," he growls in a husky voice, and with another, quick movement, he tears it apart completely, answering her shocked reaction with a shrug and a kiss. "Well, it no longer matters anyhow, does it?"

She's so stumped because of the torn dress, she hardly notices that she's standing right in the middle of the gardens of Malfoy Manor, only in her undies, but _he_ doesn't miss it. "And you've put on your prettiest underwear, too," he exclaims, delighted. "It's getting better and better!"

"Oh, don't –"

Before she can say anything else, his hands have cupped her breasts in her best (and only) lacy bra and she all of a sudden lacks both the breath to speak, and her command of the English language. He doesn't, though, marvelling at her, alternately kissing and touching her breasts through the silky material. "You ought to sit for a sculptor," he murmurs. "Your breasts rightfully belong in a museum… So beautiful… So perfect…"

The sheer notion to see her own bosom in a _museum_ somewhere makes her giggle, and he joins her, and before long, he _does_ fulfil his announcement. Her back pressing against an ancient sycamore maple, her legs swung around his hips, they _are _doing it (it's not exactly comfortable, but pretty exciting indeed, and she's sorry that she can't tell Pavarti and Padma about it – they'd be so proud of her!). He discarded his suit somewhere along the way, and god knows where her best underwear is – she really can't be bothered to wonder about any such trifles at present – she even forgets about Celine's ruined dress, and only just remembers it when they finally head for the house. It's pitch dark by now, yet she feels idiotic to go there stark naked.

"You don't really want to go looking for our clothes now? In the darkness?" he asks with a stumped groan.

"And _you_ don't really mean to go anywhere near the house not wearing anything at all?"

"Yes, that was the basic idea, actually."

"I haven't even got my wand! I feel naked without my wand!"

"You _are_ naked, my lovely. But if it soothes you – everyone's bound to be asleep by now. Nobody will see us. And the elves will gather everything before we've even woken up tomorrow."

Thinking of the carelessly discarded condoms hanging around in God knows what bushes, she whimpers, "That's not exactly comforting me, honestly!"

He takes her in his arms and ruffles her hair. "Calm down, please. Nothing of this is a big deal. Trust me on that, okay? It's fine, and it's going to be fine, and you really, really needn't worry. I promise."

Of course, that's total nonsense, she's got _every_ reason to worry, but his silky voice once more does its magic with her; despite her most reasonable objections, she follows him into the house in a kind of trance, feeling not nearly as silly as she ought to. No, they don't encounter a single servant. They do not encounter the ghost of Lucius Malfoy either, nor Mrs Malfoy. And all portraits pretend to be sleeping, though she's sure she's spotted some of them giving a bit of a start, which is only natural when you consider them spotting their last scion and his female companion roaming the hallways in the nude!

They eventually manage to reach his room – and what a room it is; so far, Hermione only saw something comparable in National Trust-financed old castles! – where he makes her settle down comfortably on his over-large bed. She's seen proper rooms smaller than this bed, but she hasn't much time to wonder, because he suddenly, if reluctantly, lets go off her, snatches a blanket and wraps it around his hips.

"What –"

"Trust me on this one," he replies with a wink, then strides for the door, opens the door for an inch and commands an elf to appear in the hallway. "Be a dear, Iggy, and cast a soundproof charm on my room, will you?"

"But of course, master!"

"And tomorrow morning, it'd be terribly nice if you could go out and fetch my guest's clothes and my own."

"Naturally, master. Is there anything –"

"No, no, I'm fine. Excellent, in fact. Couldn't be any better!" is the cheery reply before banging the door shut again, dropping the blanket carelessly and returning to the bed with a broad smile.

"Were we that loud last time?" Hermione asks apprehensively, only to find that 'apprehensions' is a little weak for what she actually should be, hearing his reply!

"As far as I'm concerned, you couldn't be loud _enough_, sunshine," he mumbles, sitting down beside her and instantly resuming to caress her with hands and lips, "But my parents' room is right around the corner, and I thought you wouldn't feel too comfortable with that –"

"What? Oh my god! Oh god! We – you – mustn't –"

"Relax! It's all taken care of, isn't it? What is more, a herd of stampeding hippogriffs couldn't wake my mother up, and my father needs no more sleep anyhow. Be that as it may, nobody can hear us, nobody is going to disturb us, and that is that..."

No, it isn't, Hermione thinks in high dudgeons – she can impossibly make out with the son while the ghost of Malfoy senior is lurking somewhere in the vicinity – but he doesn't let her speak this out because he kisses her so passionately, and not a minute later, her qualms have vanished into thin air, because the young gentleman is determined to continue what he's begun, all through the night.

He beds her in his arms when they eventually turn off the lights; she's lying half on top of him, her face pressed against his chest, and she takes a weird sort of pleasure in hearing, _feeling_ his heartbeat, and how his breath becomes more regular again. Tiredly, she caresses the sensitive skin of the fading scars there, the only feature out of synch with his otherwise so immaculate appearance. He's looking good, yeah. Little wonder, have you seen his parents! He's got good genes, at least in that department. He's tall, but not too tall (a bit shorter than Ron at any rate), he's lean yet athletic (a proper mixture between playing Quidditch and having some more useful hobbies), his skin is shimmering under the paleness like porcelain, just softer, so incredibly soft, like his hair… If it weren't for these scars, he could pose for that naughty magazine that Lavender got Pavarti and Padma for their twentieth birthday. Curiously, she likes them though. She likes _him_ better for having those scars, and that really is a sick, sick notion if you think about it…

"Tomorrow morning, I might not be here when you wake up," he whispers before she's falling asleep. "I'll be over at my mother's room then. But I'll be back in no time – feel free to do whatever you like, just one thing – don't run away, okay?"

"Where should I run to, without as much as a bra?" she murmurs drowsily.

He sniggers; she can feel the soft quivering of his ribcage and finds the sensation oddly soothing. "True."

Everything is different after this night. In a strangely good way though. Celine's torn dress is returned by some servant, looking as if was brand-new, alongside everything else. When Hermione finally wakes up, it's past ten, and Malfoy seems to have returned from his duties to his mother already – she can tell because he's wearing boxer shorts, she can feel the silky material against her naked bum. He's got one arm swung around her, his other hand resting in the small of her neck, now and then feebly stroking her, as if he were halfway between sleep and wake. For a few seconds, Hermione is petrified, struck by shame, awkwardness, the most severe self-accusations. And then… Then she just lets them go, just like that. What the heck.

This isn't _real_. It's like something out of those surreal dreams, or if you were on holiday all by yourself somewhere far away and could invent a completely different persona for the duration of your stay, pretend to be Bobo the clown, say. This isn't her 'real life', so she needn't be her 'real self', and there's no call for all the things connected to those. Going out with Malfoy, shagging Malfoy, waking up in his embrace – yeah, _right_. The regular Hermione _would_ feel ashamed beyond expression for any part of this. But the _regular_ Hermione would never have done any of this, either! So not to worry. It's okay. It's not real. It's some disconnected part of her lying here now, her id, probably, the part of her that wants revenge on Ron, the part that wants to know what on earth Pavarti and Padma are talking about, the part that craves being less reasonable and boring as people (and she, herself!) think her to be. What did Malfoy say, that evening two weeks ago? 'You're entitled to some fun,' or so? Yeah! She is! She's cried enough, hasn't she!

With uncalled-for vigour, she rolls around, right into Malfoy's open arms, and if he wasn't entirely awake before, he surely is now. They're looking at each other face to face, their noses only two inches apart – maximum! – and he smiles softly.

"Good morning, temptress," he murmurs, slightly leaning forth and rubbing his nose against hers. "Did you sleep well?"

"Excellently," she replies and closes her eyes again, relishing the caress and the following kiss. Before long, she's lying on top of him, avidly returning his kisses, and curiously frustrated by his shorts. "Why did you get dressed again?" she asks, breathless, and a tad redundantly, because she knows the answer.

"I didn't fancy the idea of shocking poor Elsy out of her wits," he sighs and ruffles her hair.

She stops short. "Who's Elsy?"

"My secret mistress in the adjoining room, of course. Didn't I mention her?" Seeing her irritation, he chuckles. "My mother's elf-in-waiting. I know she bathed me as a baby, but I'm not exactly comfortable presenting myself to her in the nude since I'm capable of bathing myself, you know?"

"Oh, and since when is that! Last night, you didn't seem to have such qualms!"

"Last night was different – you know it was, don't quarrel with me about it." He grins and pecks a kiss on her cheek. "Did you seriously belief I had a mistress in the next room?"

"Course I didn't!"

"Well, you looked like it."

She sniggers, pressing her hips against his, thrilled by the feeling of his budding erection against her thigh. "I'd surely think you were capable of such a thing."

"Oh, yes...?" He grins wickedly and arches a brow.

She returns the grin likewise. "_Yes_. The way you seduced _me_ –"

"That'd be a feat I'd be immensely proud of – _if_ I believed that was entirely my own doing."

"Whose doing would it be, else?"

She's angry with herself for that question, fearing that the topic of Ron will inevitably follow now, and she's got only herself to blame for it, but his reply soothes her, as much as it disconcerts her in another quarter. "Your own, my dearest dallier. Don't you tell me this wasn't _exactly_ what you planned long before entering that restaurant last night. Borrowing that posh dress –"

"Only because I was appointed with _you_," she defends herself. "_You_ are the posh one."

"_And_ you put on that sexy underwear. I sure hope you only did that because you were appointed with me, too!"

He grins playfully, cupping her buttocks and manoeuvring her where he wants her most, and rubbing her crotch against him, she cries, "You're pretty conceited, you are!"

"But I'm right nevertheless." He arches a brow and she laughs. "Yes, yes, I'm right. You surely weren't as smitten as I was, but you, too, had _some_ plans for last night, Granger."

She hums a vague 'mmmh –', and he asks her what made her change her mind after all, after her initial reluctance to do as much as have a cup of tea with him. Well, what was it? The Patil sisters and their wanton talking? The fact that she's read about Ron in the Daily Prophet's gossip page, and how he's been sighted snogging the Chaser of the Heidelberg Harriers, or whatever the wretched name was? Her recurring dreams of her and Malfoy's last time together? Those memories that made her blush and shiver whenever she thought of them by day? Their last meeting in the Rose and Crown when she did feel so easy-going with him as if he wasn't who he is, and as if he had completely forgotten who _she_ is in turn? The undeniable fact that for a girl of almost twenty-one years, she's got deplorably little experience and feels she deserves _her_ share of having fun? All of this would be true, but she doesn't feel like uttering a single one of these points, and to change the topic, she fumbles for the small box on the bedside table, which pleases him well enough, and for the moment, they interrupt the conversation for some more physical exercise.

As pleasant as it is, lounging about in bed all day and being 'spoilt' – his words! – she's got to get home eventually. Looking out of the window while getting dressed (and once more marvelling at the miraculous mending of Celine's dress!), she has to see that the weather has changed completely, and for the worse; a hail storm is tossing outside. She withstands Malfoy coaxing her to sit it out; she wants to get through that book for her essay, she postponed that far too long anyhow. Moaning, he gets up and dressed, too, and persists in walking her to the gates of Malfoy Manor, protected by an umbrella charm.

"I'm sure I can Apparate there with one of the elves –"

"You sure can, but I want to steal some more kisses from you on the way." To prove that claim, he closes in for a kiss. "What's a spot of rain, seeing the payoffs?"

"You really don't have to," she insists for the fifth time, if that's enough.

"Yes, I have to, and there's an end to it. If my mother thought I had as much as _contemplated_ not to accompany you! She always set great store by the proper decorum and manners." He grins playfully. "Defiling a young lady and not walk her to the gates then? Unthinkable!"

"Defiling?"

"I couldn't think of a much better term off the top of my head. Would you prefer shagging?"

"Not really."

"What about consorting?"

She cackles. "Consorting! Did you swallow a Victorian novel?"

"I've got it, I've got it, the search is over, whistle back the sleuths." He makes a wise face. "What do you make of this now, Granger – _having intercourse_."

She cracks up laughing in his arms, vaguely wondering when was the last time she felt so damned fine. She wouldn't have believed that Malfoy of all people could ever make her laugh so much, or make her feel so good about herself, or fill her with such sensual delight. It's almost as if he's trying to make up for all that time when he was doing exactly the opposite.

The long, winding path connecting the manor with the gate house might take ten minutes for a fast walker; it took _them_ more than half an hour though to make the first half. They stopped every fifty yards for a snog, or a cuddle, and Malfoy clowns about so much that he's soaking wet for repeatedly leaving the sphere of the umbrella charm. His platinum blonde hair is clinging to his head, looking darker like this, rain droplets are stuck in his long dark lashes sparkling like tiny diamonds, and the thin white shirt he put on is more or less transparent, displaying his body to the greatest advantage. She'd tell him that he's bound to catch a cold if it weren't such a downright pleasure to see him like this. She doesn't even mind how wet he is when he pulls her close for another kiss, which doesn't accelerate her departure either.

An hour later, she's finally back in her room in college, and with the normality of her surroundings, her 'regular self' returns – and with a vengeance! Oh dear! She shouldn't have – really, she _shouldn't _have – but then, she can just shrug at herself. It's not as if Ron weren't doing precisely the same right now, somewhere in _Heidelberg_ and certainly not wasting a spare moment to think of _her_! And there is one thing about all this that fills her with enormous glee – she is a hundred percent sure that _she_ has had a better time than that Gudrun or Gisela or Griseldis Whatshername!

She carefully slips out of Celine's dress, checking once more that it's in a state of returnability, and putting it on a hanger. After taking a long, very hot shower, jollily piping songs by the Weird Sisters, she puts on a large t-shirt and pyjama shorts, and seeing her reflection in the mirror, she can only shake her head at herself. That girl she sees there – no, that girl _isn't_ the type for that sort of thing, that girl wouldn't as much as _dream_ of doing any of these things. Celine however seems to see someone else when Hermione returns the borrowed clothes, for she tells her how 'chirpy' and 'flushed' she looks, and makes some allegations about Hermione not sleeping in her room, and about the time of her finally returning. Well, if anything, Hermione flushes some more. _Chirpy?_

"So that boy from your old school finally stopped teasing you, eh?" Celine asks, tongue-in-cheek.

"Not really… If anything he's taken the teasing to a whole new level," she replies, making Celine crack up, and joining her. Really, it _is_ kind of funny if you think about it…

"Good for you!"

"Yeah." She smacks her lips. _Yeah_. It _is_ 'good for her'!

Back in her own room, she picks up the mirror he's given her, and half-ashamed, half-curious, she surveys her reflection. What's the man talking about? Her breasts are just breasts, right? She squints down, but in the huge T-shirt, there's really _nothing _to be seen. Looking around, as if to make sure she's alone in the room, she slowly lifts the fabric and shoves it up to take a second look. She tilts her head. It's still just her breasts. She's had them for quite some time, and personally, she thinks she's got a bit much of 'em. In the mirror, she can see a hickey on the underside of her left breast and sucking on her bottom lip, she also recalls how she got it. He's removed all the others before she got dressed – he always does that, doesn't he? – and trying to remember the incantation, she points her wand at this one, but then she lowers it again.

Why not keep it? No one else is going to see it. She decides to see it as a kind of parting gift. She carefully touches the dark red spot; it's a little bruise, it hurts the tiniest bit to be touched, though not really unpleasantly. Just like it hurts getting a hickey, which is no actual _pain_ either. _Quite_ the contrary, in fact! She presses a little harder, experimentally pushing her finger further up and brushing the nipple, which is oversensitive from the amount of attention it received in the last twenty-four hours, and she sharply inhales. Now how does he do that… She sucks on her thumb and index finger, then gently squeezes the little bud. Goodness! She imitates some other things she's seen him do, and it takes her a while to register that she's started to moan quietly, and that the _other_ bud – the one at the apex of her thighs – has begun to itch.

At least she's enough of the regular Hermione Granger to make sure with her wand that she's locked the door, before continuing her expedition, and she changes location, too – she lies down on her bed. After pleasuring her nipples some more, the itching in her nether regions becomes almost unbearable, and squeezing her eyes shut, she shyly moves her right hand down, stroking along the middle bits that albeit all of Malfoy's colourful suggestions, she hasn't yet settled on a specific term for. She's surprised that the material of her shorts is a bit damp, but let's face it, she's reached the stage where she's beyond caring. She keeps on stroking herself through her shorts, before getting the notion that this might be more effective yet _without_ the shorts – or her knickers, come to think of it. When resuming her reconnaissance mission, she wets her fingers once more, slightly startled to taste herself – she's tasted the same on Malfoy's lips not long ago – and one thought leading to the other, she's reminiscing a sort of 'last night's best of' while playing with her 'clitoris', quietly whimpering, and within all the pleasant sensations still curiously frustrated. This is – well, _wonderful_, it really is, it's just – just – just not entirely like – like when _he_ does it… Well, little wonder, he's bound to have a hundred times more practise than her; she's never done anything like this.

It suffices anyhow. After a whole lot more keen ministrations and moans, she does have a bit of a climax – not like when Malfoy makes her come, but definitely superior to seventy percent of what Ron ever did with her – and slackens on her bed, trying to catch her breath. This was… Interesting. She should have tried this ages ago. Seriously. _Ages_ ago. With her senses returning to this room, she notices that she's lying on her bed with no pants and bare breasts, in the broadest of daylights (well, not _so_ much of that, because it's still raining cats and dogs outside), but what is more – and kinda worse, too! – looking over to the window, she spots a pack of owls on the window sill gazing back at her.

Okay. So this is just a bunch of _owls_. They can't tell anyone what they must have seen her do in the last twenty minutes, or however long they might have been sitting there already. But that doesn't mean that she's any less embarrassed. They wait in patience, not pecking against the window pane despite the driving rain, and hastily grabbing her shorts, she puts them on and lets the dripping wet owls in, only to regret it in the same second – they fluff their feathers up and shake themselves so violently that Hermione gets almost as wet as them for the second time this day, or if you count the shower: third. Only then, she registers what they're bringing. Each owl but one has carried a package, and the one who hasn't, carries a bouquet of flowers instead.

Opening the first package, she finds a very beautiful dress, similar to the one that Celine lent her, in dark red. The second one contains matching shoes, number three black robes with trimmings in the same shade of red. The fourth package at last contains dark red underwear made of gossamer laces so soft as if they were made of cobwebs. All the clothes are made of silk, and she marvels at them for a moment. She's never touched such expensive clothes, and the material feels marvellous under her fingers.

Stumped, she fumbles for the card. '_Forgive my impertinence – but I thought I'd never have you worry again about your neighbour's clothes being damaged. If you don't like them, Madam Malkin will be pleased to replace them with whatever you like better!_'

Now she's even more stumped. As if she would seriously walk into Madam Malkin's, and acknowledge that Draco Malfoy bought robes for her! Not to mention the _underwear_! That aside – these are _beautiful_! One's got to hand it to the boy – he's got taste. Really. In everything but his choice of girlfriends and lovers. Observing the owls fly off again, she congratulates herself that the birds can't tell their owner what they've just witnessed. That would make him too smug, wouldn't it! Oh, she can imagine the sort of grin he'd have in store for her if he knew!

Experimentally, she tries on the dress and turns around in front of the mirror. It fits like a glove, and while it _is_ sexy, it is far from provocative. She sighs with genuine regret. She can never wear this! If Pavarti spots her like this! Or anyone! How is she supposed to explain that she's wearing clothes so expensive! Is the man out of his head or what?

Yes, he is. Two more owls arrive that evening, one fetching a large package with all sorts of delicacies and a card ('_I still owe you a dinner_') and another one carrying more flowers still ('_I think I forgot to tell you how unforgettable the last night (and this morning) were for me, and to say Thank You! When can I see you again, by the way?_'). She sits down at once to scribble an answer, telling herself she only does so because the owl's still there, and to prevent him from sending even more and rouse the suspicions of her neighbours. It's more difficult though than she would have thought. She'd need more time for a _proper_ answer. As things are, her reply is rather concise.

'_Thank you so much, for everything! You are absolutely mad, of course._

_What about tomorrow night?_

_PS: You mustn't send me so many owls, please!_'


	188. Obsession

He's very close now

* * *

– **4.61.** –

Obsession

* * *

_What would you have me do?  
Search out some powerful patronage, and be  
Like crawling ivy clinging to a tree?  
No thank you._

_EDMOND ROSTAND – Cyrano de Bergerac_

* * *

Step by step and bit by bit, he had gained more control over her. _His_ agenda had been to regain a body in which he could reassemble his spirit. _Her_ plan had been dual; she had desired her dead husband's return, and he had baited her by insinuating that she needed to shape up for that. Her husband had been twenty-nine when dying, she was twenty years older by now. He had tricked her with the promise to assist her in that regard, too, which had been the perfect pretext to feed her the right sort of potions to dispel her possible doubts.

To discourage those straight away, he had claimed to be out for revenge alone. Well, not that he minded avenging himself on his opponents in passing, but this really wasn't his primary aim. Still, it had sufficed as an explanation for _her_. Instead of wondering what he might be up to – and thus perhaps foil his plans – she had bought his story, and quite diligently executed it, in return for his assistance. Unwittingly, she had been digging her own grave, silly girl!

He had also baited her with the promise to assist her in her desperate wish to conquer eternal youth. Mind you, in her folly, that absurd person hadn't tried conquering eternal _life_ – she had not seemed to mind death, as long as her corpse would be a beautiful one! Who'd be sorry to lose such a person? The world wasn't worse off without her – not that he would have minded if it was, of course. However, he had promised her to help her, and to throw her off the scent (because she _was_ not quite as stupid as she appeared on first glance. It had taken her not two days to figure out the Resurrection Stone – other wizards, among them members of his own family, had never grasped that mystery in their entire lifetime!) and disguise his foremost aim, he had demanded that she should avenge his death. She had believed that this was the deal. She would work through the list of people who had wronged him – and in turn, he would give up the secret of everlasting beauty. Oh well. It wasn't even a real lie, was it? _Beautiful_ she'd be!

He had told the silly witch that she should find a sculptor. Furthermore, she was to obtain the blood of magical children. He had given her the exact recipe for the clay, and she had set out to make it. Yes, yes, it was true – she had gone about this quite smartly. Not only did she have some knack for potion-making (naturally – she owed half her appearance to that talent) – after abducting a couple of children from wizarding families, she had grasped that this rose more suspicions than could be good for her, and had found a rather ingenious way to get to muggleborn children instead. _Their_ disappearance would not be noticed in the magical world before they didn't show up in Hogwarts after their eleventh birthday, and the muggle authorities would _never_ manage to detect just anything. Not believing in the existence of magic, how could they make out how these children had disappeared? The Veela hair had been a mere decoy – after all, Veela were famous for their supernatural beauty – and she had swallowed that bait greedily, and bought the entire stock of wands containing Veela hair from the closed shop of the late Gregorovitch. His demand of Bellatrix Lestrange's wand had been genuine enough – but to use it himself in the future, and not, as _she _believed, for her to conjure up her husband from the dead.

She had coerced the sculptor to craft a statue of that dead man, because he had told her this would be the vehicle for the dead man's spirit. It had served as a vehicle indeed – but for his own discomposed soul. It had taken a long time, but bit by bit and increasingly quicker the more strength he had gained, he had managed to reassemble himself.

Now that he got so far, he merely needs to execute the 'exchange' – which is a feat of gigantic magical proportions and worthy of the genius that he is. He has been preparing his victim for the last year by having her swallow numerous potions, ostensibly to rejuvenate herself, but in fact severing her soul from her physical frame without actually killing the latter. Half of the time, she is so distraught, she wouldn't be capable of spelling her own name, but every now and then, she gets stroppy still.

But it won't be much longer now. He's almost there, ready for the final step.


	189. The Gloom Versus Miss Sunshine

Draco can really do with a bit of a good time

* * *

– **4.62.** –

The Gloom Versus Miss Sunshine

* * *

_Kiss me and tell me it's not broken  
Kiss me and kiss me 'til I'm dead  
See, I give you the stars from the bruised evening sky  
And a crown of jewels for your head now  
For your head now_

_And if you come back, I'll take you to the garden_  
_We'll dance to an orchestra on the lawn_  
_And we roll in the foggy dew_  
_And dance with the ghosts upon_  
_the dawn and on the dawn and on the dawn_

_Then you'll kiss me and tell me it's not broken_

_MUNDY – To you I bestow_

* * *

Big empty spaces have a tendency to appear even vaster when there's nobody in them. Malfoy Manor was impossibly large in itself, had been too large for centuries for housing the respective three-headed family inhabiting it, and every piece of newer architecture added had only enlarged the immensity. Most of the building was deserted to begin with; if Draco should have made a guess, he'd have fathomed that eighty percent of the rooms had not been entered by a human soul in a century. He'd never felt the loneliness of it though as long as his parents had still lived there.

If one was in low spirits, it was even harder to bear yet. Whenever he left his mother's sickroom, Draco didn't know where to go to, where to feel homely in this monster of an empty gloomy house where the rooms were always pleasantly shaded and cool in summer due to some clever tricks of the respective architects and the odd spell. Rooms could be _too_ sombre and cold, however, Draco found, summer sun or not, and melancholically lit a fire in his own room's fireplace. Preposterous, lighting a fire at the beginning of June! But all the same he was shivering when he sat down in the comfy old wing chair that had once been standing in his grandfather's study, so he summoned a woollen blanket with his wand and spread it over his knees just like the old man had used to do when still alive. As a child, Draco had often seen Abraxas do this, and never really grasped why. Now he thought, gosh, how had the old geezer endured living in this freezer for nearly a century!

Lustlessly, Draco flicked his wand once more to _Accio_ the bunch of files he had to look through. His father's office – _his_ office, he corrected himself incredulously – kept on sending all those letters, none of which Draco wholly understood, and regarded as quite a nuisance. Something about taxes, and tax write offs, and signatures urgently demanded, applications, duplicates, letters he'd already signed once but obviously in the wrong places and a whole lot more. Dear Mr Jenkins, bless him, had liaised the firm of Pilliwickle, Robarts & Capper to look after the family enterprise, and still they, and some officious witch with an illegible handwriting from his dad's office, who was either called 'Macleod' or 'Madlock' (it really weren't decipherable any more clearly!), kept on bugging him on a daily basis. Usually – until his death, anyway, Lucius had seen after these matters, and Draco realised only now that his father had actually been _working_ in order to keep track of their finances.

He read and signed four or five documents before coming across a particularly convoluted one, which he read no less than five times still not knowing what it was all about. He gnawed on the tip of his quill, then simply signed it with great flourish and added '_also, I want a pink pony, and a new broomstick if you don't mind_'. He sniggered mirthlessly, wondering who the recipient of this ominous paper might be, and whether they'd possess any kind of humour.

Of course, he could ask his father for help, and more than once had actually contemplated this, had one time even stood on the doorstep of his parents' bedroom, the files under his arm, but spotting Lucius oblivious to his surroundings, his eyes fixed on his dying wife, Draco had instantly turned around and left the poor man be. At least, these things kept on distracting him, if only in the dullest way possible.

He wouldn't complain though. There were other – _distractions_, in lack of a better word – of a much more pleasurable nature, the most pleasurable nature possible in fact, and everytime he had finished the paper work, he rewarded himself by flicking through various mail order catalogues, ordering whatever appealed to him, and having it sent to that certain young lady who employed his fancy so delectably. He took great care, for example, to never let her wake up – no matter whether she slept in her room in Artemis, or at her parents', or right next to him – without finding flowers on her pillow, or windowsill, depending on her location and whether the owl had found an open window. Orchids and lilacs, roses and tulips, forget-me-nots and marguerites, lilies and sunflowers, for which she kept on chiding him, stating she'd long run out of vases, and how very, very suspicious they were, and what her neighbours must think. He'd just laugh at her in turn whenever she brought the topic up, and waved his wand to shower her with more flowers yet. She never managed to keep being cross with him for long.

He also sent her every piece of pretty underwear he saw (yes, a little selfishly, but so what!), books he thought she would like, earrings and charms-bracelets, combs to tie up her unruly hair crafted from solid gold (in order to persuade her accepting these, he'd been forced to claim they were only gilded really), a very rare Phoenix quill and on one occasion, a couple of trained pixies doing a pretty little comedy show. Where was the harm in it? It was fun to be cosseting somebody to one's heart's delight!

"You really ought to stop doing this!" she sternly exclaimed the next time they met, a black top hat in her right hand, out of which little white rabbits kept on jumping. "The dorm looks like Australia, right after the big rabbit plague of 1959!"

Draco picked up one of the droll little creatures, fluffing its silky fur and merely grinned, "Oh, come on, aren't they just adorable?"

"The first one _was_ adorable indeed! They stopped being so cute after forming the first two football teams. And you in particular may be angry when you hear that they savaged every single flower you've given me!"

"But you were complaining about those anyway!"

She poked her finger at him. "You – you – argh!"

He sniggered, pulling her close and brushing a kiss on top of her head. "I get it, I get it, sunshine. No need to get aggravated."

The dozen rabbits escaping from the top hat during this little chat were by now entertaining themselves in his mother's herbaceous borders, and Izzy, whom Draco had apparated to the gatehouse with in order to welcome his guest, increasingly started to fidget with bulging eyes.

"M'lord,' he now interjected timidly, but with a clear hint of real panic, "may I just..."

"Yes, please. Take care of this, Izzy, will you?"

Izzy picked up the offensive item gingerly, then snapped his fingers a couple of times and they all goggled at the hat with bated breath. But Izzy wasn't the family's principal gardener for nothing; no further rabbit slipped out, and as Draco and Granger began making their way to the house, they watched the elf summoning a big wicker basket and in hot pursuit of the little darlings ravishing the flowers.

"He called you '_M'lord_'," Granger remarked and wrinkled her nose.

"Yeah."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because I'm his principal master now. Until – you know – I was 'young master Draco', and now... Well."

"It sounds ridiculous nevertheless!"

"Ah, I've been called worse. And 'young master Draco' wasn't exactly handy either."

"And how do they address your father now?"

He burst out laughing. "Oh, that's a sore spot of trouble for them, indeed. Their entire sense of decorum was turned topsy-turvy when he returned; they were quite flustered. In the end they settled for 'M'lord Master Lucius, Sir' – which is even worse than what they have in store for me, don't you think?"

"Just tell them to stop then!"

"You really don't get the thing about house-elves, honey. There are orders you simply cannot give them, and if you try, you'll find you're universally ignored. They'd rather smash their fingers in the oven door than stop calling me like they do. Wanna know how they call _you_?"

She blanched. "What do they call me?"

"Oh, don't worry. Nothing offensive, or raunchy." He winked at her. "You're 'Miss Sunshine'."

"What?"

"It's rather sweet, don't you think? I'm loving it."

"Why the heck do they call me like that?"

"I think they picked it up from me or something." Yes, that and the fact that Draco had asked them not to mention her family name among themselves just in case his father overheard. That was one can of worms he'd rather _not_ have opened just now.

She laughed and squeezed his hand. "Oh yes, right, you do say that a lot. I never understood why."

"I don't know, I just like it. Also, you shine like the sun when you're embarrassed." He received a little blow in the side for this, and gasped, "Why, I'm just saying!"

"You could call me 'Hermione', you know?"

"You're not calling me 'Draco' either."

"I might do if you started calling me 'Hermione'."

"Which I'm afraid isn't going to happen."

"Why? What's so wrong with my name?" she cried, and he thought he was discerning a note of real vulnerability in her voice.

"My great-grandmother was called 'Hermine'. I can impossibly call you that," he replied hurriedly – truthfully – and very warmly, tightening his grip on her shoulder and whipping her around to face him. There was a little wrinkle between her eyes; he knew that wrinkle quite well, knew what it meant, and bent down to her, nudging her nose with his. "Don't be angry with me," he cajoled her. "I'll show you her portrait and you'll understand what I mean."

She let herself be placated by those assurances, and didn't turn her head away when he sealed their reconciliation with a long, deep kiss.

"Everybody hates my name," she grumbled when they continued their way, but he could tell she was no longer hurt in earnest.

He made a noise of mock compassion. "Ooooh, poor darling, come on and join the queue for the club! _I_ am called '_Draco'_, you remember? What kind of name is _that_! One of my grandfathers was called 'Abraxas', the other one 'Cygnus', and if you can bear the whole, cruel truth I can reveal my full name to you, but let me warn you – you'll be in stitches for the rest of the day!"

She made big, curious eyes. "Oh, yes, please! I think I can take the risk!"

"Actually, the whole damned thing needs a bloody drum roll." He shot her an arch smile, cleared his throat, and solemnly declared, "Allow me to introduce myself, young lady – my name is Draco Apollonius Alboin David Artemis Immanuel Cygnus Abraxas Phaeton Malfoy. You have my permission to die laughing now."

And she did; she cringed with laughter, in between pecking kisses on his nose only to erupt with another giggling fit.

"Hey!" he groused facetiously. "You've hurt my feelings now."

"I'm sorry!" She tiptoed to kiss him. "I'm really very, very sorry, my poor dear _Phaeton_!" Another swift giggle, another kiss, longer, more playful, and she began ruffling his hair. "Us commoners never know the sheer extent of hardship the aristocracy's got to endure!"

He pretended to haughtily examine his fingernails. "Yes, well, it's rough, but someone's got to do it."

She burst out laughing once more, clinging to him like shivering ivy to a tree, and burying his face in her hair, he congratulated himself on being such an extremely lucky fellow. He lifted her off her feet and swirled her around until they were both out of breath and collapsed on the lawn, where she bedded her head in his lap, looking up to him so trustingly that he thought his heart must be bursting with felicity.

He plucked a blade of grass and tickled her nose with it, her chin, her cheeks; she grabbed his left hand and pressed it and kissed it, and as they were sitting there in the glorious sunshine like this, in this very second, Draco could have sworn to be the world's happiest creature, forgetting _everything_ else.

He wasn't, of course. As a matter of fact, he thought he'd never been more depressed. Even during the Dark Lord's reign of terror and his constant threats, Draco had ever been _so_ downcast. His parents had been alive still; he'd feared for their lives, yes, but they'd _lived_, there had been hope, a somewhat desperate, childish hope, but hope nevertheless. He had no more hope left _now_. His father had died already and soon, Draco was absolutely certain, his mother was going to follow him to their double grave, but no further, and then, they'd be parted, all of them. His father would remain alone and for all time, and no matter what Lucius had done in life – _nobody_ deserved such a fate as his. Every now and then, the boy wondered – dared to entertain the fearful hope, more like – that his mother would perhaps become a ghost as well... But this was silly; Narcissa Malfoy had been much too sensible and rational for making such a horrible mistake. Because it _was_ a mistake, the worst one could make for oneself. This was, after all, which had driven her over the edge, seeing his father as a ghost. This was what had robbed her of her last bits of sanity!

All this was so terrible, so unspeakably terrible, eating him out on the inside that sometimes he thought he couldn't bear it. But capable of bearing it or not, there was nothing he could do about it either. Even in his dreams, he was haunted by his dreads and the painful resignation.

When he was lucky, he found himself in Granger's arms when bolting out of one of those nightmares. She'd hold him and stroke his back, fondle his hair; she'd make soothing noises and talk comfortingly until his pulse and breathing went back to normal. And she never forced him to speak in turn. Of all she did for him, this was perhaps the point he was most grateful for.

She visited him two or three times a week, usually arriving in the afternoon and staying overnight, and while she was there, it felt as if a mountain of gloom was temporarily lifted from his shoulders. Lucius, in some strange fit of paternal chumminess, had told him that he was relieved of his duties to his mother when he 'had guests', and Draco hadn't known how to tell his father that it wasn't in this one's powers to rescind this particular obligation, because it was no externally imposed duty, but the natural duty of a son to his mother that nothing and nobody could interfere with. He at least went a little easier on his self-prescribed schedule, realising that it didn't make the tiniest difference whether he checked his mother's pulse at eight o'clock or nine.

* * *

**Special thanks and tons of love to Dusty the Umbravita** **X*** who makes my day with her lovely reviews and kind messages!


	190. One Perfect Day

What is there to give to someone who already possesses anything he could possibly desire?

* * *

– **4.63.** –

One Perfect Day

* * *

_Just a perfect day,  
You made me forget myself.  
I thought I was someone else,  
Someone good._

_Oh it's such a perfect day,_  
_I'm glad I spent it with you._  
_Oh such a perfect day,_  
_You just keep me hanging on,_  
_You just keep me hanging on._

_LOU REED – PERFECT DAY_

* * *

"Whow! That's one pretty dress, darling!" her mother exclaims when walking in on her as Hermione is turning around in front of the mirror.

Half embarrassed, half proud, the girl replies, "Yes, isn't it?"

With narrowed eyes, her mother steps closer, taking the material between her fingers and rubbing softly. "Is that – _silk_?"

"I believe so," her daughter mutters, increasingly awkward. She really doesn't want to talk about the source of this particular dress, not even to her mother, whose only advantage in this one respect is that she at least cannot blab to anyone else.

She looks like one of those movie stars from the fifties, like Grace Kelly, or Audrey Hepburn – anyway, the _dress_ looks like those, and what a world of difference it can make merely putting on such a thing, it's incredible. One feels almost instantly graceful. The dress is dark red, which compliments her tanned legs (which are visible from the knee downwards) and arms and the colour of her eyes, too; it makes her appear to have a hell of a tiny waist because it's tightly cut on the bodice and springs into a wide, petticoated skirt, and unbeknownst to her mum, Hermione is cheerfully aware of the racy set of silken underwear she's wearing underneath, too.

"You're going on a date, I presume?" Nicky Granger keeps on probing suspiciously with a fringe of curiosity.

Hermione hesitates for a second, but decides to be honest then. "As a matter of fact, I am, yes, kind of, anyway."

"But not – not with your Ron, right?"

"Of course not, Mum!"

Her mother knows better than to ask more, knowing her daughter and her inhibitions well enough. What is more, Nicky is deeply glad to see the girl apparently getting over what Mrs and Mr Granger call 'her big disappointment' among themselves. She's going on a date! Not once were they privy to Hermione going on a _date_ before! Hardly ever were they privy to her getting dressed like that either! Oh well. They disapprove of girls turning themselves into pretty dolls for the sake of some guy, of course, of course, and Mrs Granger would rather not think about the amount of money her poor student daughter must have laid out for this glamorous dress, money that could be put into so much better use... But the long and the short of it still remains – _she's going on a date!_

With bated breath, Hermione waits for her mum's exit before continuing, grateful that she left her off the hook. Some more charms to smooth her hair, a little bit mascara and a hint of lipstick (which she particularly bought for this occasion, too!), some splashes of perfume, then she slips into the satin ballerinas that match the dress so fabulously, dons the matching black cloak and – can merely stare at her own reflection. It's not Audrey Hepburn goggling back at her, alright, but it isn't Little Miss Know It All either.

She'll kill him if he tries ripping this dress, too! Although he might be entitled to rip it because he was the one who paid for it, on the other hand it was a gift, so the ownership was legally transferred to her, was it not... Catching herself following this train of thoughts which is taken more or less verbatim from her Civil Law class, she scowls at her image in the mirror. 'Put on as many pretty clothes as you like, Hermione, you'll always be a terrible swot!' she grimes at herself. 'You can paint the horse but that doesn't turn it into a zebra', Malfoy would possibly say now...

As a matter of fact, it's his birthday. Well, tomorrow is his birthday, his twentieth to be precise, which he didn't mention even in passing, but Hermione knows it because the lovely leather-bound magical calendar he gave her recently makes a point of not only listing the exact time of sunset etc., but also of constellations, and marks the 5th of June as the day of the constellation of Draco, after which he doubtlessly was named. All Blacks are named after constellations, or most of them anyway, Sirius, Andromeda, Bellatrix! Okay, how 'Narcissa' fits into this isn't entirely clear to her, but perhaps her birthday didn't coincide with a suitable constellation or star (they could not have named their daughter Canis Minor, could they!).

They're appointed to meet up tonight and Hermione intends to surprise him at midnight, or whatever one can call it, because his own birthday is certainly not going to come as much of a surprise to him. She purchased a bottle of champagne (yuck! But it's called-for, isn't it?) to open on the stroke of twelve, baked her first-ever (and certainly last) cake (which is absolutely inedible, burnt to a crisp on the outside, while its inside is basically nothing but squashed fruit and vanilla pudding – but it's the thought that counts, right?) and after _days_ of racking her brains what to give to a boy who already has _everything_, she decided that the little party in itself must suffice as his present.

He grins lewdly when welcoming her at the gates and pays her loads of self-congratulatory compliments about her brilliant taste, and she lets him. This is going to be his great night, let him shine as much as pleases! She does, however, refute all his attempts to undress her once they're safely locked up in his room. She's got to slap his fingers repeatedly, and with every try it gets harder because blimey, she'd love to throw herself at him as much as vice versa.

"No," she moans for the umptieth time. He just put a trail of kisses up the inside of her arm, making her body tingle with excitement.

"Oh, come on, Granger," he whines, "you can't get dressed up like this and pull a nun on me then!"

"Whose fault is that, eh? Who was it who gave me this?"

"When I sent it to you, I didn't have in mind that you'd use it as an instrument of torture on me!"

She snorts laughing despite herself. "Instrument of torture, yes? I like that. God, I _love_ it!"

"Temptress," he whimpers and tries pulling her close. "Technically, I could argue now that I want the bloody thing back, and now, and _then_ you'd be standing there!"

"In my underwear, no less, which would be considered to be yours by the same reasoning," she says and enjoys the full impact this insinuation has on him. He's a very small step away from drooling. "That reasoning, though, would be completely erroneous, because both the dress and the underwear were given to me as a gift if I'm not mistaken, transferring the ownership to _me_ according to paragraph 14 –"

He puts on a smug mien and declares, "I'd naturally refute this according to paragraph 283, point 4, on the grounds that a gift can be reclaimed if the receiver turns out to have deceived the donor."

"In which way did I deceive you, then?"

"When I gave you this, I was naturally under the reasonable impression that you'd be willing to step out of it again in my presence."

"Reasonable impression? Lecherous delusion, more like!"

"_Such_ a fine line between these two, don't you think?"

She bows forth, snatches his hands before they can continue their reconnaissance mission (and who knows how longer she can withstand _then_!) and pecks a little kiss on his nose. "You _really_ must come back to school, you know? You're a natural-born Law Wizard!"

He grins and flutters his eyelashes at her. "I am, as a matter of fact. In the eighth generation now. Before that, there was a swift interruption because my great-great-great-great – losing count now – great-grandfather Brutus traded the calling for being a newspaper magnate and editor, but before that, there must have been another fifteen generations or so of them..."

"And you don't want to be mentioned in the same breath like that _Brutus_ fellow for breaking the family tradition, do you? What kind of name is that, anyway? Which father would name his son _Brutus?_"

"A Shakespeare aficionado! 'For Brutus is an honourable man!'"

"Anyway. Promise me you'll come back!"

He pulls a maudlin face. "Don't do that, sunshine!"

"What?"

"You can ask _anything_ of me, honestly, _anything_! But don't try to elicit a promise from me that I'm not sure I can keep!"

He's speaking in a facetious manner with mock weepiness, but the core of what he says strikes her still. He sounds like he's joking, but he isn't. Yes, she believes that she could ask him to give her whatever she wants; he's just inherited the country's largest fortune, he'd buy her Buckingham Palace if she'd ask for it nicely. But he'll not go down the slippery slope of committing himself to anything that he doesn't want to.

She lets go off his hands and pulls away. His face changes instantly into genuine dismay. "Is it really such a big deal to you whether I return to school or not?" he asks gently.

Hey, this is the eve of his birthday. Also, he's never been anything but candid with her, hasn't he. So it's really not her place to be the one sulking now. She shoots him a little smile. "Yeah, in a way it is. But you're right, I shouldn't ask you such a thing, I really shouldn't. Sorry."

He looks slightly puzzled. "You needn't be _sorry_, sunshine! It's just that I really can't say yet what I'll be doing. I _might_ go back; in fact I'd like to. But my place at present is here. I – I wasn't here when they'd have needed me most, and..."

His voice trails away and so does his gaze, indicating his thoughts are somewhere else, and a dark, cold, far-away place it is. She is really upset watching this transformation, not knowing what to do, and the only thing she can think of is taking his hand again and press it with real feeling.

A minute later, he gives himself a fierce shake (literally!) and his senses return to the here and now. "Sorry," he mutters before putting on a deliberately good-humoured face, noticing that she's still clinging to his hand, and quickly pulling her close to him again. "Now let me see... Where did I stop..."

His tongue in her ear and making a show of her will power not to succumb to his sweet caresses, Hermione can catch a glimpse of the impressive old clock on the mantelpiece. Eight minutes to midnight... _Thank_ _god!_ She couldn't be holding out much longer!

"What are your plans for tomorrow?" she asks slyly between two breathless kisses.

"That depends, sunshine..."

"On what?"

"On _you_, what else? As per usual, I entertain some tender hopes to be able persuading you to spend all day in bed with me, but seeing your track record of refusing my modest wishes so far..."

He bites her neck softly as if to emphasise his point, making her moan. She's just _so_ close to telling him that she'll not let him down this time. It's his present, after all! Luckily, she remembers to get a grip on her lustful self before blabbing – she hasn't put up so much resistance only to surrender – what is it? Three minutes? – before midnight... Gosh, three minutes, that's one hundred and eighty seconds, how's she supposed to last another _hundred and eighty seconds_ while he's doing that thing with his tongue on her throat and that thing with his fingers on her bosom...

She forcefully straightens up and pulls out of his embrace, panting. He shoots her a quizzical glance mingled with a smile. "Gee, Granger, you do have the self-discipline of a Christian martyr!"

"I have, haven't I?" she croaks, willing her pulse to normalise but not succeeding much. "To be quite honest, I do feel like one, too, one that's just been hurled into burning oil before being burnt on the stakes, come to that..."

He arches his brows poignantly. "That I can easily help you with, honey..."

"And I can easily picture what that 'help' would look like! Why, you're always just _so_ polite, but where are your manners when a girl is in serious need of a glass of cold water?"

"Now don't you complain, missy. You may be wanting a glass of cold water – _I_ on the other hand am in desperate need of a cold _shower_ if you go on like that," he cries, but is on his feet in the same instant nonetheless, obediently obtaining her the required drink from the small brazen cart with the bottles and the bucket of ice.

Hermione squints at the clock once more. Fifty-two seconds! Praise the lord!

"Here you go, my little Saint Agape of Thessaloniki." He hands her a glass of ice-cold water and as a first measure, Hermione presses the glass against her feverish cheeks. "Want more ice?"

Thirty-nine seconds. "Mmh, yes, I do in fact. An entire glass if you don't mind, please."

He obliges her with an amused face and comes back with a goblet filled with ice cubes. How very practical! And only twenty-five more seconds to go!

She points at the seat next to her on the sofa (which is rather an overlarge armchair; even Hagrid could sit down on this one) and ushers him to sit down, then orders him to keep his hands to himself and shut his eyes.

"What are you up to?" he mutters, followed by a throaty groan when Hermione takes one of the ice cubes and lets it glide over his half-opened lips. Ten seconds. Okay then!

With a lithe move, she straddles him, eliciting another groan and his eyes fluttering open as she bows down and laces a little kiss on his mouth. "Happy birthday, Draco," she purrs while his arms whirl her into an almost painful embrace.

He gives a little laugh. "What?"

"I said: Happy birthday," she repeats, placing lots of breathy kisses all over his face. "It _is_ your birthday, isn't it?"

"It is, yeah," he gasps, "but how do you know?"

"Remember the book diary you gave me...?"

"Yeah...?"

"It reminded me of already half-forgotten knowledge from our Astronomy classes... You may unwrap your present now."

Which is exactly what he does. She faintly notices that not once before in her life she's given anybody any present that was graced with such an enthusiastic, nay: exuberant welcome. He's hardly peeled her out of the precious dress (threatening more than once to make short work of all the invisible clasps and bindings in her back keeping this sartorial masterpiece together, but she warned him not to _dare_ messing with her Audrey Hepburn dress, or else) when he looks like swooning, goggling at the cobweb underwear, so sheer as if she weren't wearing any and so risqué in her opinion that she wouldn't even allow her own mother to find it in the hamper. _Especially_ her mother, mind you! No mother should ever be forced to mentally picture her daughter wearing such a scanty slip of nothingness. Well, Nicky Granger may be the odd one out of a hundred who'd actually _approve_, at least it'd put her mind at rest about her child's uptightness.

But back to Draco Malfoy who couldn't be gawping more gobsmacked, his hands shooting forth almost on their own account and cupping her breasts so tenderly, so speechlessly reverent that Hermione in turn would like to faint with delight. Never in her life has anybody looked at her like this. Never has anybody lusted so much after her either. And to tell the truth – it feels _bloody_ fantastic to be thus admired, it's intoxicating, enthralling, it goes up to the head like the champagne that they put to so much better use than merely drinking it. After he trickled the costly, sparkly liquid over her perky nipples (made so perky by being tendered with ice cubes first) to avidly lap it up then, she finally understands why everyone is fawning so much over the stuff, and when he uses it in the same fashion on that one little nub that's even more responsive than her nipples, she'd be ready to invest all her money in a whole case of bottles only so he'd never ever ever stop.

The disastrous cake, by the way, is put to similarly fruitful usage by using its stuffing to smear on his cock, and the proud bakeress finds it's not that much of a failure after all. In fact, she could let herself be persuaded to give it another try anytime!

Waiting on tenterhooks for midnight has been worth it, she is satisfied when peering at the clock on the mantelpiece the next time and finding it's half past three. The jubilarian is making noises trying to catch his breath that make it dubious whether he'll ever live to see his twenty-first, which is another point of decided contentment for the girl. She almost smothers him when claiming him for another deep, savage kiss, and teases, "Liked your present?"

"Best – present – _ever_," he wheezes.

"You appear to be quite knackered, poor dear! Shall I attempt the resuscitation, or will you straight roll over and die?"

He chuckles weakly, but grabs her elbows with surprising strength nevertheless to pull her even closer, wincing when her crotch rubs over his spent member and squeezing his eyes shut. "You're killing me," he pants, "no, in fact you already have... And I've straight gone to heaven... But if you'll try the kiss of life, who knows what'll happen..."

Oh, it's pretty obvious what's going to happen, and it does. When he's finally curling up in her arms, she can rightfully claim to have pampered him in each and every way she could possibly think of, and that she can't have done the job half bad judging by his otherwise so nobly white features that are dark pink now, his sweat-covered body, the glazed-over eyes and the tiny red trickle on the side of his mouth, which is the result of him biting his bottom lip so hard that he drew blood.

She fondles his silky, now damp hair. "One last thing before you fall asleep, birthday boy..."

"Anything you want, precious..."

"What about tomorrow morning? I expect your parents will want to have breakfast with you, too, and celebrate a bit with their little darling?"

His eyes fly open and he looks at her so thoroughly bewildered as if the idea had never crossed his mind before. "What? No. No. They... No."

"Come on, I'm sure they –"

"_No_, they're not," he snarls, sounding really annoyed, and she can feel his body tautening. He inhales deeply. "Sorry. Didn't mean that to come out so harsh. See, my father – he isn't in the mood to even think of such a thing – I doubt he even remembers, and as for my mum –" He gives a dry chuckle that sounds almost like a sob. "She – she doesn't even know what day it is, okay?"

Hermione opens her mouth for – for what exactly? To voice her disbelief? To assure him of the opposite, despite the fact that she doesn't even know what she's talking about? She shuts her mouth again and swallows hard, goggling at him in genuine confusion.

He notices it and gently rubs his hair against her collarbone. "I'm really sorry, but... I'll explain some other time. Not now. Not today... I –"

"It's okay, of course! You needn't – I don't..." she hurries to cry. "_I_ am sorry! I shouldn't have brought the topic up, it's just – I merely thought..."

"_You're_ my birthday party, sunshine." He shoots her a fond smile, though his eyes still appear a bit sad, but then the moment is over and her old friend, the naughty sparkle, is back in control. "My party and my present, and don't you forget it – my birthday will last for twenty-four hours!"

"I'll not forget, be sure of that much!"

His misgivings (can one call it that?) turn out to be correct. The only evidence of the fact that there's a birthday to celebrate is a gigantic three-storey cake – no, _gateau_, if that word ever had any reason to be included in the English language, it must be to describe this marvel, which is standing in the hallway in front of his door. A gift from the servants, as the multicoloured writing on the icing amiably declares; one layer is a chocolate cake, Sacher style, one is an almond tart, and the third something that's called 'Zuger Kirschtorte', as Malfoy informs her with a chuckle. He tells her the story how, as a small child, he always, always wanted to try this particular cake but was always denied because the butter cream filling is flavoured with cherry brandy.

"My parents, you must know, didn't deny me a lot –"

"No kidding."

He laughs. "Anyway, they remained _adamant_ on this head and I so totally couldn't see why. So one night, Vince and I sneaked into the Crabbes' kitchen. Mrs Crabbe had made one for I-forgot-what occasion the upcoming day. Vince was dead scared of his mum – I can see why, I'm telling you. The woman could wrestle down a troll if she wanted. He really didn't want to do it, but I was just sooo curious and kept on spurring him on until he gave in. Anyway, we ate the whole bloody thing and were sick all over the place for the rest of the night. Poor Vince was even worse off than me because he'd obviously eaten most of it – you could never win any eating competition against him, you know? Mrs Crabbe of course tattled, but instead of being angry, my mum commiserated me and promised me that'd I'd get the biggest Zuger tart the world has ever seen as soon as I was old enough to drink alcohol."

Hermione smiles at him (and the story), touched by his soft tones speaking of them, of his mother and Vincent Crabbe, his dead friend. It's the same sort of tone employed in The Burrow whenever somebody mentions Fred, or retells some old anecdotes about his and George's pranks. Hermione has absolutely no reason to harbour any friendly memory of Crabbe, but hearing his friend talking about him is all the same moving.

"And when did you get it?" she asks gently.

He snorts. "For my _sixteenth_ birthday, can you believe it?"

"Your mum does believe you're a very nice boy!"

"I _am_ a very nice boy indeed," he purrs into her ear, wiping his index finger over the soft cream icing of the almond tart and letting her suck it then. It's very good; her compliments to the chef, her fellow baker. Granted, his – or her – cake is way better than hers, but it can be used in a very similar fashion. If the poor elf responsible knew what's done with its cake!

The only other tokens of Draco Malfoy's twentieth birthday are the owls that keep on arriving, and usually have to wait quite a while on the window sill before he can spare the time to let them in. His parents may have forgotten him (Hermione is still _scandalised_ with that bit!), but at least, his friends have not. Goyle has sent a card that shoots off merry fireworks, and two tickets for some Quidditch match.

"Wanna go?" Malfoy taunts her, waving the tickets before her nose.

"Yeah, right! As if!"

"Scared to meet anyone you know in such unsuitable company such as my own?"

She just scoffs. "And you?"

"Not as much as you, methinks."

"Do you want to know how many Quidditch matches – outside of Hogwarts, that is – I watched in the last two years?"

"Every home match of the Cannons, I gather?"

"One. Exactly one. Easy stat to remember. I really, really don't like it that much."

"But this one is different, Granger, not just some boring national league game. This is for the Asian cup final!"

Oh, okay. So the key word is 'Asian', admittedly. "We'll see, shall we," she mutters evasively. "And also – I'm sure you'll find someone absolutely dying to see such a top notch game."

He looks like there's something on the tip of his tongue, but then shrugs and leaves it at that. The next two owls are from Theodore Nott and Millicent Bulstrode, one dragging a thick leather-bound Greek book, the other one – a package full of Abraxan wool...?

"I don't get it. Why would she send you _wool_?"

"She's still taking the mickey out of me for my knitting."

"Your what?"

"I took up knitting for a while. After I'd run out of every pair of socks I'd possessed."

"You are _kidding_ me!"

He isn't, if one is to believe the story of young born-with-the-golden-spoon-in-his-mouth Draco Malfoy trying to live on his own. She cringes with laughter when he runs past some details, of shrunken cashmere sweaters and blazing potatoes, his own first cake which exploded in his face, various unlucky attempts at ironing and how he nearly lost an eye due to an 'uncommonly vicious, malevolent clothes peg'.

Then, there's Luna who's send a card very similar to a Howler – it sings, or rather, it tries singing, just that it sounds like a pack of dogs that have someone stamping on their tails. According to Luna, that's a birthday song recorded by the famed Merish singer Chrslblmmmb, and while the thought is appreciated by both of them, they're extremely quick in closing the card again. And finally, most surprisingly perhaps, there is a card from Professor Sprout.

Malfoy looks even more stumped than Hermione when reading the addressor. "What's gotten into _her_?" he mutters when ripping the envelope open. "Did I forget to return some gardening scissors or what?"

'_Dear Mr Malfoy,_' is written in their old teacher's usual bubbly handwriting, '_I was informed of your birthday, so please allow me to congratulate on my own behalf. Especially, however, I was asked by an inhabitant of this school, the ghost of Ms Myrtle Hackensack, to write to you and forward her most heartfelt congratulations, her good wishes and a few other things which I can impossibly write down. With regards, Prof. P. Sprout_'

They goggle at the letter speechlessly before they burst out laughing at the same time. Geez, poor Myrtle! Still got a crush on him then, after all this time? The poor dear! When she tells Malfoy so, he shakes his head, still chuckling. "I think you'll find it's rather Professor Sprout who's the 'poor dear'. I can easily imagine what Myrtle's been saying to her!"

"Perhaps you should introduce her to your dad. Perhaps she can transfer her affections to the senior." In the very moment when she's said this, she clasps her mouth. "God, sorry, this came out wrong! I mean –"

He makes a pensive face. "You know, that might not be such a bad idea after all..."

"What?"

"She's terribly lonely. Ask _me_, I know. She's got no friends among the ghosts in school and she's always on her own. She isn't bad, a tad annoying sometimes, okay, but when you get to know her, she's really sort of nice."

"But – your dad – I mean – he won't thank you for it!"

He shrugs vaguely. "He may take a century or two getting used to her, but on the long run... I mean – he'll be as lonely as her, and soon. And I won't be hanging out on this fair earth for more than the usual life time either. I _hope_."

She is quite aghast. He's serious! How can he be _serious_ about this?

He notices her shocked face and pecks a kiss on her lips. "Don't look at me like that! I'll have to think this over, clearly, and I don't have to make any life-changing decisions by tomorrow either. In fact, I should really wait some more, right? Just imagine she'd get the idea of wanting to live _here_ instead of Hogwarts..."

He shudders, and she – still a bit shocked – tries making a brave face and returns the little kiss.

Apart from being interrupted by officious owls, they spend most of the day like this, either putting cake to its most sensual use, or lying about tightly entwined, enjoying that for once, she'll not leave around noon, and talking. Not that she really registers it when it's happening, but in retrospection she will find that they've never talked so much than on this beautiful, lazy day – not _really_ talked, that is. About such personal things, too.

He relates some more about Crabbe, how they grew up as the best of friends and how alienated they'd been in the end, before... He can hardly bring himself to speak it out, and she truly pities him, despite the fact that damned Vincent Crabbe tried to kill her in that night, very nearly succeeded in fact, with that fire that eventually killed him in turn. But when she tells him "I'm so sorry", she sees him shaking his head vigorously.

"No," he says hoarsely. "Don't – you mustn't..."

"But I –"

He puts one finger on his mouth with a very strange look upon his face, then takes the same finger to trail along her throat, gently caressing one spot. "Whenever I see that scar... I could drop dead with shame, though shames's not nearly strong enough a word for it," he mutters and lowers his gaze unhappily. It takes her a second or two to grasp what he's even talking about. _That_ scar... The one from Bellatrix Lestrange's knife – she doesn't think of it very often. In fact, the scar and how she got it is among the less gruesome memories she has of that dreadful night. Sometimes, she has nightmares during which she feels Bellatrix crouching over her, torturing her with the Cruciatus Curse, but otherwise, she's mostly managed to suppress the recollections.

He proceeds with urgency, "You must never say _you_ were sorry, you hear me? You just mustn't. It's not – it's not _right_, you see? They would have _murdered_ you if they'd had the chance! Never – really _never_ – say that _you_ were the one who's sorry, please!"

He raises his eyes to look into her face once more, his look as imploring as his voice, and all she can do is lift her hand to his cheek and stroke it. "Listen to me now, will you?" she whispers after a while during which she collected her thoughts. "_You_ tried sparing my life that night. I remember it very well."

"I –"

"No, listen, Draco, I mean it. You and I are square, you get that? I'd not be here if it were otherwise. I will not, ever, try making light of all the horrors that happened in that war. I can't. And I don't think I can forgive some people for what they did, either. But that's got nothing to do with _you_. You and I are _even_. When I say I'm sorry, I mean sorry for you. I'm sorry you lost your friend, I am. Not because he hadn't been a complete bastard, or because I'd miraculously forgotten what he tried to do to me, but because I can see how much it troubles you. And that, I am really, really feeling sorry for."

He opens and shuts his mouth a couple of times. In the end, he lowers his head for his forehead to rest on her tummy in a very humble gesture. "You're a good soul, Hermione Granger," he says lowly. "Too good, possibly."

She shakes her head and carefully grabs his to relieve him of this very uncomfortable position and pull him back up to her face. She looks him straight in the eye. "I really want you to understand this, you hear me? It's not _your_ blame. You were young, you were shit-headed, I'll give you that without restrictions. In fact, you were one of the most ignoble assholes I ever met. But you _tried_ making up to the best of your abilities since then, and I can see you're not complacent about it now either. That's _enough_, you understand? It's all that one could reasonably ask of you! And when you're mourning for your friend Crabbe, that's alright, too, no matter how he died, or what a person he'd become in the end. He's been your friend of many, many years. You don't have to blot them out only because of how it's ended."

They're silent for a while; he has settled to lie on her chest, absent-mindedly playing with a strand of her hair when she hears him go on, "It was my fault, you know that?"

"Hm?"

"I – I confounded him – and Greg, too – before we went into the Room of Requirements that night. I – I... God, I just wanted – I hoped we could somehow survive the goddamned battle without having to partake in it, and... Vince was just so _intent_ on joining the fight, and I was afraid that he could snitch on me, or that he'd do something really stupid, so I hit him in the back with a Confundus... Turned out that didn't stop him from being really stupid, and..."

He falters, and Hermione waits for a minute, but when he doesn't proceed, she finishes the sentence for him. "You believe he would have escaped the fire if it hadn't been for the Confundus?"

"Yes," he gasps somewhere between relief that she put in words what he couldn't endure speaking out loud, and real, solid, unadulterated despair. She'd like to throw her arms around him and hold him so tightly that she'd somehow manage to squeeze these memories out of him. As it is, she's already clinging to him so fast that her arms are aching, and she cannot do anything to reconcile him to his past either, can she?

Maybe she can't, but she can still try to alleviate some of his pains! "You weren't confounded, and still, you would have died in there as well if it hadn't been for sheer dumb luck!"

"I would have died in there if it hadn't been for Potter's incurable helper syndrome, and I don't mean that derisively in any small way."

"Exactly! Confounded or not, that room was a death trap, the only reason we got out was because we stumbled across a bunch of brooms. I know you feel guilty, and I understand that, I might be feeling very similar if I was in the same position. All I hope to impress on you is that, seen from a slightly more neutral perspective, it doesn't make a difference whether you cast that spell on him or not. Goyle, on the other hand, _would_ have died, no ifs no buts, if it hadn't been for you. If nothing else, try thinking more of _that_. You saved your best friend's life that night."

They both fall silent; Hermione is stroking over his shoulders, he is caressing her hands and arm, but getting slower and slower, and more erratic, she realises he's about to fall asleep, which may be for the better. She takes a nap, too (the night was long and exhausting, after all, and one couldn't say that the time since waking up had left room for much recuperation either!), and wakes up around six o'clock, feeling ravenously hungry. Opening her eyes, she finds Malfoy looking straight at her, a little smile playing around his mouth.

"What's so funny?" she mutters and yawns.

"I like watching you when you're asleep. You're pulling funny little faces, you know?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Instead of an answer, he kisses her and suggests to get them something to eat other than cake.

"Excellent idea in principle. I have a better idea though. It'd get us out of the bed, but seeing my aching muscles, that might not be such a bad thing –"

"What are you talking about! If you're feeling unwell, you ought to stay in bed more than ever!"

"No, seriously, M'lord, I got a cunning plan." She winks at him, finding him looking nothing but expectant, and realises that Blackadder jokes are utterly wasted on a guy who's never set eyes on a television set. In fact, her plan is vaguely related to that educational gap. "So – after getting up and taking a shower, you and I are going to get dressed, and I'll take you out. First, we'll have dinner somewhere and _then_, brace yourself, I'll show you one of the most brilliant Muggle inventions ever!"

He struggles and does his persuasive best to keep her in bed, and once she's managed to drag him into the shower, their departure is once again put on ice, and the soreness of her muscles put to another dire test; next, he's got to look after his mum once more, too, but finally, around half past nine perhaps, they have gotten so far to have even had dinner in a nice Vietnamese restaurant close to Leicester Square.

"Liked it?" she asks, slightly anxious. Since she insisted to invite him because it's his birthday and all that, the financial limit was far beneath his usual standards.

He smacks his lips. "It was excellent, but for one thing..."

"Oh?"

"I would have preferred eating it off your tummy."

"You're impossible, you are! Can you please get your head out of the boudoir for another ninety minutes?"

He wriggles his nose. "Not sure... Can you put on a winter cloak for that time?"

"Nope. But that won't be any problem because you won't be seeing anything of me anyhow."

"Hey! What sort of plan is _that_ supposed to be? You forgot? My birthday and all! For another three hours still!"

"I did not forget, but I am positive that you're going to _love_ this. Come on."

And thus, she tugs him along ignoring all his whining protests with a broad grin until they're standing in front of the cinema, which – unfortunately – states in extremely bold letters that they're playing 'Gladiator' tonight. Not exactly romantic, alright, but perhaps just the thing for a young male who's never in his life seen a movie before. If she'd drag him into an Ingmar Bergmann movie or the next Meg Ryan, he might never go again!

Malfoy, still unwitting what that big building is supposed to be, glances up with a bemused frown. "Gladiator... Seriously!"

"Yep. Seriously. It's a movie, you know? And this is a cinema – you may have heard of them before, hm?"

"Oh, yes, I did actually! Moving pictures, right?"

"Exactly. I'm sure you'll like it. It's packed to the brim with manliness –"

His head tilted and smirking, he surveys the huge film poster displaying a heavily muscled man in the uniform of a Roman legionnaire. "Manliness. No kidding –"

While they're queuing, he keeps on jocundly nagging her why on earth he should trade looking at _her_ for looking at 'that stout fellow with the funny chest protector', prompting a very impolite woman behind them to snort and giggle, but then Hermione's finally stuffed a box of popcorn in his hands and manhandled him into their seats.

"It's like a not too pretty theatre," he remarks on the surroundings.

"Don't worry about the ugliness; they'll switch off the lights any minute now –"

"Erm – and how are we supposed to watch then?"

She grins at him. "Wait and see!"

In the beginning, there are the usual ads, which are cut fast and overly colourful, and observing him closely, she can see he's really taken aback, by the frenzied pictures as much as by the contents. He makes wide eyes when hearing the slogan 'Toujours liberté', finding it utmost admirable to tout for freedom and liberty until she informs him what it's really about. The boldface female that's still next to them gets a laughing fit about this. He doesn't know what a DVD player is either and she's got no time to explain because the DVD Player is instantly followed by an IBM ad, at which point she gives up. Luckily, the movie starts not five minutes later, and it's all she resignedly supposed it would be, battles, battles, with a battle strewn in here and there for a change, but to make it even worse, a part of the story contains a bit about the protagonist refusing obedience to the emperor who in turn murders the man's wife and small child. Hermione freezes when she realises this, panic-stricken, and jerks her head around to see how Malfoy is taking it.

Better than her, at any rate. He glares at the screen with narrowed eyes and bites his lip, but when she snatches his hand to press it, he presses it back without too much agitation, swiftly glancing over to her whispering "The _bastard_!" then instantly returning to watch. His eyes are, for all intents and purposes, _glued_ to the screen and while she can't say she's a big fan of the film, she congratulates herself thinking that birthday boy is absolutely floored by it. Shortly towards the end comes a scene in which the dying hero is reunited with his family – touching, yes, but Malfoy nearly breaking her fingers for squeezing her hand so forcefully startles her nevertheless. Looking over, she can hardly believe what she's seeing – he seems to be fighting back his tears if she's not very much mistaken, so she pads his arm with her free, yet unbroken hand which he snatches up as well without once turning his gaze away from the screen, and presses it just as vehemently.

For a second, she is perplexed thinking that he'd react so strongly to the hero's death, but then it strikes her. It's not his _death_. It's the reunion with the wife and child that shakes him so, and suddenly, she's got a big lump in her throat too. Damn it! She should have seen this coming! Why didn't she pick up some newspaper and check beforehand what movies would be on program tonight? How _could_ she take him here of all places? And on his birthday, too!

During the credits roll, he begins relaxing more and more, and when the lights are turned back on, he is quite his old self again, smiling at her with just a hint of embarrassment, lacing kisses on her nose and aching fingers and gently massaging the latter.

"You were right, sunshine," he exclaims.

"Was I...?"

"Undoubtedly. This _has _to be the greatest invention of the Muggles ever. In fact, I'd bestow it the third place of best inventions in history, right behind the wheel and flying broomsticks!"

The intolerable woman _still_ behind them in the queue starts tittering with that remark, and Hermione thinks it's about time to step on her toes very carefully and with all her might. The woman squeals. There, there. That feels better!

"So you – you liked it?" she asks, her voice a little high-pitched.

"Loved every minute of it! It's amazing, don't you think? Much better than the theatre! All the sceneries, and the music, and the way they could change between scenes and all that!"

She exhales with relief, seeing he is serious. Then again, after talking about one of his best friends dying only some hours ago, him being genuinely thrown by a stupid _movie_ is out of the question, isn't it! It was simply his first time, he was overwhelmed and all that... Somehow, she doesn't believe in her own arguments there, but his exuberance is real enough nevertheless, and so she lets it be, happy once more that he has had such a good time.

"Will you come back to the Manor with me?" he asks her hesitantly, sounding as if knowing her answer already, and she's equally hesitant with her reply. If she goes back with him _now_, she already knows that she's not going to leave the house again before ten o'clock tomorrow morning if that's enough, and there's just _so much_ she's got to do! But what the heck. Ten in the morning is early enough even for a swot, isn't it?

"Sure I'll come back with you. Your birthday isn't over yet for another sixty minutes, you know?"

He beams at her. "Too right! Hurry up, then, we mustn't lose any minute of it!"

* * *

'_For Brutus is an honourable man!_' – taken from: William Shakespeare, _Julius Caesar_

'_I've got a cunning plan_' – homage to the tv series _Blackadder_

'_Toujours liberté_' – slogan for a cigarette company

* * *

**This one goes out to Vesper Again! Thank you so much!**


	191. Heaven

Draco has a surprise up his sleeve

* * *

**– 4.64. –**

Heaven

* * *

_Heaven… I'm in heaven,  
__And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak.  
__And the cares that hung around me through the week,  
Seem to vanish like a gambler's lucky streak…_

_Dance with me! I want my arms about you.  
The charms about you  
Will carry me through to…_

_Heaven… I'm in heaven._

_IRVING BERLIN_

* * *

There is a certain, involuntary irony in her – well, she hasn't made up her mind how to call him, actually; let's just call the man 'paramour' for the time being – in her paramour's deportment towards her. After spending the first six years of their acquaintance going out of his way to make her miserable in any way he could think of, and the last two in guarded politeness, he's made a complete U-turn in the last six weeks. _Now_ he is at pains to treat her more gallantly and obligingly than she has ever been treated by anyone in the course of her whole life. It's astounding, she hadn't thought he had it in him!

Each morning, for example, regardless where she sleeps, she finds he has sent her flowers, beautiful, countless flowers. She reprimanded him, telling him how conspicuous this is – but he just laughed, and said that she can always say that the sender is anonymous, that she must simply have got herself an unknown admirer, and keeps on sending them anyway.

Flowers aren't the only things he's giving her. He also presented her with a whole lot of jewellery, but she could luckily put an end to this when she told him how queasy this makes her, and instead began sending books he heard her talking about. She tried to talk to him very sternly about this weird habit, but he just looked back at her wide-eyed, shrugging, and explaining that he's got nothing to do when she isn't there and how much pleasure he derives from coming up with those presents. He looked really helpless and imploring, and she decided that the books weren't worth quarrelling about them – as long as he stuck with those, and not went back to purchasing bracelets made of solid gold!

Then, there are the lovely things he says. "You brighten my day, sunshine", or that she was the most bewitching girl he ever had the pleasure of being intimate with, how smart she were, how sweet, what fun to be with and so on, and so forth. He keeps on saying these things, and heaven knows, she cannot help it but be absolutely enchanted. He _is_ charming, and she no longer bothers to deny it. He gives her the feeling as if she were special, the world's greatest person really, and pretty, and sexy. Of course, it's all rubbish, but it's bloody fantastic to be told these things nonetheless, and to have one's every wish anticipated.

After being engaged to the most insensitive, blunt guy in all England, and never hearing _any_ nice thing, or, _if_ he said something nice, he got it out of his damned book – after all this, it is incredibly wonderful to be treated the other way round. At least Malfoy doesn't memorise his compliments from 'Twelve Foolproof Ways to Charm Witches' – _he_ makes them up as he goes, and even if he's just as insincere about them as Ron, Hermione won't complain about being treated with such charming hypocrisy!

He has really got a way with words. He always had, even in school. His senses are finely tuned for his opponent, he instinctively knows what that other person wants to hear – or what'll smash them completely. As much as abuse she had to put up with from him during their first six years in Hogwarts and as much she sees of that other side just now, she's got ample of experience with both of these talents, which are really just two sides of the same medal, aren't they? Same thing with his resourcefulness, and sense of humour, both of which he once used to make trouble for others, or humble them. These days, he uses them to afford pleasure and make one feel good about oneself. It is a strangely satisfying spectacle to witness a person taking a flaw and working it into something good, something positive.

Incidentally, _all_ his manners are absolutely impeccable. When she doesn't drop by spontaneously (which hardly is the case; she's too scared to accidentally run into Lucius Malfoy's ghost), he always accompanies the servant who comes to open the gates for her and walks with her to the house, and come sunshine, rain or hail, he'll walk her back there, too, when she leaves again; he'll push her chair when she sits down and when she gets up again, help her with her jacket, keep an eye on her cup or glass and silently offer to pour her more tea, or pumpkin juice, or wine, before she's even noticed. One could say that he'd make a splendid head waiter in any fancy restaurant for a living, should his father discover whom he's fooling around with these days and decide to disinherit him.

He laughs out loud when she makes that remark one afternoon. "He cannot disinherit me. He's dead already, you know?"

Yes, she does, but sometimes she isn't sure how clearly _he_ has realised the same. Must be difficult to handle a loss (in itself, that's a feat!), when the deceased person comes back ten days later! He doesn't often refer to his father and she doesn't want to push him either. She can only imagine how painful all this is to him, and reckons that he'll come round in his own time. Every now and then though, he does mention this and that. He was quite intent, for example, to assure her that Lucius Malfoy, feared by all the world, was the best dad any little boy could dream of, and how tricky he finds it to square his own picture with the rest. _She_ finds that similarly hard to swallow, but on the other hand she thinks it must be true, seeing how very fond his son is of him, and the fact that Mr Malfoy truly doesn't seem to leave his wife's side for as much as a minute speaks in his favour, too. From what she's heard, the Malfoys must have led quite the perfect marriage, both being absolutely devoted to each other, and even though Hermione has some reservations regarding her evaluation of Mrs Malfoy, it fills her with compassion to think that this one lost her husband so cruelly. Why, even Molly Weasley, who frankly admits how much she dislikes the woman, repeated over and over how much her heart goes out to the widow whenever the topic came up in the Burrow.

The Burrow... She tries her best to think of it as little as possible. She received a postcard from Ron, from Morocco, stating how hot it is there, and sandy (originality isn't his strong suit!), and that he thinks they ought to talk when he's back – she crumpled the bloody thing up and lit it with her wand, nearly setting a stack of her college notes on fire. What does he want to _talk_ about, eh? How he's been screwing every bit of skirt between here and Marrakesh? When receiving the card, she became so angry, she'd loved to have screamed at him whom _she_'s been screwing with in the meantime, and how infinitely much more fun it is with him. Oh, how it would _kill_ Ron, ha! Her resentfulness aside, she cannot deny that she's missing the rest of the family though, dear Molly and Arthur, Ginny, and in extension even Harry, who more or less lives with the Weasleys, and whom she doesn't dare to meet up with either. What if he asks her how she's spending her time? Not that she intended to be honest with him in that case, but nevertheless, Harry and she have known each other for so long now, he might detect that she's lying, and then, she's in real trouble. Harry knew she had a crush on Ron before she'd acknowledge the same to herself even. He pretends to be all bumbling and unobservant, but he isn't, and therefore, she should be careful. Which will become a real problem once Ginny starts in Artemis, too. On the long run...

But luckily, there isn't going to be a 'long run' with Malfoy. Sooner or later, the sensation mongering will wear off and he'll become bored. In her weaker moments, she has to admit though that she truly hopes that's not happening _too_ soon. Oh well, when the holidays are over, at the latest, possibly. Malfoy doesn't want to return to school. In the very beginning, she thought that was due to him having inherited the family fortune and seeing no further need for an academic education, but that's complete rubbish as she found out almost immediately when she got to know him better. Now she knows it's because of his parents. He's on some guilt-trip for having left his parents' house and patronage last summer, subsequently not being around in that fateful night, and believes it's somehow _his_ fault. Naturally, Hermione would have talked him out of _this_ rubbish at once, but he made it perfectly clear, with one of those swift, angry scowls, that he doesn't want to talk about it.

There's a lot he doesn't talk about, and Hermione often wonders how much happier a person he could be if only he stopped doing the oyster thing, trying to square everything with himself. That story with Crabbe and the Confundus – he's been chewing on that one for more than two _years_ now, all that time blaming himself for his mate's death! Can you believe it? Every psychologist would have a field day with the positively pathological reticence of Draco Malfoy!

Or take that thing with his mother. Hermione's spent a whole lot of time with him during the last weeks, and still, she has not a clue what it is that's wrong with Mrs Malfoy. From the newspapers and Mr Weasley she heard what happened in that night, and from George and Ron, she heard the bits that Mr Weasley would rather have left out of his rapport (the dear man just can't bring himself to say what happened to her in his daughter's presence, or Hermione's, or Fleur's), too. Mrs Malfoy was assaulted by some former Death Eater, raped and forced to watch how her husband was slain by werewolves then; her injuries in themselves weren't grave though. So this really doesn't explain why she, for all Hermione can see, or rather: not see of her, is bedridden and _so_ distraught that she'd even forget her only son's birthday, a son no less that so far, she's been fighting with nails and claws for and coddled over like a dragoness over her eggs. Perhaps she's still angry with him for moving away last summer? But in that case, she would not possibly endure him taking care of her three times a day, right? Whatever it is – Hermione knows for a fact that he spends more time with her than with any living being, but whenever the conversation does as much as taking a very distant turn into Mrs Malfoy's general direction, her son, being his mummy's son really, bristles und puffs like a dragon who feels threatened in his lair.

Hermione would never press the issue, and within seconds, he's pulled himself together again and goes back to being all nice and sweet and talkative – of other topics, naturally. Sometimes though, sometimes within these very few seconds, when she can see a door closing behind his eyes, his jaws clenched, his shoulders taut with tension – every now and then during these few accidental moments, she is almost overwhelmed by the urge to grab him and shake him and _scream_ at him to just say it whatever it is because it'll bloody ease his mind, and pull him into a very tight embrace then. It aches her to see him so – so – _miserable_! He's a good man – she'd never have believed she'd say something like that, but he really is, friendly and generous and capable of great empathy if he turns his mind to it. He doesn't deserve to be so unhappy.

Oh well. He isn't _that_ unhappy all the time, is he? When they're together, he usually strikes her to be quite cheerful, and it is a _pleasure_ to see him like that. He's very handsome by nature with his slender built and porcelain skin, those finely chiselled features and diamond grey eyes. But have him smile and beam at you! It's a stunning sight, Hermione must know. If he were smiling like this more often, he'd not be able to save himself from the flood of female requests!

"You're looking merry," she consequently tells him the next time they meet. He looks as if he'd swallowed a rainbow, honestly!

"Merry? Out of myself with pleasure of seeing you, sunshine, as always," is the prompt reply and the smile widens some more.

"Happy to see you too," she murmurs and tiptoes to kiss him, vaguely noticing an embarrassed-looking elf discretely disapparating.

"Hey!" Malfoy cries, breaking away from her kiss.

For which she 'heys' him, too!

He smacks his lips, grins, bows back down to her and kisses her very deeply for compensation. "It's just," he wheezes after all, "that he was supposed to take us back..."

"Oh my, you _are_ impatient, aren't you?"

"I am, indeed. – Nobby!"

Instantly, the elf is back, looking bashful. "Master?" he cries with a deep bow.

"Be so good and take us back, please!"

"Of course, M'lord!" The elf boldly snatches his master's arm and, with another little bow and somewhat less abruptly, Hermione's. In the next second, they are all standing in one of the corridors in Malfoy Manor. Nobby asks if there's anything else he can do, answers the question for drinks with an 'everything is as you wished, M'lord' and vanishes once again.

"Drinks? At three in the afternoon?"

"Yep. I do believe a little toast might be in order, because _I_, young lady, have a surprise for you," he says archly and wriggles his brows. "One of which I hope that you will like it. Or at least approve."

"Oh yes? A surprise? I _like_ surprises!"

"So let's see what you make of this one. Come on!"

He snatches her hand and leads her up to the second floor, along a long, winded corridor that seems to lead into another, older part of the building, before finally stopping in front of an impressive, finely-carved door.

An inscription is carved into the wood of the lintel – '_In Bibliothecis Immortales Animae Loquuntur_' – and a broad smile spreads on Hermione's face. She gazes over to him, finding him smile as well. "Ready?"

She nods enthusiastically, he opens the door, and… Her jaw drops. They've entered a library of magnificent proportions, rooms and rooms (no, _halls_) arranged in a labyrinthine fashion. Most walls are covered with impossibly high, dark shelves, some of which have crystal doors to protect particularly valuable tomes and parchments. She zigzags from shelf to shelf and room to room, marvelling, and pulling him along with her left while reverently running her right forefinger along the ancient leather spines. They chance to stand in something like the Astronomy section or so; that shelf right in front of them is devoted to various editions of Ptolemy's Almagest and Menelaus of Alexandria's works, with countless commentaries from Ali Ibn Ridwan to Francesco Maurolico. None of these books looks younger than some hundred years; some look decidedly older. She's almost afraid to touch them, dreading to damage these treasures.

He encourages her nonetheless. "Go ahead. They could hardly be in more caring hands, could they?"

So she starts pulling out book after book, starting with Theon's edition of Euclid's Elements, continuing with Milburga of Wenlock's Benedictiones, Bridget Wenlock's Numerologica, and so on, and so forth, until she realises that she's lost all sense of orientation.

"No, you didn't. The rooms keep on changing."

"And how do you get out again?"

"Oh, there are several possibilities. Either you memorise certain books you see on your way in, and try finding them again one by one in reverse order. Or you try talking one of the portraits into guiding you out again. Or you simply go by trial and error. After a while, you get a feeling for it; I think my mother could have found her way out with a blindfold. At the beginning, it's easiest to either jump out of one of the windows, or call a servant and simply Apparate out with them again."

"I strongly suspect that only family members can call for a servant though, right?" He nods, and she adds impishly, "So I better make sure I don't lose sight of you, eh?"

"Don't worry. I won't lose sight of _you_. – You like it?"

She swivels around, beaming. "It's _incredible_! It's – it's –"

He strokes over her hair. "I thought you'd like this place."

"I do… God, I _do_! It's –" She waves her hands excitedly. "I've never seen anything like this! It's like – like heaven!"

He radiantly smiles at her, and blimey, she couldn't take his pride of this amiss even if she wanted. This library is as beautifully arranged as it is impressive; it must contain some hundred thousand books, if that's enough (it isn't, as she learns later). In every room, there are cosy-looking armchairs, sofas and desks, and curiously, every room has at least two windows – which can't be possible – except for one huge hall in the centre, that has no windows, but a cupola made of softly tinted glass instead. There are also paintings everywhere, by wizards and Muggles alike, and Hermione thinks she recognises some very famous ones. There are also statues and sculptures of all sizes, among them a life-sized sculpture of the lady of the house herself made of white-gleaming marble.

Hermione stops short before that one, though not for long. His mother is a sensitive issue, she knows, she knows. Even in passing, she is struck by the sculpture though. Narcissa Malfoy is truly, in the most classical way, beautiful. She's got high cheekbones and very delicately chiselled features, a long, strait nose, and long, slender limbs. Everything about her is fine and delicate, and perfectly proportioned, though a bit thinner than the girl actually remembers of her.

"My cousin made this one after a photo," he says quietly. "I believe it's his latest work."

"It's very impressive –"

"Yes, he's very gifted, isn't he?" She notes that he's using the present tense instead of the preterite, doesn't comment on this though when hearing him mutter, "It's a magical statue, you know? I _hate_ looking at it."

Before she can ask why, he already pulls her away and she understands, following him without any further remark into the hall with the cupola, where he settles her in a comfortable leather armchair. She's not quite seated when a cold, crisp voice resonates through the hall.

"What are you thinking, boy! Taking a stranger here! Here of all places!"

Hermione flinches; her eyes dart up to the portrait of a wizard in lush, purple robes. It's the first time any of the portraits talked in her presence. Malfoy, however, just rolls his eyes and turns around with a sneer. "My dear, let me introduce you to Alexandrias Malfoy. He is most notable for two things – firstly, he designed and built this library. Secondly, he's been out of humour for the last five hundred years, and still counting."

Despite herself and the portrait's outraged scowls at her, she's got to stifle a laugh, but the portrait rants on, "This is no public library, boy!"

"No, it isn't. Yet. But I _might_ yet decide to make one of it, couldn't I? For example if you kept on annoying me."

"Tah! Just like your father! No respect for your elders!"

"Yes, yes. Now why don't you hop along and visit old Hector? _He_ will certainly agree with you. But no – I forgot. Poor old Hector is carving out his miserable existence in the dungeons nowadays, isn't he?"

The portrait's pallid features are marred by ugly red blots and he spats, "Oh, if only your _mother_ knew this! If only your mother knew that you're allowing strangers in here! You _know_ how she despises strangers!"

"Don't you pretend this was about my mother's wishes. I believe I know her better than you do, and I am quite sure that she would appreciate such a great reader as this young lady around her treasures. And what is more – this is no _stranger_, but _my_ _guest_, and a very welcome one, come to that." He coolly raises his wand now, aiming at the portrait. "You've forgotten that it is up to _me_ now whether your portrait hangs here – or is taken down and put next to Hector's in the dungeons for the next fifty years?"

"You wouldn't _dare_," the portrait huffs, but glares at the wand in discomfiture still.

"Want to bet?" He shoots the portrait a last, challenging look, before putting his wand back in his pocket and turning back to her, all charming smiles once more. "Please, excuse this little – interruption. He cannot help himself, you know. Can I offer you a glass of mead?"

She's got to force herself to draw her worried glance away from the scandalised painting, nods lightly, and watches him pour two glasses. It's positively weird to hear Malfoy talk like this to his ancestor. It reminds her frightfully much of the boy she went to school with, the haughty sense of superiority, the contemptuous eloquence – but seeing it directed at a member of his noble family, in defence of her, the 'mudblood'… It's just _bizarre_.

He seems to notice her uneasiness; when he hands her the glass, he bows down and brushes a kiss on her forehead. "I'm so sorry," he murmurs. "But you really mustn't listen to him, he's always like that."

That, of course, explains a _lot_ about some of Malfoy's more unpleasant sides. Having grown up surrounded by such disagreeable people… She smirks wryly. "Charming…"

He bursts out laughing. "Yes, isn't he? And he's still one of the more high-spirited guys. We've got a dozen portraits standing around in the dungeons because my father could never put up with them. Anyway… I didn't take you here merely to brag – though that was, admittedly, a factor –"

She sniggers, snatches his hand and pulls him down for a real kiss. "It'd take supernatural strength _not_ to brag with this place, Malfoy," she murmurs, stroking over his cheek. "I don't think I ever envied you for growing up in all this wealth, but… This library is giving me second thoughts."

Still stooping, he leans his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. "Make yourself at home, Granger," he whispers. "It's at your beck and call…"

"That's one hell of a pleasant surprise indeed!"

"Ah!" His eyes fly open and he grins. "That wasn't the surprise yet, actually."

"Tenterhooks, Malfoy, tenterhooks! Spill it out!"

His grin turns a little more devious still. "Look, I've been thinking. You were so terribly insistent, and I asked myself what I could do to lay your mind at rest..."

"Yes...?"

"Yes, I couldn't have you facing so dire a future that you'd be compelled to team up with old Ernie, so I thought to myself that I _could_ apply for taking the exams yet –"

The dignified silence of the grand old library is disrupted by a loud, whooping yell and the sound of a glass shattering on the parquet floor. Hermione has dropped it in order to whirl her arms around her host's neck, but seeing the effect, loosens the embrace again at once.

"Gosh, _sorry_ –"

"Forget about it," he murmurs and hugs her in turn, pulling her up into a tight embrace. "I did think you might be pleased, but blimey, I had no notion just _how_ much store you'd set by the idea…"

"I do! I _do_!"

"I don't _believe_ this," the portrait of the founder chimes in, staring at the mead trickling all over the shining hardboard floor and sounding outraged. "Listen to me, you –"

Disentangling his right arm for a moment, Malfoy draws his wand and sends a non-verbal spell at the painting. From the corner of her eye, Hermione sees that Alexandrias keeps on ranting, but mutely now, his eyes bulging with indignation, compelled to watch his great-great-great-great-whatever-grandson seize her close for a deep, long kiss, which makes her forget the old man's disapproval soon enough.


	192. Life In Itself

Draco, always so apt with words, doesn't find the right ones to express his bliss

* * *

**– 4.65. –**

Life In Itself

* * *

_just one more and i'll walk away_

_all the everything you win turns to nothing today_

_and i forget how to move when my mouth is this dry_

_and my eyes are bursting hearts in a bloodstained sky_

_oh, it was sweet, it was wild and oh, how we…_

_i tremble, stuck in honey, honey cling to me_

_so just one more, just one more go_

_inspire in me the desire in me to never go home_

_THE CURE_

* * *

Everything was in a weird state of suspension. Draco's dad was dead, but hadn't gone on, and become a ghost instead. Draco's mum was stuck in between; alive, but just barely so. Draco lived, too – but merely half-time, so to speak. How many hours a day did he spend in his mother's sick room, quiet, depressed, hopeless, and how many more did he spend in utter gloom in his own, as if he, too, was already in the family vault.

Narcissa Malfoy's state was constantly deteriorating, which was visible to the naked eye by now. Her body, so conscientiously nourished and taken care of, simply didn't accept the food it was fed and she weighed no more than eighty pounds. Her heart was getting weaker by the day, her pulse so meek and slow that it took some skill to take it on her wrist. Her once so beautifully translucent skin had become so thin that one thought one could see her bones shining through and adapted a bluish tinge, and her long golden hair seemed almost white. To look at her ached her son and made him shiver. 'It's like she were lying in her grave already', he thought time and time again and felt chilly. Professor Snape, who spent most time in a painting in her room these days and kept Lucius' company, was at his wit's end, and so great Damocles Belby, famous potioneer and old friend of the family, was called for, but he could only attest the same as the Professor before him – there was nothing else that could be done for her. Not long and they would take her from this bed and put her in her last.

But Draco's existence, bleak and hopeless as it would seem, didn't exclusively take part in a vault. There was also life, real _life_. It was so absurd in a way, he could hardly believe it himself when he was alone. Within all this misery and death, there were islands of happiness, utter, oblivious happiness. Every couple of days, life itself, and all that was good about it, would come to the Manor and stay for a while. A night, half a day, a whole day sometimes even, and let him forget the hopelessness he was feeling otherwise. He had once asked her what her neighbours thought she was doing during her regular absences at night; she had smirked and replied, "They believe I'm a mystery-monger, and that I must have found myself a Muggle lover, possibly."

Curious, wasn't it, what some people would think if they were denied sure knowledge. Granger's college neighbours thought she had a Muggle lover, her parents on the other hand had thought she was seeing someone from school. Draco's dad presumed pretty much the same in regard to his son, believing he saw much of himself in the young man, but thinking no more about it.

Draco, on the other hand, thought of his lover as a benign higher being, 'an angel' his Nana would possibly have said, blessing him with her company. She was just marvellous. He hadn't thought just _how_ marvellous she was. He had known how intelligent she was, and how pleasant to talk to – but he hadn't fathomed the extent of how good she could make him feel in the midst of utmost disaster. Her warmth, her amicability, her sympathy and understanding – all made him feel a different man, an effect that lasted longer than her actual presence even. Hours after she'd have left, he would still feel less hopeless, more in tune with himself and his life as it was, because that was what she was in his eyes, the sort of person to infuse trust and confidence in others with her own goodness. Now here was a woman truly open-minded and trusting in the prevalence of goodness on the long run, without being naïve, or hypocritical, or unaware of the fact that the world and life itself _weren't_ fair, or good, per se. Instead, she emanated a staunch faith that they ought to be good and fair and _could_ be good and fair, better and fairer than they were at any rate, if only one tried with true commitment.

Draco had been raised by four master cynics, and their cynicism was deeply ingrained in him. 'Life isn't fair, deal with it,' the Professor had used to say. 'Human nature is faulty and so is all our striving,' his mother had often professed. 'Others will always try taking advantage of you – make sure you beat them to the draw,' his father had said time and time again. Not to mention Grandfather Abraxas' unforgettable favourites 'Never rely on anyone but yourself', or 'Being alone is the only efficient way to save oneself from cumbersome company!' He had always believed they were unarguably right, and smirked contemptuously about all these nutters, the naïve and the self-righteous, the daydreamers and the do-gooders, all of whom would shut their eyes to the most obvious truths. But Granger was nothing of this; she wasn't silly nor short-sighted, and still she believed that _everything_ could be made possible. And despite the undeniable fact that _his_ own life was but a pile of broken glass, as long as she was around, he could believe that he might have some sort of desirable future nevertheless.

He knew that it wouldn't last, of course – but she was also good enough to never allude to _that_; she wouldn't even _mention_ its futility. He couldn't say what would crumble first – Narcissa Malfoy's frail health, or Hermione Granger's wish to annoy her former fiancé. And seriously – he didn't want to know. He wanted to enjoy this as long as he could have it, he didn't want to rack his brains fretting when he would lose it after all.

For the time being, she was there.

"Were you a good boy?" she asked him teasingly, playing with the top button of his shirt.

"Oh, yes, I was!"

"Shall I believe that?"

"I insist!"

"Because if you _were_, I just _might_ be induced telling you something…"

"Something – naughty?"

She laughed out. "I guess one could call it that, yes..."

"Now that sounds too thrilling not to investigate."

"It's a secret."

"All the better. I _love_ secrets. Having them, keeping them, but most of all – _hearing_ them…"

"I was quite resolved not to tell you," she breathed, rubbing his back and arching against him, which didn't exactly heighten his concentration.

"Unfair… Now you _got_ to tell me!"

"Only if you promise that you don't get too vain."

He chuckled and tickled her. "Vainer than I already am, you mean?"

She laughed, too. "Quite!"

"I can safely promise you that I'll never become as vain as Pretty Boy, if that's good enough for you."

"That ought to suffice, I suppose," she said and opened another button. "Although…"

He could tell that she was a little awkward, despite her ostentatious coyness, which made the matter all the more interesting. He whispered in her ear how curious he was and that he'd promise anything she'd care to hear, until he had finally coaxed her into continuing. "Last Monday afternoon – I had just come home after spending the night with you…"

"That's an excellent start to _any_ story…"

"It is, isn't it?" She sucked on her bottom lip and opened yet another of his buttons. "And I was just _so_ dead tired that I had to take another nap..."

"Wish I'd been there," he sighed and found he truly meant it. He liked watching her in her sleep; it was such a peaceful, homely sight.

She chuckled. "See? That's kind of the point. I... I apparently wished the same, and in some way, you _were_ there indeed –"

He arched his brows at her. "Was I?"

She laughed some more and he could tell she was trying to gloss over her awkwardness. For a start, she opened another two buttons and let her small hands glide over his chest and kissed it. "How is it possible your skin is so soft?" she muttered, her hot, humid breath tickling him exiting him as much as her kisses.

"Hereditary feature," he tried to joke, arching his back against her touches. "That, or Madam Meliflua's Magical Bubble Bath Balm…"

"Mmmmh," she hummed against him, making every nerve in side his body tingle. "I should write Madam Meliflua a thank-you card..."

She made short work of the remaining buttons and let the shirt glide of his shoulders, and for a while, he got so distracted by her caresses, he almost forgot her little insinuations. Only after making love to her when holding her and stroking over her still trembling shoulders, it came back to him.

"You were saying..."

"Hm? You mean 'God, don't stop, don't stop, don't stop'?"

He sniggered and tightened his embrace with that recollection – Granger clinging to his bed post in the throes of so almighty an orgasm that her insides had practically milked him. He loved that he could do that, that he was able to thrill her so much to completely forget herself. He couldn't say what it was exactly. He had enjoyed sleeping with Susan and Aida and Bernie, too, and _they_ had appeared to like it just as much, but in retrospection, he found that each of them and he, himself, had rather enjoyed sex 'by themselves' so to speak. He had been satisfied because they had satisfied him, and vice versa. With Granger, there was another, an additional thrill – that of being satisfied himself because he saw _her_ being satisfied. It was doubling the gratifications, or rather exponentiating them, really.

"_That_ was very intriguing as well, oh yes. But if I remember correctly, you were mentioning something of a 'naughty secret' which really got my curiosity up!"

"Oh! That!"

She actually blushed and pressed her face against his shoulder. Now what could make a woman who, not long ago, had allowed him to shag her out of her senses – what naughtiness could make such a woman _blush_?

"Yes! _That!_ Tell me!"

"Uhm... Well. Where did I leave off..."

"You were saying that you'd taken a nap and that I was there."

"Ah, yes, I remember. Oh well. I was taking a little afternoon nap, and... Then I had a – a dream, you know..."

"A dream..." he echoed, and thought he had an idea what she was about to say, from the way she was going on about this, and from knowing her a little by now. He couldn't have suppressed the grin following this realisation, and if his life had depended on it. Thank Merlin that she wasn't looking!

She faltered to continue, and toning down the grin to a more modest, unsuspicious smile, he chucked her chin and pulled her up to his face to kiss her once more, for reassurance. "Did I make an appearance in that dream?"

She bit her lip. "At some point, you did..."

"Tell me more about that point, sunshine."

"Mmmh... In that dream, I was lying in bed, too, though not my own..."

"In mine, perhaps?"

"No, it was some unknown bed."

"And...?"

"I – I –" Her cheeks were flushing a deep shade of scarlet and she shook her head. "I really cannot say this out loud, I'm sorry!"

"Of course you can. Come on."

"Really, I can't!"

"That can't be possible. Am I really supposed to believe that you, Hermione Granger, winner of the Wellbeloved Medal for your eloquent outspokenness and proud, brave Gryffindor, could shrink away from _saying_ something?"

"It's just so – so – _shaming_!"

"I cannot believe that. Shall _I_ in turn tell you about my last dream of you?"

She eagerly nodded, and he proceeded in telling her – well, _not_ of his last dream of her, really, because he never dreamt of shagging her, and something like this was definitely called for at present in order to make her feel less embarrassed about herself. No, in his _dreams_, they never did more than cuddling. In his _fantasies_ on the other hand, they _did_, and he thought dream at night or fantasy didn't make much of a difference for this purpose.

She listened and watched him closely with wide eyes, nibbling and sucking on her oh-so-sensual bottom lip, occasionally smiling and increasingly relaxed. In the end, she purred, "We ought to do _exactly_ that."

"_Exactly_?"

She blushed a little. "You... Would it turn you on then if I really told you that – uhm – that I want you to – to fuck me, yes?"

He gave a chuckle. "Merlin, you don't know how much of a turn-on, sweetness! I grew up in a household where 'fuck' was an absolutely forbidden word; it turns me on endlessly to think of you saying it, you know, the contrast between your usual demeanour, all buttoned-up and unapproachable, and the way you are as my lover..."

She grinned at him. "I shall keep that in mind, then."

"Please, do! By all means, yes!" He gave her a lingering kiss before slightly backing away again so he could look her in the face. "So, you see, you needn't be ashamed; nothing you could possibly say could be embarrassing in any small way."

"You _are_ very good with words, Draco Malfoy." She shook her head in jocund disapproval. "You could talk a nun into buying condoms if you really set your mind to the task!"

"Thank you! The crucial question though remains – did I convince _you_ after all?"

"Oh, okay then..." She wriggled herself into a more comfortable position, one in which she wouldn't have to directly look at him during her tale, and began, "In my dream, I was lying in that non-descript bed and feeling very – er – _excited_, so much in fact that I – well – started to – to – to touch myself... You know!"

"I have an inkling, yes, but I'd love to hear you delve into the details all the same!"

So, with a whole more 'erms' and 'uhms' and 'oh wells' she went on in greater detail, and Draco was half charmed, half aroused by her tale.

"I was getting really desperate by then because – well – I cannot do it like you do, you see, and I really, _really_ wanted to come, but it didn't work and _then_ – then you were suddenly there, in those jeans I like so much, anyway, you came over to the bed and settled down next to me and... Well, then you had it off with me!"

He hummed contently, and said, "Again, sunshine, the _details_! How exactly did I 'have it off with you'?"

So she continued her story and very sexily so – Draco's erection under the blanket made the whole thing look like a tent by now – only to finish in a very, _very_ unexpected manner, "And then I woke up with my hands in my knickers and realised I _was_ – erm – touching myself, as it were."

He shot her a very approving smile. "Excellent," he murmured and nudged her with his nose.

"Do you do that, too?"

"Touch myself like you touch me?" he asked back, a little proud to have avoided his first, more spontaneous wording of the same contents. If one told a girl like her that one wanked off fantasising about her, one ought to be strategic in the phrasing at least. He winked at her. "Why, yes, of course I do. How do you think I get by when you're not here?"

He tried hard not to laugh at her wide-eyed astonishment. Was this a Gryffindor speciality? He had dated girls from Slytherin, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, but none of them, not a single one of them had been anywhere near her level of shyness and insecurity, which made him want to wrap her up, spoil and pamper her in every way he could think of.

"You're serious?"

"_Quite_ serious, sunshine. When you're not around and I think of you, I can't help it but be really turned-on, you see? Then I'm lying here in my bed, remembering how good you smell and taste, remembering how amazing it feels to touch you, and how incredible when you touch _me_, and I can almost _see_ you with me – just that in reality, you're not there… And then I simply need to content myself with the next best thing, namely to take matters into my own hands –" She giggled and he grinned, adding, "– while thinking of you and wishing you were here with me again."

"And does it work?"

"What do you mean, 'does it work'?"

"Is it any good?"

"Erm – _well_. It's not bad. I'd rather have you, but if I can't, it's really not half-bad –"

"Because it really frustrates _me_!

"Why does it _frustrate_ you?"

"Because it's just like in that dream! I _can't_ do it like you do, I try and try, but it doesn't really work, and _you_ rarely happen to be anywhere in the vicinity either, so I'm just lying there, you know, stroking myself but to no damned avail!"

Hearing Hermione Granger of all people profess that she had sex dreams of him, that she'd masturbate thinking of him, that, if he didn't mistake her completely, she'd done that more than once, too – all that was just too bloody thrilling! With one dextrous move, he pulled her up to straddle him and they re-enacted pretty much everything they had just told each other, including – mind you, _including_ Little Miss Gryffindor moaning at him to fuck her which was even better than he'd imagined it and had nearly been his quite premature undoing.

"What did you mean," he asked her when he was able to speak again, "with 'you can't do it like I do'?"

"Exactly what I said – it doesn't really work. I touch my nipples like you do and I rub my – you know – like you do, but when I come, it's really just a very pale imitation of the way you make me."

"Honey, you got to stop bolstering my vanity, because otherwise I'm afraid some very dear private parts of mine are in danger of soon falling off from sheer over-stimulation!"

"It's true though! I'd really like to know what the hell it is you're doing!"

"I'm sorry, sunshine, but I'm afraid I'll have to break my promise. From this moment on, my head will have twice the size of Zabini's. I won't be able to walk around like that, obviously. I'll have to stay forever in this bed, and since _you_ made my head inflate so badly, you'll have to stay with me, of course, to nurse me and take care of me."

She laughed. "See? That's why it was supposed to be a secret!"

"Sorry, gal, it's out and about now!" He kissed her lips. "You've spilled the beans." He kissed her collarbone. "You'll have to deal with me knowing your darkest secrets now!" He fondled her breasts and kissed her lips once more. "And I tell you another thing – it's really, really nothing to be embarrassed about!"

"Easy for _you_ to say!"

"Yeah! And shall I tell you why? Because _I_ happen to be a master in embarrassing myself! In fact, you are talking to the un-crowned _king_ of embarrassment here, my peach. You are talking to the guy who, as a fourteen-year-old, forgot the silencing spell on his dormitory bed one night, so that _all_ of his roommates – Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle _and_ Blaise Pretty Boy Zabini, mind you, yes? – _all_ of them heard me groaning Padma Patil's name at night."

"You dreamt of Padma?" she cried, jerking up her head to look at him with a weird expression.

"I must have. Can't remember the dream though. The bottom line is that I didn't hear the end of this for the rest of the school year!"

"You have a crush on _Padma_?"

"Had, sunshine. _Had_. In our fourth year. Lasted exactly until I actually got to know her."

She lowered her head again, so that their noses touched. "Why Padma and not Parvati? They look identical, don't they?"

"Oh, come on, that's obvious!"

She gave a little laugh. "Because Pavarti was in Gryffindor?"

"Naturally. Boys of fourteen have unshiftably strong principles in such affairs. However, I'm only telling you this to show you the difference between _embarrassing_, and _perfectly wonderful_." He ruffled her hair. "Dreaming of Padma Patil in a dormitory for everyone to hear – _embarrassing_. _You_ dreaming of _me_ – the most natural thing in the world and absolutely delightful!"

She burst out laughing. "You _are_ full of yourself, aren't you!"

"Your own fault. Before you came today, I was a very modest guy."

"You stopped being modest thirty-six hours after you were born, Malfoy!"

"How can you say such a terrible thing? You didn't know me for the eleven following years!"

"Just extrapolating from the time when I _did_ get to know you."

He laughed as well, until closing in for a very tender kiss once more. "Given those not entirely unfounded extrapolations, in combination with my juvenile shitheadedness, I'm all the happier that you do dream of me every now and then these days, Granger," he murmured before continuing to kiss her. "I could be induced, incidentally, to show you some of my better tricks..."

"Yeah...?"

"Oh, yeah. I can't share all my sleights of hand with you, of course. Got to make sure you come back for more…"

"Always the proper Slytherin spirit," she whimpered, as he had begun to play with her left nipple, which was particularly susceptible and never failed to do the trick, as it seemed to have a direct connection to her pussy.

"For a start, though, you got to show me how _you_ do it –"

She made wide eyes, looking positively scandalised. "No way!"

"But I need to see what you're doing to find out where's the difference!"

"Uh-uh. You must be crazy! Absolutely no way, Malfoy. Never!"

He let the matter rest for a moment while he worked his magic on her left nipple until she was gasping. He then let go of her and reached for her right hand, which he placed on her left breast and capped with his own hand so she wouldn't pull it away again, and also to gently guide her. She did not protest again, just closed her eyes and let him have his way, and when he did take away his hand, she proceeded on her own account, looking so sensual that it was really hard for him to keep his hands off her.

Soon, she was whimpering and he tried to coax her into pleasuring her clit now. She hesitated for a minute, her dark brown eyes locked with his, searching for confirmation and encouragement, so he kept on muttering the most sincerely-meant compliments, and his hand, once more resting on hers, tenderly stroke over her belly, very innocently at first, then moving down inch by inch until her fingers made contact with her pubic hair.

"You're just so beautiful when you're aroused," he whispered in her ear, "You don't know how exciting you are... Come on, show me… Be a bold Gryffindor and show me… Come, my pretty… Show me what you do when you think of me…"

It was all the further encouragement she'd needed, and slowly, she pleasured herself, her eyes closed again, making little moans until she was puling with a soft tremble and finally came. It was different indeed from the way she climaxed when he touched her; quieter, slower, but not a tad less alluring to watch. She nestled against him and he grabbed her hands to lick her fingers clean with great eagerness. She couldn't miss his erection and didn't, whispering, "Your turn now…"

"My turn?"

She let her hand glide down and softly stroke along the hard length of his cock, making him gasp.

"Your turn," she repeated with a devious little smile.

"Oh, not right now."

"Why not?"

"Because I want to hold you a little longer still."

She made a peculiar noise that was somewhere between a sigh and a hum of delight, and pressed against him so tightly that it would have sufficed to get him off. Curiously though, and in direct contradiction to his penis that was practically _begging_ for relief, he couldn't think of sex in this moment. Light-headed, utterly bewitched, he held the exhausted girl in his arms, at a complete loss for words, and at the same time bursting with the necessity to speak up, if only he could have thought of something befitting his distraught state of mind.

"Have you any idea how gorgeous you are?" he breathed, pressing his face against the top of her head and delighting in her apple-scented hair tickling him. This wasn't what he had meant to say, but he thought he would suffocate if he didn't say _something_. "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. I wish you knew how adorable you are."

She chuckled softly and kissed his chest. "I don't think I'll _ever_ grasp what exactly you think you're seeing… But just go on like this, I for once don't mind having my vanity flattered…"

He couldn't have said why, but that reply plucked a dissonant chord. Here he was at his most honest – though not most eloquent, admittedly – and she didn't believe a word of what he said to her. A wave of anger rushed over him – not aimed at her though, but at this incredible arse who, in Draco's opinion, was responsible for the paramount of her diffidence and unreasonable self-consciousness. In this moment, Draco would have loved to strangle Weasley with his bare hands. Simply hexing him wouldn't have contented him; this particular degree of fury demanded more physical retribution. Why would she believe any amount of rubbish coming from the Weasel, but not a single thing that _he_ told her? Oh, he knew the answer, and it gave him a bitter taste in the mouth.

But still, she was here now, wasn't she? And the way she snuggled up to him there, how her fingertips massaged his scalp, the humid warmth of her breath tickling his chest and her teeth gently nibbling on his skin made him forget the Weasel soon enough, all the more when she started rubbing his cock, then mounted him and at the same time whispered all kinds of exciting things in his ear, like how much she liked to fuck with him (he whimpered with that admission), that she would sometimes wake up at night, having dreamt he was fucking her and endlessly aggravated that he was not (he started to tremble), that occasionally, she fantasised about him in broad daylight even, and would lock herself up in her room then, fucking herself with her hands and pretending it was he... At this point, he got so totally overwhelmed that his hips violently bucked up and he came with the intensity of a mighty curse, blocking out any other thing, like his breathing, or vision.

"You are absolutely, I-can't-put-it-in-words-absolutely-amazing, honey," he panted at last, enfolding her in his arm as tightly as he could. "You are perfect, the most perfectly perfect embodiment of perfection…" She sniggered, and with emphasis, he said, "I mean it! I might not manage to express myself very elegantly at present, but the _gist_ –"

"I think I understand the gist."

'No', he thought, 'you don't.' Hermione Granger certainly didn't have an inkling of how wonderfully great she truly was.


	193. Strawberry Hill

The Grangers are delighted with the young man whom they believe to be their daughter's new boyfriend

* * *

**– 4.66. –**

Strawberry Hill

* * *

_Let me take you down, 'cause I'm going to  
Strawberry fields  
Nothing is real  
And nothing to get hung about  
Strawberry fields forever_

_Living is easy with eyes closed _

_Misunderstanding all you see_

_JOHN LENNON_

* * *

Every Sunday since leaving Hogwarts, Hermione visits her parents for lunch. Nothing has ever kept her from that routine, even though she's sometimes late, or trades lunch for a late breakfast, or dinner. Basically, she spends a good portion of her Sunday in 27 Seymour Street, Strawberry Hill, Twickenham.

Surprisingly, Malfoy accepted this little tradition without further ado. Perhaps it's because he's got a very close bond to his parents as well. He did try to lure her into staying in bed with him at first, but since she made it clear that she's going anyway, he spontaneously suggested he could take her there and fetch her again later, which he did. He was very polite and well-mannered towards her parents there (who have fond memories of him anyway, from their stay in Saint Mungo's), and just as spontaneously (but being her, also rather predictably), Nicky Granger invited him to accompany Hermione next time. In that moment, Hermione thought he'd do that as soon as deliberately curcing one of his thumbs off, but to her surprise she found him, on the following Sunday morning, getting up, taking a shower, vanishing in his dressing room, and returning five minutes later, with an assortment of three different muggle suits and an unsure expression.

"Come, help me pick one," he said, waving the hangers. "I'm hopeless with muggle clothes."

"What are you up to with those?"

"Visit your parents, of course."

She can't say what dumbfounded her the most in that moment. The simple announcement in itself, or his idea to meet her parents for an easy lunch in an attire that would have been fit for the opera, or for meeting the Queen for tea, maybe. She gaped at him. "You mean you _really_ want to go?"

He frowned. "Well, yes… Unless you don't want me to –"

"No, no! I mean – yes! I mean – come if you really like to! It's just – you needn't feel obliged or anything –"

"Yes, I'd like to. Why not? Your parents are very nice. Or did they change materially since regaining their memory?"

"Not at all! My parents _are_ very nice!"

"See? That's what I thought. And said, incidentally. – Why are you looking at me like that?"

_Why?_ Because – none of her friends except Neville knows her parents! And Neville knows them because he's accompanied her to the hospital. No one – not Harry, not Ginny, and most of all: not Ron – ever showed the slightest interest in getting to know them. And there stood Draco 'I haven't had a muggle in my ancestry since man lived in caves still' Malfoy with an assortment of muggle suits professing he'd accompany her for Sunday brunch, acting as if it was the most natural thing in the world!

"I'm just… I'm just… I can't believe you really want to meet my parents! They're muggles, you do remember that, right?"

"I'm aware of it." He waved the suits once more. "Or why do you think I was dallying around with these?"

He learnt something about muggles that day, starting with the muggle dress code. At least the dress code in the Grangers' house on an average Sunday. _No_ dark three-pieced suits. _No_ Egyptian cotton shirts, no silk ties, in fact not any tie at all! She's got to give him credit for his taste though, and for the notion that meeting her parents would demand a decent outfit. If there _is_ any 'correct' outfit to meet Nicky and Ben, it's jeans, and like a well-behaved boy, he immediately purchased some pairs on the Monday following his first visit. He doesn't like these, incidentally. She likes them all the more in turn. He's got a _very_ nice bottom, and in those jeans, she can see it for once. He's always so conservatively dressed otherwise; unlike most of her friends, he's wearing robes even at home – and _nothing_ can be seen underneath those. Which is some sort of crime with a body like his.

However, he endures the jeans without flinching (she suspects he actually enjoys her admiring glances at his backside) and has come with her almost every time since then. The first time, she was still apprehensive, counting the countless ways how this could go wrong, but it didn't. Malfoy behaved at his well-mannered best and charmed his parents almost as much her.

They were excited enough even _before_ that day. In fact, straight after he dropped her off the first time, Nicky Granger had hardly any other thing to talk about to her increasingly aggravated daughter. "You're going out, yes?" – "Oh, he _is_ handsome!" – "And so _nice_, don't you think?" – "Thoughtful, too!" – "Oh, you coy thing, you didn't say a word!" –"This time, you've made a really good pick, dear, much better than last time!" – and so on, and so forth. Hermione couldn't bring herself to inform her mother about the _real_ state of play between them; all she could do was toning it down by loads of "not that serious" – "let's see what's happening" – "I'm not ready for another real relationship just yet, Mum!" and the like. Mrs Granger hardly heard her.

They _dote_ on the guy, they really do, despite the fact that Ben and Nicky Granger have very pronounced opinions about people like Malfoy, too, and usually have no qualms to profess them with tart humour. People with ancient noble bloodlines, people who have more money than the Queen, and live in their vast, feudal manor houses, and twenty-year-olds doing as much as _possessing_ three-pieced suits, let alone wearing them. Ben and Nicky call themselves jokingly 'cupboard socialists' – well, in fact they're liberals at any rate – and people like the Malfoys are considered to the 'the class enemy'. But since they've met this particular arch enemy under very different circumstances, they jollily disregard his family background most of the time (save the odd joke now and then) and rather jokingly focus on his experiences as 'a male nurse'.

"Didn't you consider going into that profession yourself?" Ben asks one afternoon, as they're all taking a walk together.

"Nursing?"

"Becoming a doctor – no, how do you folks call it – Healer. Yes. Healer. Never thought about becoming one? I thought you might have a knack for that."

"Thank you. But to tell you the truth – I'd be a complete failure at that. I can't see blood. Turns my stomach, you see."

Ben and Nicky aren't the only ones making an occasional joke. Malfoy doesn't go the easy way though, scorning them for being muggles – he prefers focusing on what he calls their 'good people syndrome'. He might not know too much about muggles, but he's got an eye for architecture, it seems, and it's taken him not more than a few glances to grasp that the Grangers live in a pretty house in a comparably wealthy neighbourhood, in short: that they do belong to the upper middle class, while talking as if they were members of either the working class, or French existentialist intelligentsia at least. Malfoy finds that hilarious, and Hermione must admit that he's got a point there. There they are, her Ken Livingston-supporting, liberal-voting, equal-rights-for-everyone parents, living in a neighbourhood full of white, well-off Church of England citizens and constantly excusing themselves for having more money than most people, which they spend on red wine from Tuscany, politically correct food, holidays in Normandy and the odd charitable purpose.

They can laugh about themselves, but also ask back, "So what are _your_ parents doing with their money, then?"

"Oh, the same, pretty much. They just didn't feel bad for having it."

"Am I wrong to presume though that they didn't actually _work_ for it?"

"Define _work_," he replies with a grin. "The very most of it is inherited, obviously. But my father did go to his office six hours a day, too, seeing after the family businesses and all that."

"And did you ever consider that _someone_ has worked, and is working still, in order for your family earning the royalties?"

"Ah, I see. You think my father was exploiting little children in order to cut more profits, right? You know, in fact most of the money the enterprise makes these days is interest, and profits from diamond and gold mines. And oil."

"Which _is_ exploitation, too –"

Tongue-in-cheek, he interrupts, "Just a second, please – _you_ have your money in a bank, haven't you? _You_ are getting nice interest, too, and I would hazard a guess and say you've invested in some funds. Do you even know who's exploited for _your_ money? How does your bank make the money to pay your interest?"

The argument remains unresolved, even though both sides enjoy going about it back and forth. It rarely happens that Hermione Granger has _absolutely nothing_ to say on a subject, but she finds she has no clue of stocks and funds and what the heck. Still, she's enjoying the conversation, the friendly banter, the exchange of ideas, while gazing at the lovely landscape around them. She's grown up here, but obviously, she never bothered to take a real look, and looking _now_, she thinks it's absolutely enchanting.

They walk along a little country lane, enjoying the sunshine and the mild air. Hermione is in one of her 'this isn't real' moods, because it _is_ all just too surreal. She's linked arms with Malfoy, there are her parents, the weather is lovely, the landscape is lovely, and even though they're talking about stuff like the deplorable disappearance of the traditional hedges – one of the most distinct features of the old English countryside, as they agree unanimously – everybody is in high spirits. It's such a perfect day, it's like in the movies, or in one of her children's books. Life _isn't_ like this, most of the time, is it?

The impression of surrealism is heightened yet when they approach a family. From the distance, there was nothing remarkable about them. A young couple in their late twenties, who have both taken one hand each of a little child with black, curly hair, that's about to learn walking. A perambulator in bright, cheerful colours is standing behind them, and a smurf that's nearly as big as the child is sticking out. Coming closer though, there _is_ something very odd about the scene. The kid giggles happily, rocking its head this way and that, while the parents stare at him, aghast, and talk to each other, quickly and agitatedly. And then, Hermione finally sees _why_ they're so upset. There's a Roman snail on the path, and it – it keeps on growing to the size of a rat, and shrink to its normal size again, back and forth, back and forth.

She exchanges a quick glance with Malfoy next to her, who grins broadly and knowingly and makes a little shrug.

"What _is_ that?" the father of the boy cries just now.

"I told you! He did the same last week! You didn't want to believe me!" the mother replies reproachfully.

"_He's_ not doing anything! How _could_ he!"

"Look at that snail and tell me once more he's not doing anything, Mike!"

Hermione's parents have stopped, observing the little scene, and Nicky looks over her shoulder at her daughter, saying quietly, "You were just the same, sweetheart."

In that moment, it makes _click_ in Hermione's head. She remembers Mr Perkins and his fat tomes, she remembers the tinkling sound announcing the birth of a child with magical capabilities, she remembers her own exhilarated reaction when seeing that little silver dot appearing on the map depicting Richmond Upon Thames… She can even remember the little boy's name, because back then she was determined to keep an eye on the child (before forgetting all about him again, obviously).

"John – no, _Jonathan_ – Jonathan Lewis," she mutters.

"What?"

"That's his name – the kid's name. I – I was there when he was born – I mean – in the Ministry," she explains. "He's muggleborn. I mean – his parents – they don't _know_ what's the matter with him!"

"Perhaps we should undeceive them?" Malfoy quietly suggests with another shrug. "Look at them. They think they're going mad."

Hermione addresses her parents, "What did _you_ think? Did anyone tell _you_ that I –"

"To tell you the truth, darling," her dad returns archly, "_We_ kept on blaming drug-related flashbacks when anything like that was happening."

"What?"

"We thought – we thought we were just imagining things – some belated psychic long-term effects of smoking weeds at College, you see –"

"_What?_"

"Don't look at me like that, darling –"

The parents of Jonathan Lewis seem to think along the same lines; noticing the strangers watching them, Mr Lewis exclaims angrily, "Hey, you! What'ya think you're staring at?" He also seems to think that he needs to hide the snail, because he drops his son's hand and steps in front of him now, scowling at the Grangers.

"What are we supposed to do now?" Hermione asks anxiously.

"Undeceive them," Malfoy repeats, unconcerned.

"But that's against the Secrecy Statute!"

"No, it isn't. The Secrecy Statute doesn't apply to the parents of muggleborn wizards and witches."

The legal dispute is interrupted by Mr Lewis, who repeats more angrily still, "There's nothing to see here!"

Malfoy squeezes her arm before dropping it and stepping forth, murmuring, "I'll handle that," and louder, addressing the unhappy family, "Mr – Lewis, right?"

"How do you know that name, laddie?"

"That's just the point, isn't it?" Malfoy says brightly, stopping just far enough out of Mr Lewis' reach to prevent the man from lashing out. "Excuse me for butting in, but I believe I can enlighten you about that little hiccup."

"What little hiccup now?" the man snarls, straightening his back and shielding his wife and child. He's a bit shorter than Malfoy, and clearly doesn't feel comfortable about it.

"That snail problem." Malfoy lifts his hands in a soothing gesture. "Please, allow me –"

"I'll allow nothing, young man! Back off! Get away from my family!"

"Please, calm down, Mr Lewis. I mean no harm, I assure you. I understand that you are upset, but please believe me, there is nothing wrong with your son –"

"You bloody bet there isn't!"

Behind his back, Mrs Lewis has lifted up her child and put him back in the perambulator, looking as frightened as her husband looks furious. "Let's just go, Mike," she says imploringly and pulls on his arm. "Come –"

Measuring Malfoy once more, her husband retreats step by step, nodding, then swirls around on his heels, grabbing the handle of the perambulator and he and his wife practically run away, looking over their shoulders repeatedly. Ben and Nicky Granger are laughing heartily, and Malfoy turns back around, lifting his shoulder as if he was saying, 'What else can you do!'

Hermione stretches herself, on the tip of her toes, and pecks a kiss on his cheek. "Well, you tried!"

"Fools," he gnarls, chuckles and kisses her back.

"I was hoping you'd get to the bit when you'd say 'your son is a wizard'," Ben Granger says, cringing with laughter. "He'd have tried beating you up, I'm sure!"

"What's the matter with these people?"

"They're frightened," Nicky Granger says and gives him a benevolent smile. "First, there's that odd snail, doing things it's not supposed to do, and they do get the impression it's got something to do with their child. Believe me, as much as we parents all flatter ourselves, thinking our kids were the most extraordinary kids in the whole wide world – no parents want their child to be _that_ extraordinary!"

He frowns. "Having magical capacities, you mean?"

"Well, yes, and no. You see – we don't _believe_ there is anything like magic. Until being proven the opposite. We want to think of our children as incredibly bright, or talented, or sportive, or whathaveyougot. But other than that, they're supposed to be as normal as they can possibly be. Making a snail grow as if it had been exposed to nuclear radiation – that's just not the sort of thing you cheerfully talk about to other parents on the playground. Quite the contrary."

Malfoy shakes his head and chuckles unwillingly. "_My_ parents took dozens of photos of me when I first started showing signs of magic."

"What did you do?" Hermione asks curiously.

"I started summoning toys that were out of my reach."

"Can I see the photos?"

Allowing the Lewis family a healthy head start, they finally proceed on their way home, still talking about the incident. It's beyond Malfoy to understand the situation of muggle families with a magical child; he's as curious as he is sceptical, and half-joking, half in earnest, Hermione accuses him of a relapse to old prejudices.

"That's no prejudice, Granger. It's a _fact_, as you've just seen with your own two eyes! It _is_ different!"

"The initial situation may be different, but in effect we are just the same!"

"Well, that depends on what you mean with 'the same', doesn't it?"

She scowls at him and retreats a little. "It all boils down to the fact that you don't think I'm as good as you, doesn't it!"

"Of course I do! That's not what I'm talking about!"

"It sounds strangely as if you do though!"

He rolls his eyes, annoying her even more, and stops in his tracks, chucking her under the chin and forcing her to look at him. "You are, without the slightest doubt, every bit _as good as me_. Blimey! You're very probably better than me in every respect save for Theory of Law. But the principal _situation_ is categorically different, and now don't you twist my meaning. Not different in terms of quality. Different in terms of _category_. Why are you so bent on misunderstanding me?"

"I'm not," she snaps, and more gentle, "Sorry."

He stoops to kiss her amicably, before continuing their way, and his explanation. "I grew up with magic since the day I was born, Granger. That kid we've just seen – _when_ he performs magic, it scares the parents out of their wits. As your parents just explained – nobody is going to pat _his_ shoulder for doing something so seemingly strange! The first time, possibly, when that little boy sees real magic – and approved magic, too – is when he's _eleven_. Everything he's learnt until then, everything that has formed his horizons, has nothing whatsoever to do with our world."

"But that's not his fault!"

"I'm not saying it was! It's nobody's fault. It's just a problem when these two worlds clash at last. Look, not everyone is like _your_ parents! _They're_ open-minded and easy-going."

'Unlike _your_ parents,' she's on the verge of saying, but refrains. He's not spoiling for a fight, and she's not about to cast the first stone either. Instead, she murmurs, "I don't understand your point."

"I don't understand my own point either," he concedes with a little smirk. "It's just – the way we go on about this seems wrong to me. Eleven is much too late. It's not right that people like that family just now, think there's something _wrong_ with their kid. They should be told the truth. The kid should know the truth. He should know he's fine, just the way he is. _You_ are always the one dwelling on and on about equality – why don't we start with granting all the kids equal chances?"

It's more of a rhetorical question, and he'd probably say more, but Hermione doesn't let him. Instead, she turns towards him, swings her free arm around his neck and pulls him down into a very passionate kiss. When Ben Granger looks over his shoulder the next time, he spots his daughter and her beau two hundred feet behind them, engaged in a fierce embrace and snogging. Her father chuckles.

"Oh, to be young again," he tells his wife with a wink.


	194. The Switch

Venus Yaxley has drunken her last potion

* * *

– **4.67. – **

The Switch

* * *

_I am the voice inside your head  
and I control you  
I am the hate you try to hide  
and I control you  
I am denial guilt and fear  
and I control you  
I am the lie that you believe  
and I control you  
I take you where you want to go  
I give you all you need to know  
I drag you down I use you up_

_NINE INCH NAILS – Mr Self-destruct_

* * *

"It's beautiful, isn't it? He. I mean _he_ of course. Isn't he beautiful?"

"Yes," comes the breathless answer.

"Can you feel it? Can you feel how it's – how _he's_ coming alive?"

"Yes..."

"We're almost there. Almost there, girl."

"Yes..."

She's eyeing the statue with a demented expression, truly convinced within her last few scraps of sanity that her husband was in there. People really do believe what they want to, because if she had ever bothered to check up on it, she would have learnt that it is _impossible_ to bring back a soul from afterlife. Now for the _in-between_ on the other hand...!

The misty vapour observes her coolly, before letting his gaze glide over to the clay statue. Inside that statue, his own spirits are assembled, or more precisely: seven parts of his soul, with the final eighth very soon to follow. After being so smitten to split it up during his first attempt, he was quite desperate now to have it reunited. And with every bit of his spirit imbibed by the statue, his influence over her has grown. The remaining capacity for resistance she might have had, the numerous potions vanquished, and severed her own soul from her body.

Tonight is _the_ night!

"You know what you must do," he orders her in clipped tones, then casts her a last, strict look before withdrawing. He _hates_ that he can't be present for her last steps (she's a woman! She might make a mistake!), but his time in the passage to afterlife taught him some lessons indeed! He must be _whole_ from now on, and for that, his vapour self needs to join his other bits before she goes through with the ritual!

He has her prick her finger and write her name in blood on a piece of thestral skin, which she is to put in the statue's mouth, and the incantation is nearly complete. Next, she is to wield Bellatrix Lestrange's wand and say the incantation. Again, how much can go wrong there! What if she mispronounces something! He doesn't remember to have ever felt so frightened in his prior life!

But then! With an exhilarating surge, he feels himself drawn and squeezed and tumbled about, and in the next moment, he feels he has got a body again!

The pain is immense though; he had not thought it'd be so agonizingly painful! Almost like dying, isn't it? He looks along his new limbs in awe mingled with shocked contempt. It is, alas, a female body, but what's it matter? It's a _body_ of his own and his entire self fits into it! One cannot seriously ask for more, can one!

It takes quite a while before he realises that the statue hasn't entirely withstood the transformation process; a large piece has burst out of the midriff, and it slowly dawns on him that this might be the reason for his splitting pains. Curse it!

What luck he hasn't yet made her dispose of the bloody sculptor, or her other stooge!


	195. Debacle

Well, it had to happen sooner or later...

* * *

**– 4.68. –**

Debacle

* * *

_Incompatible, it don't matter though 'cos someone's bound to hear my cry._

_Speak out if you do – you're not easy to find._

_Is it possible Mr Loveable is already in my life?_

_Right in front of me… Or maybe you're in disguise?_

_Most relationships seem so transitory, they're all good but not the permanent one._

_Who doesn't long for someone to hold, who knows how to love you without being told?_

_Somebody tell me why I'm on my own if there's a soul mate for everyone!_

_NATASHA BEDINGFIELD_

* * *

She can't say how she did it, but she flatters herself to be the one who brought it about. Or maybe not, maybe his father has simply told him the same – there's a family tradition to assert, after all! Fact is that Draco Malfoy purchased all the necessary books and showed up on September 15th to start his sophomore year. Despite all due caution, she thought it was no harm and gave him a bright, encouraging smile when he entered the hallway before their Law class that Monday morning and raised her thumb. He smirked back and tried to ward off the predictable assault of curious questions about his comeback from their fellow students.

Knowing his time-table – well, it's pretty similar to hers – she wasn't surprised that he disappeared again directly after the class. He'd have to be back in the early afternoon for Advanced Ancient Languages, and spend the time in between at home. As much as she understood that wish, she still couldn't dispel the slight pang of disappointment that he had left without further ado.

The week continued in that way; he came for his classes and left again, he said 'hello' to her and 'goodbye' and made a credible stab at small talk when the occasion required it, otherwise he coldly scowled at everybody, student or teacher, who'd intrude on his privacy with inquiries after his mother's well-being, and shut them up with some snide remark that reminded her very much of the Draco Malfoy she had known for so many years.

They are appointed to meet up Thursday evening, but she decides to go an hour before the fixed time because she can't wait to see him again. To Ginny, Parvati and her neighbours, she says that she'd go and see her parents, and checks twice that her robes are properly buttoned up to conceal the inadequately sexy dress she is wearing underneath. And she'd make just as sure to open a button or two while waiting for an house-elf to come and fetch her from the gates now, if she had to wait for as much as a second. In fact though, one of them – Iggy (she's proud to have learnt most of the names in passing by now; Iggy is an elf without special assignments, three feet tall and quite chubby, with big olive eyes and a long, pointy nose that's not exactly in the middle of his face) is standing behind the gates already when she arrives.

She greets him and excuses for being a tad early, but he just smiles as he lets her in. "No, Miss, the young master –" To her great distress, he hits his head against the wrought iron bars, continuingly merrily, "Master Draco bid me to be here just in case you came sooner."

She smirks and shakes her head. "Oh. So he _expected_ me to come early, eh?"

"I couldn't say _that_, Miss," the servant replies impishly. "I believe he rather hoped you would."

Snatching her hand, he disapparates with her and they emerge in front of the door to Malfoy's room, on which he gently knocks and announces her, then disappears at once.

His master has been reading, puts the book (one fleeting glance at it informs her that he's studying for their Administrative Law class) aside and is at the door with a few long strides before she's properly entered the room yet.

"Sunshine!" He whirls his arms around her shoulders and gives her a long, longing kiss. They haven't seen each other (like _this_, anyhow!) for five days, marking it the longest period of time of not meeting since – well, since that one night in summer when she came to see this room for the first time. Poor boy! Didn't get it for almost a week, eh? But who's she to talk; unable to wait another _hour_ herself, either!

"I am sorry to intrude," she groans at last, deliberately coy, her eyes still closed and feeling his kisses linger. "I wouldn't want to disturb your school work, of course..."

"Sod it," he replies in an equally husky voice, kissing a trail down her throat while simultaneously unbuttoning her cloak and stirring her over to an armchair. Never let it be said men were incapable of multi-tasking! He's gotten rid of her dress, shoes and underwear in no time, too, then falls to his knees, pressures her to spread her legs wide and pleasures her with his tongue while she is lounging in the armchair and feels like just _melting_ and blending with the soft velvety material, her fingers cramped into his silky hair that's even softer than velvet.

Clearly, she's been every bit as needy as he, for she comes so hard she's almost fainting, and still he won't let up on her. Another climax, almost painfully drawn-out and intense, washes over her not two minutes later and she's barely capable of simmering down again, faintly thinking that it's his turn now if only she can get a grip on herself ever again.

He's burying his face in her lap while she recovers her breath, fondling the insides of her thighs with his long, slender fingers, and whispers against her tender flesh, "God, I've been wanting to do this since I saw you in Samson's classroom on Monday morning..."

"Oh...?" she manages to hum.

"Must be the darned uniform. _So_ prim, so _forbidding_! And knowing how you are underneath..."

She meekly snatches the back of his collar to pull him up and into her arms. "Fuck me, Malfoy..."

He does and so fervently that the darned armchair gets in the way. It's great seating furniture to go down on someone but it's just not quite the thing to be shagged senseless in, so they glide to the parquet floor, which suffers some unsightly damages from Hermione's frantically scratching fingernails. He almost collapses on top of her after he's come, which would be highly awkward and probably needed a Healer's attention because her ankles are wrapped around his neck at that point, but being the thoughtful lover that he is, he withstands to drop down until they've arranged their limbs. Speaking of thoughtful – he conjures a blanket for her to lie on as soon as he can speak the incantation again, too.

"You are very, very, _very_ sweet," she lets him know and nestles up to him.

"Right back at you, sunshine..."

Warm blanket or not, they soon trade the floor for his bed, where he feeds her with peaches, delighting to see her bite into the soft flesh and kissing away the juice trickling down her chin.

"You're like one of those," he observes while eyeing her with radiant eyes.

"Am I now?" She grins and sucks on another bite.

"God, yes! Just as soft, and juicy, and sweet... And _sensual_! Just _watching_ you eat this makes me lust for a reprise!" He shifts slightly, pressing his already re-hardening penis against her as a proof. "I wish you could see what I see, sweetness. You're just so – _so_..."

"And...?" she asks him with a wink half an hour later. "Any regrets that you've come back to college...?"

"I haven't made up my mind on this yet," he returns in the same fashion. "There's a bright side as well as the hardship of seeing you and not jump at you."

"And what would that bright side be?"

"You coy thing! You know very well what it is!"

"Professor Samson's enlightening lecture on the Proprietor's Act of 1768?"

"Ts! Guess again!"

Although he distracts her in no small way by kissing her décolleté, she manages to say, "Professor Wattling's Criminal Defence class?"

"I give you a tip – it's got very much to do with the female student body," he groans, and as if to emphasise his words, his hands glide down her sides and back up to her breasts.

"You couldn't possibly be referring to _this_ female student's body."

"Oh, I could, and I would, and I do!"

"So why did you hardly speak three words to me in four days?"

He looks up to her in surprise. "I... I thought you'd want it that way! In front of Patil and Thomas and Macmillan… In fact, I felt rather daring to say as much as I did!"

She jestingly thinks that bravery really isn't among his fortes, but has the presence of mind not to say that aloud. Instead she mutters, "Parvati knows we're talking. No need to pretend we hardly knew each other…"

"That is absolutely wonderful to hear, sunshine." And he returns to caress her like before. Yes, the next time they meet after this night, he is way more easygoing, and talks to her about some essay he's read, and asks her opinion on it.

He is so easygoing, in fact, that Parvati, who's sitting next to Hermione in most classes, remarks with a strange look upon her face, "What about Malfoy, Hermione?"

She gives a start, and strains to control her voice. "What about him…?"

"You two talk, don't you?"

Luckily, Parvati doesn't look at her neighbour, but over to Malfoy instead, and she also misses the tense note in Hermione's voice when she replies, "Yes…?"

"You think he's any good?"

"Excuse me?"

Parvati wakes up from her reverie. "I ditched Lester, didn't I tell you?"

With a very unpleasant griping in her stomach, Hermione snarls, "No, you didn't!"

"Well, I did. It was getting ridiculous. Following me around like a puppy, and at the same time pretending _he_ were the mature grownup between the two of us… Anyway – I just wondered… Malfoy _is_ darned handsome, and from what I've heard and seen of him lately… Well, I thought I might give it a try, unless you tell me…"

"Tell you _what_?"

"That he's still the same old jerk like then, just with improved manners."

Hermione cannot help it but stare at her friend, and is infinitely relieved when Professor Samson reprimands 'the young ladies' to keep their mouths shut and their attention on the subject. Hermione gladly obeys to the first, but doesn't manage the second part of this order. Her head feels like spinning. The fear to blow the secret – Parvati obviously wanting an answer, sooner or later, and the impossibility to give one – either she says, 'Oh, he's all right' and Parvati will take that as a cue to snatch him up – or she says 'You better forget about _that_, girl!' and Parvati will think that he's an arse still – which just isn't true, nor fair – or she might even get suspicious and start wondering why Hermione would try discouraging her from pursuing Malfoy… Parvati is so damned pretty – one of the prettiest girls Hermione's ever seen – no man could refuse her, and Hermione knows he's got a weak spot for the Patil twins anyhow – they're so much prettier than Hermione – she couldn't even blame Malfoy for going after Parvati instead if he gets the chance –

She feels wretched and successfully dodges Parvati after this class, and the next. There's no danger at lunch time, at least, because they're joined by Ginny, Luna, Ernie, Padma and Dean, and Ginny urges Hermione to promise coming to a 'Welcome Class of 2000 party' tomorrow night. Hermione only half-listens; she's got to decline because she's appointed to see Malfoy on Saturday night, but Ginny, assuming like everyone else that Hermione has found herself some Muggle lover as a distraction from Ron's larks, simply insists and tells her to bring along 'whoever you like!'

"We'll see…"

"We can obliviate him afterwards, you know?" Parvati chimes in.

"What? Oh – yeah, I see..."

"I'd really love to see the guy, Hermione. Promise you'll try!"

"Yes, yes…"

She possibly would have forgotten all about this, but on the way to her room after lunch, she's suddenly pulled into a broom closet. She'd scream and snatch her wand, but her right hand is incapacitated by the stranger's firm grip, and his other hand put over her mouth. She recognises the scent before the panic has a chance to kick in, and simply gives him a light kick and an unnerved glare. He's pushed the door shut behind them already, and released her wrist and mouth.

"Are you _crazy_?"

"Yeah, I must be… Sorry for frightening you…" He embraces her and starts kissing her temple.

"What if someone's coming?"

"This is a broom closet, sunshine. Don't worry. The caretakers are all at lunch, too." Still, he loosens his embrace for a moment and taps the handle to spell the door shut, before resuming his caresses.

"Cast a soundproof charm as well while you're at it," she advises him wisely, marvelling at herself in the same moment. She couldn't _possibly_ do as much as _contemplate_ – here – a _broom closet_ – right in the middle of Podsnap Mansion!

"I simply – had to get you – on your own," he growls while kissing her. "Your little fit – this morning – was just irresistible…"

"My _fit_?"

"Mmh," he hums the affirmative and nibbles on her bottom lip. "In Samson's class… When Patil said – she wants to – get off with me –"

"You _heard_ that?"

"Her whisper was rather carrying… Her Thespis ex' stage whisper must have rubbed off."

He's worked his way through her uniform robes, her blouse and has unhooked her bra, and although Hermione can barely grasp a rational thought, she still manages to reply, "So if you've heard – what d'you want me to answer?"

"Answer?"

"To Parvati."

"I'm sorry, but I really couldn't care less – most of all _now_."

No, Hermione couldn't care right now either, because his mouth has found her nipples and his fingers their way into her knickers. _His_ answer is good enough for the time being, too – he's pulled _her_ into this closet and not Parvati, right? And perhaps it's _because_ she really doesn't consider herself to be the kind of girl getting laid in a broom cupboard between two classes, that she's completely losing her mind with ecstasy in the next ten minutes. She bites into his shoulder to keep herself from screaming when he pushes her against the wall; they're so frantic that a whole lot of cleansing implements crush down on them from the surrounding shelves, and feeling his desperate pushing accompanied by a throaty, "Forgive me – I can't hold back much longer!" gives her the rest until they're coming together in the next minute.

"Oh _Merlin_," he moans when helping her restore her proper appearance afterwards. "I definitely need to show up for lunch time more often…"

They're putting back all the stuff that's fallen down on them, and he picks up the flyer that Ginny has given to her; it must have slipped out of her pocket. He reads it and gives her a quizzical glance. "You want to go there? I thought we were having a date?"

"I told Ginny I cannot go. She said I shall just bring you along, too," Hermione mutters, trying to bind his tie.

"What?"

"You know she thinks I'm dating a Muggle… Hey! I've got an idea! – You reckon you could nick a bit of Polyjuice Potion from the Potions department?"

He arches a brow. "You must be kidding me!"

"Could be fun, don't you think?"

"Let me get this straight – you are suggesting that I pose as your muggle lover – on a party with Potter's girlfriend – and you think it's _fun_?"

She chuckles with his put-out expression. "Yeah, why not?"

"Just – _because_! No way they'll believe I'm a muggle – I don't even know what muggles say – and also – seriously, Granger, this is crazy!"

"Oh, rubbish. You had an O in Muggle Studies, hadn't you – you've met my parents – and Jeffrey – and most of my friends don't know much more about muggles than you do, anyway. Probably less. If you don't know what to say, you just look blankly, and I'll claim I had confounded you to stop you from noticing all the magic. And you'd have a chance to meet Harry, and Ginny, the way they _really_ are!"

"Fat chance!" he snorts and curls his lips derisively.

"Or," she says with a little scowl, "you'll just ask Parvati if _she_ would like to spend the evening with you instead."

His expression changes from disbelief to something else, he's half-smirking, half-beaming at her. "Awww. Do I spy a hint of jealousy in my little Miss Sunshine there?"

"Will you come with me, or not. It'd really mean a lot to me."

He hesitates for a moment, contemplating her face and stroking a strand of hair out of her forehead. The dim flame of the candle illuminating the cupboard doesn't give away much of his expression because his face is in the shadows now, but she does see his lips curl up into a smile after all. "Sure, if you really want me to. Two conditions though."

"Go ahead!"

"You owe me another date. A proper, just-the-two-of-us date. And if Professor Belby catches me going through his supplies, _you'll_ keep him from kicking me out of College."

"Deal! By the way, I'm glad to hear that you seem to set some store on staying here by now."

"I've just discovered the secret delights of the place, Granger." He makes a gesture around. "Ample of possibilities that beg exploration!"

She feels bedazzled all the rest of the day. That little interlude in the cupboard – his disinterest in pretty Parvati – his agreeing to that ludicrous scheme that she hasn't even been serious about when uttering it – the perspective that he _will_ come to see how Harry, and Ginny, and the others, really are… She runs into Parvati in the library two hours later, and when her friend repeats her question this time, Hermione has no qualms to give an answer that's as close to honesty as it could get.

"He's a pretty nice chap, Parvati. Really, you've done worse with the fellows you've been after."

He procures the Polyjuice Potions; Hermione dishes her cousin Dylan some cock-and-bull story about a genetics project and makes him sacrifice some hairs, and they meet up in Malfoy Manor Saturday night in high spirits. He returns to swift unwillingness when she tells him he ought to leave his wand at home, but she overcomes his objections and continues arranging his clothes muggle-style and shrinking them. He shrinks back when looking into a mirror after the transformation – Dylan is shorter and a bit scrawny, he's got the same kind of hair like Hermione and wears it very short, his eyes are light brown, too, and his features _definitely_ lack the elegant distinction of Malfoy's own face, but alas! After some more gasping at his own reflection – 'now I know why your cousin's single!' – he has accustomed well enough, and they take their leave.

He has some difficulties in adjusting his movements to his new body and keeps on fidgeting about. "What's my name again?"

He looks nervous, and she gives him a kiss, trying to ignore the idea of snogging old Dylan. Yuck. "Dylan O'Donell."

"Good grief! Can't we make up something else?"

"But you _look_ like Dylan and I'm afraid of accidentally calling you so anyway."

"But you're not going to call me Dylan O'Donald –"

"O'Donnel!"

"You're not going to address me by his full name anyway, are you? Can we _please_ pick another family name?"

"What's wrong with O'Donnell? It's my mother's maiden name!"

"Nothing's wrong with it, I'm just bound to get it mixed up. What about, I don't know – Fisher?"

"And you think you won't get that one mixed-up with Angler?" she teases him.

"Okay, okay. It's your party. So I'm Dylan O'Donald – sorry – O'Donell – I'm a muggle – I'm twenty-four years old – I…"

"You're studying French literature in London. I thought that'd be easiest, none of them has a clue of such things, and you know quite a lot about it in case someone asks. And we've met in summer – we've been in the same Primary School then – we lost track of each other over the years – and bumped into each other –" He bursts out laughing, but she continues, "In the local supermarket in Twickenham. Try remembering the term '_supermarket_', that's one that Harry would notice if you mess it up."

"Supermarket – Twickenham – supermarket – French literature in London – _supermarket_. All right. I think I've got it. You have a backup-plan, incidentally? For I can't help thinking that this will go abysmally awry!"

"Try avoiding phrases like '_Good Merlin_'. And don't you refer to Harry in any other way than 'Harry'. No 'Boy Who Scored' or so…"

"I may _look_ stupid at present, but I'm not, Granger."

"Refrain from calling poor Dylan stupid, please. He's family, and he cannot help it. Oh, and while we're at it – could you, for the evening, _try_ calling me by my first name? It's _Hermione_, in case you don't know."

"Oh please," he groans. "_Hermione?_"

"That's my name!"

"I _know_! It's just…" He screws his face and shrugs. "_Hermione_ sounds so _very_ prim, doesn't it?"

"Someone going by the name of '_Draco_' really shouldn't cast the first stone when it comes to funny names, Malfoy!"

"I like calling you Granger," he nags. "It's – it fits to you much better than _Hermione_. It's crisper, smarter."

"But it'll be a bit odd if you continue calling me 'Granger'!"

He smiles at her. "Don't worry, sunshine. Just try working on the escape-plan, and we're going to be fine. Did I tell you already how stunning you look, by the way?"

"Yes, I think you did, but I didn't exactly count," she answers, grinning, and a little proud of herself. "You should congratulate your own taste more than me, though. You've chosen everything yourself; the dress, the earrings, why, even the shoes and underwear."

"The _underwear_!" He playfully wriggles a brow at her. "Oh, I hope I'll have an opportunity to admire _that_ as well. However – there is but one thing that I'm not _entirely_ happy with –"

Her disappointment is bound to show, and he continues hastily, "Now don't you mistake me, honey. You do look _great_, you really, really do. It's just that I – well, sorta miss – one of my favourites of your features." He stops and his hands glide up her shoulder and neck to her hair, and he gently begins removing the combs and clasps that hold up the elegant, smooth bun.

She laughs, but lets him go on, only murmuring, "It took me hours to fix that –"

"Yes, that's what I imagine, but it's such a pity still! As elegant, and alluring, and utterly beautiful as this work of art surely is –" He has removed the last clasp and starts ruffling her hair. "I quite fancy the way it usually is."

"Nonsense! My hair is awful, usually!"

"I beg to differ. Your hair is – well, wild, yes, but… I like it that way. I like how it feels under my fingers." To illustrate that claim, he runs his fingers through it. "I like to bury my face in it, to smell the scent of your shampoo, to have it tickle my nose…"

She's shut her eyes, partly to enjoy the caresses, partly to avoid looking at her cousin, and sighs, "Why did you give me all these combs when you like it better without them?"

"Well, for a start, they struck me to suit your complexion, and eyes, but what is more – they enable me to kiss you better." He strokes a good portion of her now loose strands back over her shoulder and kisses the side of her throat. "I also happen to enjoy the sight of the small of your neck very much." He kisses his way to exactly that spot. "But all in all, I like it exactly as it is by nature, because it's _you_. You needn't put on hairdo spells, and make-up, and silk robes to please _me_. I like you just as much in your muggle jeans…"

She would like to eat him up for this remark, with or without Dylan's appearance, and it's getting pretty late while they're standing in the middle of the alley connecting Malfoy Manor to its gatehouse, snogging passionately. He even needs to take another swig from the flask of Polyjuice Potion, just to make sure. But at last – it's a quarter to ten already – they've reached the gates, and in the next moment, they've disapparated together. The party takes place in an old muggle warehouse in Southern London, and Hermione cannot deny that her heart is thumping inside her chest. Albeit her many assertions that they'll be fine, she begins to doubt that, too, but then there are Ginny and Harry, Parvati and Padma, Neville and Luna, and it's too late to escape. Hermione introduces 'Dylan' to them with an insecure smile.

They all behave at their best – she's happy that for once he comes to see how perfectly amiable they can all be, especially Ginny. Malfoy behaves very well, too; she wouldn't have believed it, if she's quite honest with herself. He says hello to Harry and Ginny as if he had never seen them before, and reciprocates every polite nicety with a nicety of his own. Boy, Mrs Malfoy has _really_ taught her son some manners!

He even seems to be enjoying himself. When Parvati asks him how they met, he not only dutifully repeats Hermione's story, but embellishes it fairly enthusiastically, and in astonishingly great detail. "… and at first, I didn't recognise her at once. She always used to have such wild hair when we were kids, and that day she wore it so smooth and silky. I like it better though when she wears it wild –" He shoots her a broad smile and a wink. "And anyway, I didn't reckon with meeting such an exciting girl in some supermarket in Twickenham at the cheese counter, did I, let alone realise that I actually _know_ this stunning person. Well, and then I basically didn't stop pestering her until I had convinced her to go out with me."

"That's right," Hermione sighs at the recollection of the 'pestering', laughs and takes his hand.

"Which was _quite_ a feat, because she was just so determined to say no."

"I'm glad I changed my mind!"

"So am I," he says softly, squeezing her hand.

Parvati and Padma shoot Hermione some conspiratorial glances; Ginny and Harry shoot her a similar number of strange looks, that Hermione explains to herself to be rooted in their thinking that this is supposed to be Ron's replacement. Oh, let them think what they will!

"Can I get you a drink, sunshine?" he asks amicably.

From the corner of her eyes, Hermione can see Ginny and the Patil sisters making big eyes and Luna uttering a little 'Awww!', and giving him a kiss, Hermione asks for a beer and ostentatiously adds, "Use the money I've given you, yes, honey?"

"Oh, yes. Of course. Anything for you guys?" He looks around and takes their orders, and Neville volunteers to help him. As soon as they're gone, Parvati practically storms at her.

"Oh, he's _very_ nice!"

"Absolutely," Padma agrees and nods determinedly. "He's so charming, he doesn't even need amps!"

Malfoy himself got those (Dylan, the poor sod, naturally, hasn't) – because Parvati was right, _all_ Quidditch players have them – but of course, Hermione cannot admit that, and snarls, "Oh, get off it!"

"So…" Harry looks uncomfortable and shuffles his feet. "So things are getting more serious with that guy, Hermione?"

She frowns, wondering what's gotten into him, but smiles playfully then. "Define 'serious'!"

"Well… I think I should tell you – Dylan seems like a nice guy, I don't mean to bring him – or you – into any predicament… He clearly cares about you, and if you tell me you care for him, too –"

"What on earth are you stammering about, Harry?"

"Go home _now_, Hermione," Ginny says urgently, looking over Hermione's shoulder.

"What?"

"Grab your _sunshine_ and leave before – oh shit."

"_Hermione!_" Before she knows what's happening, she has been swept off her feet – she recognises both the voice and the cologne and is so stunned, she cannot react in any small way. Ron has approached them and whirls her around. "So good to see you again!"

"Ron – oh…" she gasps, and musters enough of her old hurt and outrage to push him away, at least. The nerve of that boy! After everything's that happened between them! "I didn't know you were coming –"

She glares at Harry and Ginny (who shakes her head and mouthes 'only today!') who look guiltily, but Ron exclaims with a broad smile, "Oh, so they stayed mum! I asked them to – I thought you might not come otherwise –"

"_Good thinking_," she hisses and steps back some more.

"Why didn't you reply to any of my owls?"

"Think again, Ron. Try _really_ hard, I'm sure you'll come up with the answer!" It's true. He's sent her three owls in the last three weeks, all of which she chose to ignore. Yes, so he was all snivelling for forgiveness, telling her what an arse he is, but _seriously_ – did he truly believe that would make things right again between them? Send her an _owl_, and everything is back to where they were?

"Before you make a complete prat of yourself, Ron, you should meet Hermione's new boyfriend," Ginny cries and waves towards the bar. "He'll be back in a minute."

The sappy grin drips away, and Ron echoes less high-spiritedly, "Your new boyfriend?"

Well, not that it's true, technically, _technically_ the proper term would rather be 'lover, wouldn't it, but she's relishing Ron's disappointment too much to stop herself. "Oh, yes indeed! Dylan – now where is he? He's lovely, you know? Isn't he lovely, Parvati?"

"Very," Parvati confirms with a dagger look at Ron. "He's a most charming, thoughtful lad. Unlike so many _other_ guys I know!"

"Well, so I might just as well seize the opportunity as long as he's not here now," Ron mutters and turns to Hermione. "Can I talk to you in private for a minute?"

"You can talk all right – but I'll stay exactly here!"

"Guys?" He shoots the others an imploring glance, but Hermione shakes her head at them.

"Oh no, _please_ stay. Either you can all hear what he wants to say, or he needn't say it at all!"

She's feeling nauseated. All the time, Malfoy joked about an escape plan – why hasn't she made one! Ron! _Ron!_ Here! She's dragged Malfoy here – disguised as her muggle boyfriend – and there's Ron – how often has she thought of him? Seriously – how often? Her erstwhile fiancé – she meant to _marry_ this man – she's cried her eyes out about him – and now? She feels pangs of a guilty conscience, mixed with anger, shame and helplessness, and it's only getting worse.

"Okay… I want to apologise, Hermione. I've said it so many times, but I've got to tell you once more, and in person – I love you! I've been the world's most unmitigated idiot – I've treated you so badly, I _know_ – but I want you to know how much I love you and that there can be nobody else next to you –"

"Oh, there were approximately twelve nobodies next to me, the last time I counted – and that's only the witches I read in the press about!"

"I tried to get over you, but every girl I met made it only clearer that I want to be with nobody else but you. Give me one last chance, Hermione, please! I love you!"

She stares at him, shaking her head, her pulse racing. How she longed to hear him say those words – while knowing that it'd be nothing but bullshit – still she cannot claim that she isn't a little touched hearing them _now_. It's different though from what she expected. Instead of overwhelmingly happy, she is simply stumped out. How dare he! How –

"Anything wrong, sunshine?"

She takes a moment to understand; her cousin's voice isn't nearly as familiar as Malfoy's to her these days, let alone his imitation of some fake Cockney accent. She turns around and sees him standing there, carrying four or five bottles and eyeing the scene in an indecipherable manner.

"Oh!" she cries. "Please, let me introduce you. This is D-… Dylan. Dylan, this is Ron Weasley. I – erm – we – were in school together…"

Malfoy narrows his eyes – Dylan's eyes – well, whatever – and slightly inclines his head for a hello; Ron does the same, gnarling, "Hey…"

"Oh, but I know who this is," Malfoy snarls, almost sounding like himself for a second. He distributes the beer to the anxious people surrounding them. "Your former fiancé. The one who treated you like dirt and cheated on you – how often did you say?"

"You keep out of this, mate" Ron snipes at him.

"We meet at last. I've heard a lot about you, _mate_…" Malfoy ignores Ron's warning and steps forth. It's an unfair pairing. Ron stands a good foot higher than poor Dylan's posture; he's twice as broad, too. And, Hermione knows, Ron wouldn't leave the house without his wand in his pocket – and she coaxed Malfoy into leaving his own behind to keep up the muggle hoax.

"I just told you, mate. Keep your crooked nose out of other people's business!"

"Shut up, Ron!"

Malfoy throws a gaze at Hermione before returning to scowl at Ron. "You didn't tell me just how many _old friends_ we were going to encounter, dear –"

"She didn't know," Ginny hurries to say. "We didn't tell her either!"

Malfoy moves his head in something like a tiny nod. "I see… I reckon that's what old friends are for, hm? Setting each other up... Well – I'd hate to be the one disturbing. I'm sure you've got loads to talk about. Would you care to walk me out, Hermione? – Don't worry, guys, she'll be back in a minute."

Hermione has done a little double-take – she's never heard Malfoy address her by her first name before – she registers this premier well enough, and wishes she hadn't heard it. There was a certain spin in the word that was almost hurtful – and for the first time, she realises how much she much prefers 'Granger', or 'sunshine'.

"Sure," she whispers. "Let's just go home."

"Oh no, no. _You_ stay here. You must, I insist on it." He makes a bow at the embarrassed-looking Patil sisters, Luna and Neville, and beckons at Harry and Ginny. "It was a pleasure getting to know you all at last. Have a good evening."

He turns on his heels without a parting word for Ron, and Hermione rushes to follow him and keep pace. "I'm so sorry," she coughs. "I don't know – I didn't –"

"Yes. I _heard_ Ginger. In fact, I heard _both _of them," he replies quietly but doesn't slow down.

"I'm so sorry!"

He gives a soft chuckle and smirks, but doesn't look at her. "Yeah… Well. I believe it's called _reality check_, isn't it?"

She's got no idea what he's talking about, but she's too confused to think about it. Once they're outside, he takes her arm, but in a very casual manner, so unlike his usual way, and she knows he's mad at her, making her angry in turn. She hasn't done anything wrong – apart from urging him to accompany her tonight – and he was all right with _that_ part. They disapparate together and emerge in front of the wrought-iron gates of the Manor; he touches the gate and it springs open with a little creaking sound.

"I'm sorry for dragging you away," he says lightly, "but without a wand, it would have been a tad difficult to get home otherwise."

"Rubbish, I –"

He unwinds his arm from hers and says curtly, "Well, good night and good luck."

"But –"

He doesn't let her finish the sentence. "I was serious, Hermione. _You_ go _back_!"

"Are you mad?"

"No, I'm not."

"Why are you so cross with me? I didn't –"

"I'm not _cross_ with you. If anything, I'm being realistic." His expression changes, she can tell even in the moonlight. He gives her a little smile and brushes a little kiss on her forehead. "Go back, Granger. All your friends are there. _Weasley_ is there, and sooner or later you've got to get square with him anyway." She opens her mouth for a reply, but doesn't come up with anything useful. He steps through the open gate and it closes behind him; she can hear the enchanted bar snapping, and once more his voice – "Just do me one favour, will you?"

"Of course!"

"Please – make him slither on his stomach in the dirt before you take him back."

And thus he turns around and marches away.


	196. Asking Daddy For Advise

In regards to matters of the heart, Draco knows his father to be a real expert

* * *

**– 4.69. –**

Asking Daddy For Advise

* * *

_There is no one left in the world that I can hold onto_

_There is really no one left at all, there is only you_

_And if you leave me now, you leave all that we were undone_

_There is really no one left, you are the only one_

_THE CURE_

* * *

He hadn't believed how badly this would touch him to the quick. He had known it'd come one day – he thought he had been prepared for it – but as it turned out, he wasn't. The effect of the Polyjuice Potions vanished quickly, but that was the only thing going away. The hollow feeling in his guts didn't disappear so easily; in fact, it didn't disappear at all – it got only worse the longer he pondered on it.

After attending to his mum in the next morning, he settled in the armchair next to her bed and gazed at his father. "Can I ask you something, Dad?"

"You can ask me whatever you will, but I hope you don't expect I had an answer to everything. That is your mum's domain."

Lucius tried a smile and so did his son with that fond little joke. "You – before you met Mum…"

"There _is_ no 'before I met your mum', Draco. I was thirteen when I saw her for the first time. I hardly remember anything that happened before that."

"But you didn't get engaged before you were nineteen, right?"

He could see the pearly white brows rise critically. "Whom are you getting engaged to, son?"

Draco sniggered mirthlessly. "Nobody. Really. That's not what I mean. I – this isn't directly about me, you see?"

"No." Lucius lifted his shoulders cluelessly and shook his head.

Draco smiled at him. "Good. Anyway... You did have loads of girlfriends back then, right?"

"Yes…? So?"

"Why did she forgive you? Mum? I mean – she must have been hurt that you – well."

Lucius' face adopted a sad, but dreamy expression. "We were _meant_ for each other, Draco. I cannot explain that to you. The moment I saw your mother for the first time, I _knew_. I didn't have the words – or imagination – in that moment, but looking back, I just knew that there would never be anyone else but her. And she used to say the same. We were very young then, it was too early to… To take that next step, I guess. Yes, I hooked up with a lot of nonsensical birds, but it made your mother stand out all the clearer. I don't know why she forgave me after all – I think she was just ready then."

"So –"

"So what?"

"I'm just wondering, you see... You weren't faithful to her but still she forgave you –"

"No!" Lucius cried rather forceful. "I have always, _always_ been faithful as you call it, to your mother. There was never anybody else. I might have screwed around to try and make myself get over her because I was convinced she hated me, or wanted nothing to do with me at any rate, but, Draco, from the very moment on when I caught the first ever-so-faint glimpse of hope that she might someday return my love for her, I never ever looked at any other female again!"

Draco nodded slowly. That was exactly what he'd been thinking. He had kind of known this about his parents, and it was just the same with Granger and the Weasel. They, too, had met in their first year, had taken a while to understand; Weasley had cherished his bit of fucking about, was grovelling for forgiveness just now, possibly, and would be forgiven at last.

So that was that. Oh well – what did _he_ care! It didn't matter to _him_ if Granger wanted to waste herself on that ludicrous buffoon. '_I tried to get over you! Give me one last chance, Hermione, please! I love you!_' How pathetic could a guy be! _I love you_, _I love you!_ Ph! Girls _loved_ to hear this stuff, didn't they? And Granger, clever and sagacious as she might ever be, would fall for it like every other. She would forget every injury Weasley had ever inflicted on her; she would only hear the '_I love you_' and it would drown out all the rest, wouldn't it? She would ignore that Weasley knew as much about _love_ as he knew about Cantonese tea ceremonies, because he'd tell her what she so direly wanted to hear from him, and because forgiveness was just in her nature.

She wasn't half as self-confident as she pretended to be – underneath all that thick-skinned demeanour, the quick and snide retorts, the 'I couldn't care less' attitude, she was just incredible insecure. _Draco_ knew this; he had known for a very long time, and to his shame, he had for many years taken advantage of that one weakness whenever he had spotted a chance to do so. _Weasley_ had never got it, and he never would. He was too thick-headed, and too lazy as well. Because if Weasley acknowledged her self-doubts, he'd have to act upon that realisation; he'd have to assure her, be sensitive with her. It was much more convenient to see her like he wanted to see her, as that robust creature that would take every blow with a shrug, and forgive him afterwards.

"So what is this all about?" Lucius inquired after a silent minute.

"Oh – nothing. I – a friend, you know… They were in love with each other for like forever, went out for two years, split up over some misunderstanding and – well, it looks like they've gotten back together after all."

"Ah! So young Theodore has forgiven his inamorata at last? Good for him!" Lucius cried, clearly proud to remember such a piece of gossip from his son's life. "I cannot exactly figure out what he sees in her, but that Bulstrode girl is certainly a very good sort of young woman. Good family. I know her old man. Great chap."

Draco couldn't but smile to see his father so pleased with himself and wouldn't have corrected the error for the world. Let him think he had gotten it right. And who knew, perhaps Theo and Mil _would_ one day hitch up again… In which case poor old Greg would probably go to pieces.

Or would he? Draco didn't even know whether his friend had cast off Millicent's spell on him at last, and gotten himself some nice Japanese girlfriend instead. Which was a spooky thought. Weren't Japanese women rather small and petite? Were there female Sumo wrestlers? Would Greg even know, or care? Draco, as his oldest friend, should know this, shouldn't he? He felt guilty for having neglected his mate in the last months, and made a mental note to send him an owl this very day. And while he was at it, he should also get back to Theo and Mil. All three of them had tried their best to get through to him after his dad's death, and he had never thanked them for their efforts.

When Andromeda came for her next visit the following morning, she found her nephew low and taciturn. She anxiously inquired whether Narcissa's state had worsened. Draco just shrugged. "It's hopeless anyhow."

"Don't say that, Draco. You must –"

"Oh, give it a rest, please," he interrupted her and got to his feet with one lithe, angry move. "Let's just _face it_. Stop making pretensions. She can't _live_ without him."

Andromeda sighed. The poor, poor child! "It's going to be all right –"

"This is rubbish and you know it!" He took a deep breath and his aunt could tell how badly he tried to rally himself. Calmer, he muttered at last, "It's not going to be _all right_. It bloody isn't, Aunt Andy. It's over!"

"It's not _over_! She lives!"

He gave her a strange look, hesitant, and murmured at last, "Well, she's still breathing, technically."

She gazed at him, glaring back at her, and frowning she said she'd go and see her sister for a start. Draco offered to look after Teddy and gently lifted the little tyke up into his arms. Teddy giggled and gurgled and pulled his cousin's hair, but no matter how Draco otherwise relished the boy's cheerful antics, he hardly had eyes for that now.

"Ago!" Teddy vehemently demanded his cousin's attention, bringing him back to the present.

He gave the boy an indulgent smile. "It's _Draco_, Teddy. _Dra-co_. Come on, you can say it. _Dra-co_."

"Raco!" Teddy spluttered and Draco patted his head.

"That's a very good start, kid! Let's try once again. _Dra-co_."

"Raco! Raco! Raco!"

"Well, didn't we learn a new letter today at least! Very good, Teddy."

He took Teddy over to the nursery. The elves had done an admirable job about the place, since Aunt Andy had first brought the little fellow along. He had outgrown his first cradle, and the second one, and now he was already old enough to merrily play with the model railway and the small version of the Hogwarts Express. Whenever the locomotive's tiny horn blew, the boy's hair changed in colour, from blue to green to bright orange and back again, beaming at his older cousin, who scarcely managed to force himself smiling back.

"There's a good boy," Draco muttered tonelessly. Teddy chuckled in return, rotating to follow the train, and wildly waving his toy wand that gave off golden sparks. Not much later, Aunt Andy returned, her brows furrowed.

"Your father says nothing material had changed."

"Yeah. Exactly."

"But – Draco, please. I know that your mother and I were on no good turns for many years, and you may be mad with me for –"

"I'm not mad with you!"

"That's good. So I hope you know that you can talk to me openly. I'm as worried for your mother as you are. But I'm also worried for _you_ –"

"You needn't be. I'm fine."

"Yes, _that_ is obvious, isn't it! Come, Draco. I knew it was only a matter of time until you'd finally – well. At any rate I want you to know that I'll be there for you."

He gave her a feeble smile. "Thank you, Aunt. That's kind of you."

She seemed to wait for him saying more, but he wasn't inclined to, and eventually she gave up and left with Teddy. Feeling far more exhausted than the dealing with a two-year-old would warrant, Draco listlessly sat down and stared at the model railway. He didn't really see it though, but rather glared into nothingness. For a while, he nurtured his anger with his aunt, but it didn't work for long. No, he wasn't cross with her, why should he be, after all. She had done nothing worse other than trying to be nice, and caring. He was aware that his mother would not appreciate it if he slighted his aunt, and made a resolution to make up the next time, but that was as good as it got that morning. The afternoon and evening were likewise gloomy, his night sleepless, and on the next morning he was even more ill-tempered than the previous day.

He had skipped all his classes in that week, which didn't remain unnoticed by his father. Lucius, however, attributed this largely to Draco's concern for his mother and instead of criticising him, expressed his sympathy. The boy didn't have the heart to tell his father that he, himself, wasn't altogether sure that it was chiefly solicitousness for his mum that kept him at home. On the other hand, he hadn't got the nerve to contemplate why he was so keen to stay in the Manor on all accounts. He had enjoyed being at College again. He had found it agreeable to take his mind off his greatest worry for some hours each day, and to have something to do at home too, besides looking after Narcissa. Nevertheless, he found the idea unbearable to leave the house, and consequently didn't.

Granger had sent him two owls, though he had only read the first letter. It had sounded irritated; she had defended herself and claimed that she hadn't had the slightest notion to encounter Weasley on that wretched party. He had thrown the note into the fireplace with a shrug. Yeah, he had known so much, thank you. The second letter he had burnt unopened.

On Thursday, she showed up personally, and Draco had no more than a startled instant between her being announced by Ziggy – grabbing the elf by the arm and ordering him to apparate into the library _at once_ – and hoping for the best in that hideout. She took no more than ten minutes to find him though, not enough time for him to compose himself properly, and hardly enough even to grab _some_ credible book and pretend he was reading when hearing her steps approaching behind him. She had her hands pressed into her sides and her brows knitted tightly together.

"What's _wrong_ with you?" she snapped without even saying hello.

"Nothing, I'm fine. And you?"

"Is anything the matter with your mother?"

"I told you before and I won't tell you again, Granger. – Do. Not. Speak. Of. My. Mother."

He sounded more aggressive than he had meant, but couldn't be bothered to apologise. Why did she keep on bugging him, anyway! This was all unpleasant enough as it was! She bit on her lip, hesitated, and said then, "Okay, sorry. I just thought – well, anyway. I thought you must have a reason not to go to school."

"Yeah, I have!" he retorted more quickly than he could think, regretting it in the next moment. Saying he had a reason – which wasn't even true, was it? – would lead to more questions, and frankly, he wanted to see her leave as soon as possible.

"Well, what is it?" she asked, predictably.

"None of your –" He stopped himself just so, shut his eyes, took a deep breath and began anew, "Sorry. But you really need not trouble yourself. It was kind of you to ask, I appreciate that, and even more I would appreciate it if you just left now. No offence."

He avoided to look directly at her and focused on the book in his lap instead, but nevertheless noticed that her cheeks were deeply pink. "But –"

"_Please_, Granger! Just – just go."

"I will, in a moment. But before that, I would really like to hear from you why you didn't answer either of my owls, for example."

"Oh, sorry… I – was distraught, I guess –"

"_Distraught_?"

"Yes." He nodded. "Busy, you know. Besides, I already told you that I _know_ you didn't – anyway."

"Anyway…?"

"Yes."

"Yes _what_? That is all you've got to say to me?"

"Yes."

She shot him a dagger look. "I want to talk to you, Draco Malfoy. Do you even _hear_ me?"

"Yes, I _hear_ you. But I haven't got the _time_ right now to –"

"Oh, don't give me this shit, Malfoy! What is the matter with you? I'll leave you alone, but not before you haven't explained that to me!"

He saw that she was serious, and that the fastest way to get rid of her was, curiously, candour. "Look, Granger – I don't even know what you wrote in that second owl. I – didn't read it. Now don't take it personal, I just wasn't in the mood. There is _nothing_ wrong with me, I'm as fine as I can be under the given circumstances. My mother needs me, I'm not in the mood to waste my time in school, and that's the end of it. You see – no reason to fret. Thank you for your thoughtfulness."

"Why didn't you read my letter?" she asked with a different voice, much milder, more hoarse.

"My head was crammed full with other things," he lied smoothly.

"I explained the thing with Ron to y-"

"Yes, yes, and I assure you, you really need not explain _anything_ to me. Look, you're not accountable to me. Seriously. You don't _want_ to explain to me anything connected to Weasley – I'm no fair judge of his qualities. If you want to talk about him – ask somebody who actually _likes_ the man. I do not, and I don't think I ever gave you an opposite impression."

"I don't want to talk about him in the first place! I –"

"Look, Granger. It's okay, you understand? Really. You're _made_ for each other – and this isn't meant derogatory of you, only because I think he's an idiot."

"He _is _an idiot –"

He couldn't help it but laugh. "Yeah, well. You can rely on me, Granger, I won't compromise you, if you're worried about that. He'll never hear of anything, as far as _I_ am concerned. And if I may give you a piece of advice – you shouldn't tell him either."

"But that's not the point!"

"Yes, of course." He sighed and smiled. "I just wanted to say it. Anyway – I don't mean to be impolite, but I'm afraid I've got to ask you to leave now, please."

It took him some more before he had finally jockeyed her out of the door (and that he was too distraught to find the shortest way out of the library did _not_ help!), which he sealed with his wand, then he leant against it and slowly glided down to the floor, his knees drawn up to his forehead, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

Why did she have to make it so hard for him?


	197. And Asking Mummy

Hermione feels her mother doesn't really understand her either

* * *

**– 4.70. –**

**And Asking Mummy**

* * *

_When a subject is highly controversial — and any question about sex is that — one cannot hope to tell the truth. One can only show how one came to hold whatever opinion one does hold.__ One can only give one's audience the chance of drawing their own conclusions as they observe the limitations, the prejudices, the idiosyncrasies of the speaker._

_VIRGINIA WOOLF – A Room Of One's own_

* * *

What's wrong with all these guys? All of them – nuts! Well, there are the obvious nut cases, like Ernie Macmillan. Or dear Harry making a fool of himself because he'd do pretty much _anything_ to get his two best mates back together. But Ron? What's _he_ thinking? Is he thinking at all? Does he truly believe that he can prance back into her life like this? Some sentimental evocation of their past together, a couple of 'I love you's' and 'Forgive me's', and 'There's no one else but you!' – and she is supposed to fall into his open arms again?

She's once told Malfoy about the difference between 'forgiving' and 'forgetting' – _he_ understood it, but maybe that's simply because he's twice as smart as Ron. He, too, asked her for forgiveness, for calling her a 'mudblood' and treat her like dirt in school, and yes, she has forgiven him, because she knew and knows still, that he truly meant to never do the same again. That's the catch about forgiveness – it demands repentance, and _repentance_ means, among other things, the firm will to never do it again. Ron has understood neither of it; he doesn't know what true regret is. He thinks saying sorry is what that thing is all about. He doesn't know what forgiveness is either – and believes it was the same like forgetting, but it isn't. It really, really isn't.

And speaking of the devil! Malfoy! What's _his_ problem now? Well, apart from all the obvious ones like a dead father and an ill mother. The young gent deigns not talking to her! Or listening! Or – argh! Yes, he did talk to her after that awful evening, exactly once, and only because she actually _forced_ him. Detached as a canoe on the open ocean, telling her that she and Ron belong and she ought not to feel in any way obliged to him. That he regards their little arrangement done, and that she need not be afraid that he'll give her away – he even used that wretched common place of the gentleman never telling! And when she asked him if was out of his head – and she meant that question more seriously than it may have sounded! – he had the nerve of twisting things as if he was actually trying to do her a favour!

"Face it, Granger – you're crazy for the bloke. You two were always meant to be, and you really, _really_ don't want to cock it up. If Weasel King finds out… You are more generous than him, because mark my words; _he_ would never forgive _you_ if he found out with whom you've been fooling around. So let's just call it a day straight away; you go back and keep him on tenterhooks some longer. I don't presume you want my advice, but if you will – once you've given in, you should drag him to the altar before _he_ can let you down once more, and make an Unbreakable Vow. Worked for my parents, you know?"

She was so aghast, she hardly managed to defy that claim – she _won't go back to Ron_, for crying out loud! – but he just laughed. He actually _laughed_ at her, and told her that he knew her better than that, and then he basically dismissed her, politely though, but still. She's been fuming with anger – anger at him, at Ron, at every man in the world who thinks he knows better what's going on in a woman's head than she does, or who thinks he can walk all over her and some petty begging for forgiveness will set things right again!

And then she went home to at least get her mum's support. Yes, Nicky Granger is utterly sympathetic. She, too, cannot _believe_ Ron's nerve, and is clueless about Malfoy. She helplessly lifts her shoulders and drops them again, muttering, "Well… Maybe he's just jealous?"

"No, mum. Not like you think, anyhow." Her mother doesn't understand, and Hermione elaborates, "He hates Ron – and maybe he does hate the idea of any girl who's ever been with him being with Ron of all persons afterwards. On the other hand – not even so much. It's not as if he even _tried_ to hold me back. He did everything but pushing me out of the door!"

"Well, you've been with that Ronald for so long, and only – how long – three months? Four? – with him… Perhaps he doesn't think he can even compete?"

"You clearly don't know the ego of Draco Malfoy! Bigger than Yorkshire, Mum! Bah, Yorkshire – rather something like Canada!"

"_I_ think he's a very nice young man…"

"Mum, _please_!"

"Well, he is! And better than the other guy."

"Now that's not fair! You hardly know Ron!"

"And whose fault is that now, Hermione? Your Ron –"

"Isn't _my_ Ron!"

"–didn't find it necessary to _ever_ come and meet your parents – asked you to marry him, and seen his own possible in-laws three times in his life, in passing!"

"I understand that offends you, Mum, but –"

"This isn't about _me_ feeling offended, darling." She strokes over her daughter's head. "It's about thoughtlessness – or thoughtfulness, if you will. It's about how much real interest this Ron was taking in you – disregarding for a minute the many times he betrayed your trust in him. All I'm saying is that Draco _did_ appear much more thoughtful, more genuinely interested in you and your life."

"You're getting this wrong, Mum…" And mustering _all_ her bravado, she sighs and decides to tell her mother the truth about her and _Draco's_ 'relationship'. "It was nothing but – nothing but sex," she mutters meekly and takes great care to observe her own shoes. "It looks all very nice, yes, sending me flowers and jewellery and an entire band – but… It's just easy for him, you see? He's just – filthy rich, Mum, it's obscene, really. To him, sending me a bracelet for how many thousand pounds is the same like sending a postcard would be for another guy –"

"So how many postcards exactly did you get from your Ronald, then?"

"Mum!"

"Sorry, darling."

"Ron might have many mistakes – and I _did_ tell you already that I'm not having him back, I'm not stupid, you know? Ron has mistakes, but at least he _loves_ me. And I loved him, too. Malfoy doesn't, to him I'm just a weird sort of trophy. Don't ask me what exactly he's seen in me – I never figured that bit out – but if there's one thing I know, it is this. _He_ doesn't love me, so please stop trying to talk me into fancying him."

"I thought you were both fancying each other pretty obviously. Geez, you couldn't keep your hands to yourself, and those _looks_ – I wish your dad would give _me_ such a look every now and then still!"

"Here's another news flash for you, mum – I know it must shock you – but I've never had good sex before meeting him. Heck, I was almost a virgin still at my nineteenth birthday! And Ron wasn't – he didn't…" She can feel how badly she's blushing. "I was so smitten with Malfoy because we had this fantastic, mind-blowing sex. I'd never believed that – I didn't know such a thing _existed_ before we started going out. That's all there is to those fiery looks."

Well, this isn't _entirely_ true, but Hermione hasn't the least inclination to discuss this with her mother. Because on _her_ part, there _was_ a little more in 'those looks'. He's made her feel so good. It's incredible how good he could make her feel, how easy, but most of all, how special. He gave her the feeling to be extraordinary, made her feel pretty, and wanted, and confident. He _is_ very charming when he wants to be, and gifted with words, and with him she felt like a whole different person. Not boring and priggish and all that. He took interest in what she'd say, he'd seriously _listen_. And _remember_, and take her serious. All that, in combination with the rest – gosh, yeah. She could not get enough of that, and it probably showed in the way she looked at him.

But that's just his way, after all. She once heard Susan Bones say that – that despite all his charms, and attentiveness and thoughtfulness, it doesn't _mean_ anything. He is 'just like that'. His own words, according to Susan! Straight from the horse's mouth! He's all sweet and caring, and at the same time lacking _any_ sense of commitment.

Her mother suppresses a smile now and bites her lip. "Well, these things do take a bit of practise –"

"Ron was keener on Quidditch practise than improving in _that _sector," Hermione snorts. "And I – I didn't even _notice_! I thought the way we – _well_ – was the only way there was!"

Her mum tilts her head and seems to look for something to say, murmuring at last, "In any case I'm glad you had your first experiences with someone with whom it felt right."

"Yeah, if only it hadn't just felt 'right', but 'good' as well!"

They both crack up, and it takes away a bit of the embarrassment, if not of her melancholia. In fact, she is so wrapped up in her musings, it takes her a while to hear the wailing sirens, and when she does, they're almost out of earshot again. Strawberry Hill is a rather sedate neighbourhood and police sirens almost unheard of, so the whole Granger family turns on the local radio station in the evening to hear what's happened, and indeed, the incident makes the lead feature on the news.

Around four o'clock today a so far unexplainable (the news speaker goes as far as calling it 'mysterious') assault took place on the members of a household in Riverside Mansions, Pointer Street, two people killed, one survivor – a child, apparently, who could be saved by a whisker because two members of the local volunteer fire brigade happened to live in the same house and were alerted by sounds that made them think of an explosion downstairs. The police would appreciate possible witnesses to come forward etc.

"Pointer Street?" Ben Granger echoes with glowing eyes. "I'm sure the Cartwrights must know more then."

In a similarly excited vein, his wife exclaims, "And Charlotte Cartwright just happens to have an appointment with me tomorrow afternoon! – Her lower left 7 is making trouble again."

Hermione can merely goggle at them stupidly. To her, there was but one central message within all this – a child is the sole survivor of an attack on two people who are bound to be his or her parents. The poor, poor kid!

"Well, I'm off to school," she snarls, appalled by her own parents' unfeelingness. "See you next Sunday!"

She's in a filthy mood when entering her dorm, and it only gets worse when she's informed by the Matron that 'a Mr Weasley' has been asking for her two times this afternoon. At once, Hermione's temper flares up once more. Every Sunday – every freaking Sunday! – she goes to see her parents, and doesn't return before the evening. He should know that! Why doesn't he know that? He claimed that he wanted to _marry_ her, but he does not know the simplest matter about her to begin with!

What does he know, anyway! How to stop a Quaffle! That's not very much, is it? And the few things he knows about social interactions between two human beings – well, he got all _that_ from his frigging book! Much as Hermione believes in books' wisdom – there _are_ certain things that should come from the heart, not from the pages of a self-help booklet!


	198. Oh, The Shame!

He always knew that the homely life was not for him

* * *

– **4.71. – **

Oh, The Shame!

* * *

_I was never much for the self-driven skepticism  
I was that cat that let distraction affect my vision_

_Music is a universal language; so is anguish, pain, and torment  
Balance of emotions, it shows a happiness upon us  
No more pickin' sides, one without the other is impossible  
(Uhh, forgot what I was supposed to say)  
They call it bi-polar, unstable conditions, they got me lookin' over my shoulder  
The book that I wrote ya', was meant to move the time slower  
But it was spent cookin' my mind's motor, now I'm older_

_I'm embarrased by my past actions and even more ashamed  
Of my present thoughts and future endeavors to clear my name  
I'm embarrassed, I'm embarrassing, I'm an embarrassment, and it's all addin' up_

_SAGE FRANCIS - Embarrassed_

* * *

Now this was awkward. Embarrassing. He'd go so far even and call it an utter and complete failure!

How can it be that _he_, the greatest sorcerer of all time, can't manage the most basic spellwork any longer? To keep someone under the Imperius Curse – oh _please_. He managed so much as a thirteen-year-old!

It must be that damned new body. Obviously. His movements are different now, rounder, more difficult. That he's still feeling as if some dragon had taken a big chunk right out of his midriff doesn't make things easier either. And to remedy _that_, he needs to get the stupid sculpture fixed, which is anything but possible as long as he cannot retrieve the necessary blood in order to prepare new clay for the pathetic little artist in the cellar to do his magic!

The wretched stooge actually dared – managed, more like! – to temporarily withstand the Imperius Curse put on him. His late wife didn't seem to have any difficulties with that, did she? Pity he cannot ask her any longer. He's almost glad about this little accident with the sculpture going bust during the Transformation, or he wouldn't have known how vital the bloody thing is for his continuing existence. Because his original plan had been to destroy it as soon as she was trapped inside and he'd taken over her body from her.

'Failure can be a chance', old Albus often said, much to young Tom Riddle's scorn. He did think that failure can never be anything but failure, but _occasionally_, the old crackpot had it right after all. Just look at _this_ mess!

He still hasn't accustomed to looking into a mirror. That new body is _disgusting_! Pretty by conventional standards alright, but Tom Riddle has never gotten nearer to any woman than it takes to curse her, and being stuck inside of one is more than a little awkward. He cannot even take a pee without being reminded of his undignified situation!

He should have picked a man for this, yes! Oh, right. He was in not much of a position to _pick_. That, and of course, no _man_ would ever have been that stupid to let it come to this. Only women can be so silly and weak to have their hopes override their common sense!

Naturally, he renewed the Imperius Curse on the pathetic little man once his wife was out of the picture; curses, you must know, die with their casters. Astonishingly though, the curse on the man didn't wear off by her demise, the only logical conclusion being that she isn't dead to begin with. Interesting. You can sever a soul from its body, take control of that body and immure the soul in an inanimate object, and still the person won't die. Well, it's kind of like with Horcruxes, isn't it, just that in this case, the soul wasn't split up first. Which is another interesting matter – obviously, simple killing in itself does not split the soul as people always believe. This is the proof, is it not?

No, of course it isn't – what does he know how marred the soul inside that sculpture really is? But here comes the real problem – not only that he mucks up his spells of late, he also makes logical mistakes that a Third Year would spot at once. Must be that damned woman's brains he's now stuck with!

But is it?

She was pretty nimble with her own spells; she got far, very far, and to get this far she couldn't be that unintelligent to begin with. But maybe women just have no logical capacities... Yes, he is sure he once read something like this. In his mind, he goes through the few females he actually got to know better in his past life.

His mother clearly had no brains at all – one for the list.

Dear Bellatrix Lestrange, admirable as she was, wouldn't count among the world's great thinkers either – another hit for the list.

Minerva McGonagall, his closest competitor for greatness during his time in school – smart and gifted, yes, but was she also a logical person? He's sure he can't say, so the point is moot.

_Every_ single female watchdog in the goddamned orphanage – totally off the rocker, all of them, no exceptions. Must be twenty or more proofs for his list!

So it's official, empirically proven and all: Women are rarely smart, and even less often logical.

But why on earth did he even set up this list...? Can it be possible that he's already forgotten? Good grief, he needs that cursed sculpture to be fixed, and _now_, so he can get over with this damned business!

"Stooge!" he shouts, and within seconds, the ridiculous geezer shows up, his cap in his hands and smiling dementedly.

"Yes, dear?"

_Dear?_ How dare he! How – his gaze falls on his own hand when he lifts it to curse the blasphemous maggot for his lack of reverence. It's a small hand, flamboyantly manicured with long, blazing red fingernails and four very ditzy rings (mental note: get rid of those rings!), and only then he remembers that the dogsbody believes he's looking at his _wife_ (oh, the humiliation of it all!), which he supposedly is allowed to call 'dear'. Blast it!

"For a start: don't you call me 'dear' ever again!"

"Yes, dear!"

He shoots the man a withering glance, which is completely lost on him. "No more 'dears', I said!"

"Yes, d-... Venus."

That's not so much better either, is it? "You will call me 'sir' from now on, stooge!"

"Uh –"

"No 'uhs' either! There'll be a lot of changes in this household, stooge, you better get accustomed to them at once! Now – tell me once more where you went wrong the other night!"

You think dealing with the 'husband' was strenuous? Take a look at the sodding offspring and think again! At first, he tried to Imperius the kid, but to no real avail. Took him four or five attempts to even mildly confuse the boy, and didn't go any further.

"Did you just try to – to Imperius me, Mum?" the kid asks in wide-eyed incredulity.

"Of course not! And don't call me 'mum'!"

"As you wish, Mother. – You did try to Imperius me, didn't you...?"

"Don't talk such nonsense, Balthazar!"

The child narrows his slanted eyes. "Okay, Mum, this is it. You will get off those sodding beauty potions this very day! Jesus!"

"How dare you –

Very unceremoniously though (and utterly unexpected, too!), the boy comes over and brushes a kiss – a _kiss_, ugh! – on his mother's forehead before Tom Riddle can even react. "You're ill, Mum. Come, I'll take you upstairs and you lie down a bit. We'll get you sorted, I promise, but now you need some rest."

Honestly, can the greatest sorcerer in the world be any more disgraced?


	199. The Inevitable

It comes like it had to come

* * *

**– 4.72. –**

The Inevitable

* * *

_Deep-hearted man, express  
Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death-  
Most like a monumental statue set  
In everlasting watch and moveless woe  
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.  
Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:  
If it could weep, it could arise and go._

_ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING - Grief_

* * *

In the Manor's library, there was a magical sculpture of the lady of the house that her son tried avoiding to walk past. When given to them as a gift of gratitude for what Narcissa had done for her sister, this piece of art had been gloriously beautiful, radiant in its white marble and seemingly glowing from within. This was just the way of magical sculptures; they reflected something of the original, and Narcissa Malfoy had been nothing if not vibrant and aglow. The sculpture had changed though in the last months, had gotten thinner and thinner to the point that it looked like falling apart. The house-elves, always on the somewhat superstitious side, no longer dared to dust it, fearing they might accidentally break off a piece – and what of Mylady _then!_

Gentle as ever, Draco lifted his mother's upper body and propped her up on the cushions. He dared not pondering that every day, she weighed less. He'd estimate she had, in her best of health, never weighed more than seven stone nine. Now she was much, _much_ lighter, not more than five stone five, surely. Her anyway small wrists were childlike now; her throat had turned gaunt, her cheeks were hollow. It tormented him to see her like this.

"Open your mouth, Mum, please," he said uselessly, softly pressing against her jaw to make her open it. He dripped the potion onto her tongue and then pressed her head backwards so that she would swallow. He did the same with another potion, and the water, and the broth. No matter what he fed to her, her body didn't accept it. She lost weight regardless of the food they gave her. Draco thought he knew what this meant, but he couldn't bring himself to speak it out aloud in his dad's presence. Only to his aunt, he had once mentioned this – she had looked back at him, with sad eyes, nodding. That reaction had been even worse than not talking about it at all.

Lucius never left his wife's side. As a ghost, he needn't sleep, nor eat, and safe some swift exceptions when his son was in the room, his eyes were fixed upon Narcissa's face and nothing else. His anguish was unspeakable. Like his son, he was aware of what was to come. _He_ thought that Draco wouldn't endure it to talk about the future, but truth was, Lucius couldn't bear it either. She would die. She would. And so much sooner than he had dreaded in his worst premonitions. In a way, she was dead already, but at least he could still look at her, and entertain _some_ hopes that there was the smallest chance of recovery. He could talk to her, could tell her how much he loved her, how much she had enriched his life – that this life wouldn't have been worth a knut if it hadn't been for her… He recited her favourite poems, ordered the elves to come and turn the pages of her favourite books so he could read to her. He had Draco play her favourite music, he had even ordered a string quartet to play for her three times a week.

But his blossom faded away regardless. "What will you do when…" his sister-in-law asked him upon her next visit.

"I'll accompany her until the next realms," he answered tonelessly.

"Is that possible?"

"It must be. I swore I'd never let her alone again."

Hesitantly, she went on, "Is it possible that you – that you can accompany her further than that…?"

He shook his head. "I don't know… I think not. Cissa – she said it's impossible, and she knows these things. There's nothing she didn't know. _Doesn't_ know," he corrected himself angrily.

Andromeda was silent for a while. "You know what's funny? No, not _funny_, but – well, ironic, I guess… I always told her you would be her death. And now you are." In utter disbelief, Lucius drew his gaze away from his wife, gaping at her sister. She shrugged helplessly. "It's true," she said. "She always said she couldn't live without you – turns out she was right!"

"If that's your idea of solace, I pray you'd just _shut up_, woman!"

"Solace! I don't think I've got it in me to _solace_ you, Lucius. I'm sorry. I _am_. But there _is_ no solace for any of this."

His eyes had returned to linger on Narcissa; he gave a little moan, and said quietly, "You and I have never been, and could never be, on friendly terms, Andromeda. I regret that for my angel's sake. But if you've only come here to torment me some more, I've got to ask you to go, and not come back!"

"No… No. No, you mistake me. I didn't mean to… Look, Lucius, it's true – you and I never got along. I know how much you disapprove of my choice of a husband –"

He gave a loud, swift laugh. "I assure you, Andromeda – I couldn't care less. Never did. For all I care and cared, you were free to marry whom you pleased!"

"Rubbish!"

"No, it's _no_ rubbish. It's never been _my_ concern whom someone I hardly knew, nor cared for, got married to or not. _My_ problem with you was different, once we left school." He chuckled softly. "In school I found you plain boring, and was annoyed by your snappish attitude towards me, but that never mattered on the long run. What _really_ infuriated me was the hurt you caused Cissa. You've hurt her so much. But being her, she had so much more greatness than I. _She_ forgave you everything; I don't think she ever had a very serious grudge with you to begin with. I didn't possess that generosity. I found it hard to forget how much my angel suffered because of you."

She lifted her shoulders and crossed her arms as if she were embracing herself. "Yeah… It's strange for me to say this, but I understand you. I really do. And better than you fathom now. I – I was mistaken in that one respect. I guess I only saw it the way I wanted to see the matter. _I_ thought she, like our parents, rejected _my_ loved ones – hurt _them_, in a manner of speaking – and I could impossibly forgive that, either. I had no idea what Cissy's real grief was, and I suppose I got to blame myself for not thinking very hard about it. I want you to know that – that…" She swallowed hard and was shaken by a little tremor. "For more than twenty years, I had not the faintest clue what I really owe you, and my little Cissy. _I_ was furious because of the constant danger my husband and children were in – I hope you know that I didn't know what you did for me. For them. Now I know that I've got you to thank for these twenty years with them. And I want you to know that I _am_ truly grateful."

He swiftly looked over to her before fixing his gaze on Narcissa again. "I don't deserve that gratefulness, Andromeda. I didn't do that for you. I did it for _her_. Every good thing I ever did, I did for her."

"You did it. I don't give a damn why." Her voice was gentle, yet resolute, and quite astonished he looked over to her once more. He found her looking friendlier than he had seen her ever before, possibly. Well, 'friendly' didn't quite match her expression. 'Sympathetic', perhaps, 'genuinely caring'. She gave him a little smile. "You've taken care of my family, Lucius, to spare my sister from further grief. I just want to tell you that I will do the same. I'll look after Draco when you and Cissy can't do it anymore."

He was silent for a while, before saying, "Thank you. I – thank you. I appreciate the offer. I think… He may actually need a little looking after." He gave a dry chuckle. "I think he's a bit lovesick, but I might be mistaken."

"Lovesick?"

His mouth curled up into a little smirk. "Yes, well, I'm not sure… There was some girl, as far as I can see. She'd come here every couple of days, and all I can say is she's coming no more, and he's very moody."

"Oh! Now that – explains a few things… I did notice the moodiness. Did you talk to him about this?"

"No…" He shook his head. "I'm not really fit for these sorts of talks. And also – I cannot _bear_ to… It all reminds me so much of Cissa, and how we were then… But I'll make up. Before long, I'll have nothing else to do than look after our son. I'll be here, with _nothing_ else to care for, and I will still be here to see my own child die one day, and his child, and his grandchild, and every member of the family until it's died out at last. And then I'll _still_ be here."

"You might be able to go with her, though."

"I wish that was so… You don't know how much I wish it was so!" A silvery white tear ran down his ghostly cheek. "I – I couldn't leave her. _She_ was the one with foresight. _I_ didn't think about eternity. I only thought that I couldn't leave her; that I promised her I'd never leave her until her dying breath. She always said 'Don't give me a promise that's not in your power to keep' – and I had set my heart on keeping my word to her. I only wish… I only wish I could have had some more years with her. Just – just a little more time…"

Andromeda's voice was a little hoarse when replying, "I… I know the feeling."

"Yes, you do. I know. But perhaps it is a small comfort that you will be reunited with him after all."

"It is, indeed. I was never more aware of that comfort before… Well, before you came back, I reckon." They didn't look at each other. He heard her blowing her nose, before continuing, "No matter what else I said in the past, Lucius – my sister was lucky, more than just lucky, to have you. You have made her happy. She _was_ one of the happiest persons I ever knew, and she was that because of you, and your son. Even when she was frightened and unhappy, she still derived strength from having you two in her life."

Her brother-in-law gave no answer. Instead, he started to cry in earnest, and half an hour later, Andromeda left. Downstairs, she fiercely hugged her nephew, then picked up little Ted and walked away in silence. Draco was quite disconcerted by her behaviour and ran up to his mother's room, asking breathlessly, "Is anything – anything for the worse with mum…?"

But Lucius still could give no answer. Watching him apprehensively, Draco sat down at the piano at last, flicking through the music, and settling for one of his mother's favourite pieces. It was a lively, merry work, totally inappropriate for the sombre situation, and Draco sensed his father's mortification, but didn't turn around to check, or excuse himself. His mum loved this song, and maybe she could hear it, and if she could, she might pluck up courage, might understand how much she was missed here…

If he had turned around, he would have seen his father settling next to his wife, as close to her as he possibly could without actually touching her. A ghost's touch was cold and highly unpleasant. Lucius didn't want to cause her unpleasantness; his whole purpose in life had been to make her happy.

Perhaps he imagined things – but he thought he saw her lips, her rose petal lips that always enticed him to kiss her, saw these beautiful lips curl ever so slightly into an almost unperceived smile. Yes, he, too, knew that she had loved this song very much, and perhaps she _did_ hear it now. He relished the idea that she could. If she could hear this, she'd hear their voices, too. And that way, he could still be close to her. Not to disturb the music, he whispered vows of love under his breath, telling her with every note how much he missed her, and that she ought to come back to him.

Her breathing was so flat these days, it took him longer than the song's duration to register that something was wrong. "Draco," he said, and louder, harsher, "_Draco!_ Come over here! _Come here!_"

The boy turned around on his stool, astonished by his father's vigour. "Dad, she _likes_ this s-"

"You come here _at once_, Draco! Feel her pulse! _Feel her pulse I say!_"

Draco obeyed at once, startled and scared. He snatched her little wrist, felt no heartbeat, but put this down to his own fear and nervousness. He took her other wrist, and when this was just as unsuccessful, he put his hand against the side of her throat, feeling for her carotid artery. His father's face was as frozen as Draco suddenly felt. The boy hardly noticed what he did next – he screamed the house down, demanding the elves to fetch a Healer, any Healer they could find, to come _at once_ _and do something!_

Ten elves disapparated in the next moment, and returned within minutes, dragging ten struggling Healers along. Two were still clinging onto their tea cups, one was only halfway dressed and short of a shoe, but house-elves could develop enormous strength when they had put something to their heads. Everything these Healers could find though equalled Draco Malfoy's own spontaneous assessment. There was nothing they could do for the witch on the bed. She was dead.

Within all the ruckus, the two principal mourners remained very still. Draco had been forced away from the bed by the Healers who had examined his mother, and stood in a corner, silent tears streaming down his cheeks. No force on earth could have removed Lucius' ghost from his wife's side, however. Misty white tears dripping from his eyes and falling on her dead-white cheeks, he had tried to embrace her, but his ghostly form had melted with her rapidly chilling body and taking some real comfort – more than just _comfort_, but real, if ever so inappropriate serenity – in blending with his wife until he dissolved in her completely.

* * *

**Author's note: **Hey there, guys. Tons of thanks to everyone leaving a review for me, you are making my day! And another thanks to all those reading this _not_ reviewing, as well, for reading. What can I do to induce you folks giving me a feedback...? ;)

Anyway, I just meant to tell you that from now on, new uploads are going to come far less frequently, because I'm busy, and also because the next chapters haven't been completed yet and I really cannot say when they will be. However long it may take, I am definitely not abandoning this story, but that's really as much as I can safely promise. Thank you for your patience so far; I hope we'll 'meet again' soon. Cheers!


	200. An Attempt On Consolation

Hermione tries her best to solace Draco after his mother's death

* * *

**– 4.73. –**

An Attempt On Consolation

* * *

"_It's turned wery dark, sir. Is there a light a-coming?"_

"_It's coming fast, Jo."_

_Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very near its end._

"_I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a-groping – a-groping – let me catch hold of your hand." _…

_The light is come upon the dark benighted way. Dead!_

_Dead, your Majesty! Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, Right Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every order. Dead, men and women, born with Heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day._

_CHARLES DICKENS – Bleak House_

* * *

"Please, Hermione, come over for dinner tonight. _Please!_" Ginny said imploringly after she just pulled Hermione into a niche in the hallway. "Ron won't be there, my word on it!"

"Your _word_?" Hermione asked back scathingly. She hasn't been talking to neither Ginny nor Harry in three weeks, for setting her up like that. It's not so much that they wanted to create a situation in order to bring Harry's best friend and Ginny's brother and Hermione back together – she'd frown upon that idea, but wouldn't hold it against them. But that Ginny _expressly asked_ _her_ to bring Malfoy along (well, 'Dylan', but where's the difference in that regard!) only so he would run into Ron then – that she still finds quite unforgivable, even though her wrath has simmered down to annoyance in time.

"Look, I told you I'm sorry! When asking you to come to that stupid party, I _really_ didn't know! He'd talked to Harry, and when Harry told _me_ then, I'd honestly forgotten I'd asked you to bring your boyfriend along! Also, I'd never have believed you'd truly do it, confound a Muggle and bring him along to a wizard party."

"Oh, so now it's my own fault, right?"

"Of course not! I mean it, I am truly, truly sorry, and so is poor Harry – gosh, you wouldn't believe how utterly miserable _he_ is! And as for mum! Oh, I'm telling you, she's mad with us all! She had me swear half a dozen times to bring you along tonight, or else! And even if you don't believe me, I take an oath that Ron will not show up. The Cannons have an away game, and what's more, he had a flaming row with mum and George and is sulking now. _Please_ say you'll come!"

Hermione Granger can hold a grudge, she can. She isn't unreasonable though, and she finds she believes Ginny is saying the truth. She and Harry simply aren't the sort to play such underhanded tricks. So here she is now, on her way up to the Burrow and feeling her insides churning. When was the last time she was here? Some time in late April? Early May? Shortly before her first exam, anyhow. And while she thinks she's not to blame for the complete disaster her engagement to Ron turned out, she's pretty scared to face his mother, the formidable Molly Weasley, defeater of Bellatrix Lestrange and unyielding matriarch that she is.

'Where's your Gryffindor valour, Granger?' she can hear a voice in her head, _his_ voice, making her feel only more wretched and stop on the way to pretend she was admiring Arthur Weasley's new chicken coop. 'Oh, get a bloody grip!' she tells herself, takes a deep breath (wrinkling her nose next, because the chicken coop really isn't the right place to breathe in deeply through the nose!) and marches on. A woman is coming towards her, and on a second look, Hermione recognises Mrs Tonks, her small grandson beside her, and they greet politely.

"How are you?" Mrs Tonks asks nicely, if the slightest bit distraught.

"Oh, fine, Ma'am, thank you very much. And you?"

"I can't say I hadn't been better yet," the older woman tells her with a sigh. "Dear Harry and in extension Molly were so good to look after Teddy this afternoon. I had to go and see my sister. I used to take Teddy along, but I don't think poor Draco's up to looking after him these days. But forgive me – much more information than you'd cared to hear, right?"

No, in fact far less information than Hermione would yearn for, but this hardly is the time or place to step onto the thin ice. "How is your sister?" she inquires nevertheless, curious, and also because it really is the civil thing to ask, right?

"Hopeless, I'm afraid," comes the toneless reply, making Hermione _really_ curious now, but also shutting her up completely. There's a deep shadow hanging over Mrs Tonks' head so to speak, and with few further words, they part ways and Hermione takes the last sixty yards to the house.

What _is_ it about Mrs Malfoy? Hopeless...? In which way? Oh, poor Draco! Little wonder he's not coming to school! Or sees himself incapable to deal with her. Poor, poor Draco! She should write to him one more time offering her sympathy, that's the least she can do, poor, poor –

But then the door is wrenched open and there stands Molly Weasley, wiping her hands on her apron and a big smile plastered onto her face. "Hermione! Dear!" she cries and in the next second, she presses the girl against her sizeable bosom and nearly smothers her.

"So good to see you – ages since you last visited us – my dear girl – have you grown yet, dear? – _so good_ of you to come! – told the whole lot to be for the high jump if they managed to drive you away! – Ignoble! Outrageous! – your hair is very pretty like this, dear – oh, but _come in!_"

Hermione's head is spinning and she tries catching her breath again. "Good to see you too, Mrs Weasley," she wheezes with pink cheeks.

"I've cooked all your favourites, my dear!" and then, with narrowed eyes and a tilted head, "You've lost some weight, haven't you?"

She makes it sound like that was really awful. Little does the good woman know that her very-nearly-daughter-in-law had more physical exercise in the last months than in her entire _life_, and her last weeks' lack of appetite would hardly put any meat on her bones either!

Ginny has not lied – Ron is not there. Harry is though, spluttering with apologies under Mrs Weasley's fierce observation, and some more when Molly has left for the kitchen. "I am sincerely sorry, Hermione," he mutters unhappily, "and not only because Mrs Weasley told us she'd all lock us in the attic with the ghoul for a week –"

"Yeah," Hermione gnarls, but has already softened up by his manifold excuses. "Let's just forget it ever happened..."

"Yes! Though... What about that Dylan? He was mad, yes? Tell him –"

"I'm not going to tell him anything, Harry, because we've split up."

"_Oh!_" Harry makes such big eyes his glasses nearly drop. "Oh dear, I _am_ sorry, I didn't –"

"Really, forget about it."

"But –"

"We weren't that serious to begin with. Not serious at all as a matter of fact."

Harry stops short. "You – you weren't...?"

"Don't give me that look! Yes, I know, it's hardly believable that I, Miss Uptight and all could just be fooling around for a bit, but it's true and I really, really, _really_ don't want to talk about it anymore!"

"No! You got me wrong. It's just – the way you looked, and –"

Fortunately, she is saved by the bell, or rather Molly Weasley announcing that dinner is ready. The first course is her famous white beet soup with self-baked rosemary bread and Hermione, who hasn't eaten anything since her meagre breakfast consisting of a piece of crispbread, tugs in. It's as delicious as ever, and the ensuing silence allows her to collect her thoughts. Or perhaps not 'collect' them, because they do keep on trailing back to poor Draco and Mrs Tonks' ominous insinuations about poor Mrs Malfoy's state.

Talking of the devil though... Not two minutes later, there is a loud, vehement knock on the door, almost a hammering, and startled, Arthur Weasley jumps up to answer it. He's back almost instantly, sheepishly following said Mrs Tonks in a somewhat dispersed make-up, her buttons awry, half of her hairdo in shambles and utterly out of breath. She's got little Teddy in her arms who's quietly whimpering.

"My excuses for disturbing – Molly – or perhaps Harry, dear – can you take care of Teddy, please – need to – must get to – to –"

A deep, long sob erupts from her chest, affrighting everyone else, and making little Teddy wince back so forcefully she nearly drops him.

"But of course, dear!" Molly Weasley cries at once, exchanges a bewildered look with her husband who can only shrug. "Of course we'll look after Teddy. But what is it? Come, you need to sit down – get the brandy, Arthur!"

"Can't – honestly, I can't, I must be getting on my way to Malfoy Manor –"

"Something with Narcissa?" Molly asks with bated breath, and Hermione's heart misses some beats dreading the answer, the word 'hopeless' reverberating in her skull like a huge bell.

"She's – she's – _dead_," Madam Tonks gasps and greedily drains the glass of brandy that Arthur Weasley pushed into her hands despite her protestations. Not long after this she's gone, declining Arthur's offer to accompany her to at least make sure she doesn't splinter on the way, seeing how shell-shocked she is at present.

"That poor, poor woman," Mrs Weasley moans after she's gone, and shakes her hanging head. "How much misery can she still shoulder? First her husband, then dear Tonks, and Remus, and poor Lennart, and now _this_!"

Ginny, who's coddling over the still weeping infant, lifts her head. "I may be wrong, but Mrs Malfoy might just be the smallest loss on _that_ list, Mum!"

"But still! The poor woman!"

"And poor Draco," Hermione and Harry mutter in unison, exchanging a bewildered glance.

"Yes!" Molly agrees with another heartfelt sigh and pours herself a little glass of brandy, too. "The poor boy! First his father, now his mother! He never was my favourite, but – oh, that poor ill-fated child!"

"Anyway – why is she _dead_? I don't get it," Ginny asks as she's playing peek-a-boo with Teddy.

"I thought she was ill, wasn't she?" Harry replies.

"Yeah, but…" A thousand thoughts rush through Hermione's head. "I thought she was just – you know, non-lethally ill! What did she die of?"

"Well, if _you_ don't know what she suffered from –"

"What do you mean?" Hermione asks sharply, staring at Ginny in shock.

"I thought you were in some study group together with Malfoy, weren't you?" the girl asks back, luckily not taking her eyes away from the small boy, or she would be very much astonished by the kind of look on her friend's face.

"Yeah – yeah, we were, but... He never said a _word_!"

"Too wound-up, possibly," Arthur Weasley throws in. "Had a lot on his plate lately, the boy."

"He never said a bloody word!" Hermione repeats stubbornly, more to herself, and is uneasy when finding the whole family's eyes on her. "I mean – oh, alright, he flared up like a Howler whenever someone mentioned his mother –"

"There you go, then."

Harry shrugs, and Ginny says, "Well, I'm not particularly bothered. I hardly knew the woman, and what I knew of her, I did not like. – Why are you looking like this?"

"Poor Draco!" Hermione cries once again.

"Yeah, he's had a bit of a rough summer indeed, hadn't he," Ginny murmurs with the best attempt of 'compassionate' that she can muster for Draco Malfoy.

"I just can't believe she's _dead_," Hermione repeats, rattled. Merlin, Draco must feel _awful_! His father's death was terrible enough, and now his mum, too! She knows that he was very close to his mum, more than to his father even. Now he's been fully orphaned in less than six months!

"Are you okay, Hermione? You're a bit pale around the nose," Harry utters worriedly.

"I'm simply – I don't believe this! He never said a word!"

"Yeah, you _said_. I guess it happened unexpectedly. She wasn't old or so. Who'd think she'd die out of the blue."

"She didn't," Mr Weasley says and flushes. When asked what he means by that, he shakes his head though. "Really, I couldn't – office gossip – not fit to be repeated –"

And that is all that can be coaxed out of him on that head.

Hermione is absolutely flustered. She suddenly remembers all these odd little moments – how touchy Malfoy was when his mother was even _mentioned_ – how diligently he took care of her – the fact that Mr Malfoy not once left the sick room… She tries to sort out her thoughts, but doesn't succeed, and half an hour after Madam Tonks returns that night, reticent and her eyes bloodshot, in order to pick up her grandson, Hermione makes some flimsy excuses, too, and all but runs out of the Burrow. She's only vaguely aware what she's doing, finding herself standing in front of the gates of Malfoy Manor some minutes later.

It takes a while until someone comes to the gates; the tiny elf (Ziggy is his name; three foot three, gaunt, with swarthy skin and always wearing a Slytherin Quidditch pennant as a loincloth) is sobbing and barely manages to press out the words, "No visitors, Miss!"

"I'm no visitor, Ziggy," she says soothingly. "I've heard – I am so sorry – and I've come to look how your master is doing."

For five seconds, the elf has looked up in something bordering on self-control, but the last sentence has shattered every countenance the poor creature still had. "My master," he wails, dropping on his bottom and clutching his big eyes with his hands. "The poor master! He – he –"

He can't go on for all his sobbing, and it takes Hermione some skilful commiserating through the iron bars until he's calmed down enough to let her in. He is so out of it, he apparates to the kitchens with her, where there are another half-dozen of bawling elves in various degrees of disarray. Over in a corner is a particularly aggrieved specimen, shaken by so violent sobs that she cannot even breathe. Hermione only saw this particular one two or three times; it must be Elsy, Mrs Malfoy's personal house-elf. She's a little taller than most others, holding herself with more dignity, too – well, under normal circumstances. Now, she has rocked herself into a kind of trance, repeating over and over, "My poor mistress! I have attended to My Lady for forty-four years! Forty-four years! I tended to my mistress since the day she was born!"

It's heart-wrenching, and whatever Hermione has been thinking about the pitiful creatures cursed to serve the Malfoy family has clearly been beside the point. This is genuine grief, not the reaction of slaves to their owner's demise, but true, unmitigated mourning. She feels she is disturbing them in their grievance by her mere presence and quietly sneaks away, glad when finally finding a door within this labyrinth of stoves and fireplaces and chimneys and towering piles of brass cooking utensils. Once she's gotten to the upper floors, her orientation doesn't get much better, and what is more, she doesn't even know where Draco _is_. Tonight, she would even muster the courage to ask one of the forbidding portraits, but they're all empty.

Draco isn't in his room, not in the library, and neither in any of the approximately forty other rooms that Hermione peeks into. She dreads that he is in his mother's death room – she'd rather not come across Mr Malfoy's ghost now – of all possible moments – but seeing that she's not getting anywhere, she tries to find another house-elf.

"Nobby, right? – I – I've come to see if there's anything I can do for your master. I cannot find him though –"

"M'lord is in My Lady's room," the elf whimpers.

"I don't think I should… I'm sure Mr Malfoy – senior, I mean – wouldn't appreciate it if –"

"M'lord Master Lucius is gone, too…" The elf sways dangerously. "He's – left us – My Lady's dead – and M'lord's left!"

He throws himself on the floor and hammers his head against some decorative little table, there's no stopping him. As a last resort, Hermione stuns him to prevent him from serious injuries, and scraping together her proverbial Gryffindor bravery, she mounts the stairs once more and walks down the first floor corridor. She isn't sure which door is the right one, but her second guess works. She knocks tentatively, and hears Draco's choked reply, "I need nothing, Elsy. Leave me alone."

She gently pushes the handle and peeks inside, battling down the urge to shut the door again and run away. The first thing she sees is the corpse of Mrs Malfoy on the huge bed. Her complexion is uncannily white, her face emaciated, still there's an eerie sense of peacefulness about her. The next thing she sees is even more disconcerting than the corpse on the bed – it's a landscape in watercolours, into which Professor Snape has squeezed himself. He's looking _awful_, too, mournfully gazing at the dead witch, but instantly noticing Hermione's entry nevertheless, and eyeing her in dumbfounded surprise, mouth hanging open and all.

She pulls herself together, reverentially beckons at him, then casts the only living person inside a shy glance. He's not taking his eyes off his mother, too, looking almost as pale as her – he's always pale, but not like this. "I told you, Elsy. There's nothing you can do. Just – just go away and do what you feel you must do."

"It's me," she mutters just loudly enough to make him understand her, and his head swirls around.

"What…"

He stares at her as if _she_ was a ghost; she insecurely steps closer towards him – he doesn't move, he doesn't blink even – and then she's reached him and kneels down before him, glad to turn her back on the sight of his dead mother. She takes his hands, presses them with great animation and whispers, "I am so sorry, Draco."

He makes no reply but press her hands, too, although not very firmly. Forcing herself to raise her gaze, she can see his bloodshot eyes, his cheeks glinting with tears, his lips quivering, and the sight rips on her heart indeed. "I'm so sorry," she repeats once more, helpless.

"She's dead." His voice seems to come from a far-away place. It is hollow and soundless. "She's dead."

Hermione nods lightly. "I've heard… I wanted to see if there's anything I can do to help… See how you are…"

He hasn't stopped staring at her incredulously and continues like that for some more minutes, as if he was trying to recognise her. Suddenly however, his expression changes, from deadpan to deadly frightened. He tries to get up but struggles, still clinging to her hands, and slouches down from the armchair instead until he's on his knees, too, on eye-level with her.

"She's dead," he repeats. And then he throws his arms around Hermione's neck and presses his face against her shoulder. Dry sobs emerging from somewhere deep down, he is shaken by voiceless cries and tears, and she embraces him as tightly as she can, too. There's nothing else she could do or say anyway. She lets him cry and cry, until he's almost suffocating – only then she loosens her embrace and tries to pull him up with her.

"Come with me," she mutters.

"Must – not – leave – her," he coughs and chokes, but realising that he's got no strength to resist, she simply leads him out of the room nevertheless. Somehow, she feels, he's got to get away from the sight of his dead mum, and if it's only for some minutes. His room is on the same corridor, and the only one she knows, so she takes him over there and steers him over to the bed. It's a weird feeling, and for a split second, she is reminded of the many nights she's spent in this room – this bed – but the thought vanishes as quickly as it has come. She makes him lie down, propping him up on loads of cushions and pulling up the blanket to tug him in. He lets it all happen in a kind of trance; only when she's tugged him up, he reaches out to snatch her hand.

"Please… Don't go, please!"

She gives him a little smile. "I'm not going anywhere. I've only just arrived. Shhh. Don't worry, I'll stay as long as you want me to."

She kneels down next to him, tenderly stroking his hair out of his forehead and wiping away some tears. He opens his mouth a few times before whispering, "Would you… Could you – can you just hold me for a moment?"

"Of course!" It takes some re-arrangements, until Hermione is sitting with her back against the headboard, and him half sitting, half lying in her arms, his back and head leaning against her chest; she embraces him. "Comfortable?"

He nods and somehow, he begins to talk. Like the tears earlier, it seems as if all these words just need out before they suffocate him. His narration is incoherent and disconnected, but Hermione lets him go on without interruption; he mixes fond, happy memories – his voice sounding almost cheerful then – of his mum, with her slow death in the past months, how he has increasingly struggled to make her unconscious form swallow the food and water and potions, how _she_ gave up the fight, and how _his_ fight for her was doomed right from the beginning. How he has seen his father suffer, incapable to do anything for his wife because he is a ghost, and how the only thing he _could_ do was not leaving her side for a single moment, how he'd hover next to her and talk to her even though she couldn't hear…

Most of this is a complete novelty for Hermione. She knew that in the night of Mr Malfoy's death, his wife was assaulted, too – raped, some claimed – and that she's had a nervous breakdown afterwards. But never for a second did Hermione think that the damage would last – that the witch was actually _dying_, and from the way Draco speaks now, she still doesn't get the impression that she died from heavy injuries. She scarcely dares asking, but eventually, she does.

"What _did_ she die of?"

"A broken heart," he replies tonelessly, shaking so hard with sobs that she can barely hold him still.

That is an odd answer, even for a bereaved person like him. One can't die of a broken heart, can one? The world would be a vast and empty place if that was an option. She doesn't dare prodding though and leaves it at that.

"She must have loved your father very much…"

He nods lightly. "Couldn't live without him. Neither could he, vice versa. He came back from the dead because of her, you know? And she, in turn after his death, swallowed every bloody poison we had in the entire house."

She can't help it; she gives a startled yelp of shock. She's actually glad that he can't see her face in this moment. "Sorry," she whispers at last. "I – I just –"

"Didn't I tell you? Oh – no, I see. I didn't… I'm sorry, too…"

"Why didn't you? I… I would have been there for you…"

"I… I couldn't endure thinking of it."

"Oh, of course… I'm sorry to bother you!"

"You don't," he says, a discernible tinge of surprise to his voice. "I'm – I can't tell you how grateful I am you're here!"

Despite her better knowledge of the nature, and fate, of ghosts, she somehow hopes that Mr Malfoy's ghost has dissolved when his wife died, that he, too, has found his peace at last so that they might be together again now, wherever, however. She brings herself to ask very gently, "Where _is_ your dad now?"

"I can't say... He often said he'd guard her soul to afterlife if he could… That he'd try to be with her just a little while longer before… She'd have peace… And today, suddenly – I didn't even notice at first – he was just gone!"

"So he's kept his promise," Hermione says softly. "I'm sure he'll try taking care of her."

"He _will_," Draco said with great determination.

She cannot see his face in their position but she can tell his despair by his voice, and tightens her embrace on him and puts her face into the arch between his neck and shoulders. "So she's not alone – that's good, isn't it?"

He nods softly, and murmurs after a while, "But _he_ will be – and he will be forever…"

There haven't been that many occasions – if any – when Hermione felt compassion for Lucius Malfoy's sake, but she does now. Jerk or not, the man has clearly loved his wife, so much that he traded peace and afterlife for the hopeless existence as a ghost, in order to stick with her, and now she's gone, much too soon, much too young – a casualty of a war that ended years ago.

"He's still got you."

"Me!" He gives a dry laugh.

"She lives on in you."

"She… You know, she couldn't – when she was conscious still – she couldn't _bear_ to look at me because I reminded her so much of my dad… And he – he always said the same, isn't that – I… He said I remind him of her and everything she is – _was_ – and everything they had together…"

"You'll live and make him proud," she murmurs, only to say something.

He merely laughs, and it doesn't sound merry. She is reminded of Harry, who is very much the same like Draco Malfoy in this one respect. He looks so much like his father, so much that Snape could never… He _looks_ like his dad, and he _is_ like his mum, and there's a lot to live up to. Just that Harry – sad, terrible as it surely is – never _knew_ his parents. Everything _he_ misses is a potency, the possibilities of parents and their love. Draco on the other hand has twenty years, filled up with tenderness and happiness, countless memories of parents _doting_ on their only child and giving him everything any child could dream of, and she's not thinking of the material goods that Draco must have been pampered with to no end.

"I wish you had come to know her better…" He squeezes her arms that he's clinging onto like a life-belt. "She was the best mother you can imagine, she was… I wish you could have known how good she really was."

"I think I can easily imagine. _You_ take after her, hmm?"

"Not nearly as much as I should though…"

He is tired and exhausted, but not enough to find sleep. They go on like this; he says this and that about his mother, but more and more quietly and slowly, until he finally stops in mid-sentence. She waits a few minutes, having no idea what time it is because she can't see the alarm clock from this angle. She stirs, trying to find a more comfortable position, too – her legs have long gone limp – and in this moment he does wake up again.

"You're leaving?" he asks drowsily, a discernible note of dismay in his tone.

"No. Just trying to lie down somehow…"

"Oh! Sorry! Sorry, I –" He props himself up on his hands so she can lie down next to him. He huddles against her, his ear in her armpit, his chin on her chest, and he reaches out to entwine their fingers. "I can't tell you how – how much I – thank you for being here – tonight – thank you for –"

"Anytime! I thought you might need some company."

"I'll make it up to you… I'll make it…" He doesn't finish the sentence because he's back to sleep, and so is Hermione soon. It's day when she opens her eyes again, finding that neither of them seems to have moved during the night. She squints at the alarm clock and does give a little double-take – it's half past ten – she's missed her first class – and somehow she knows that she'll miss the others as well. What the heck, she can afford it – she's top of all her classes, she'll survive missing a few, on a day like this. Draco is sound asleep still. She's glad – the longer he can rest, the better prepared he'll be for the dreadful day ahead of him. There'll be arrangements and preparations – Mrs Malfoy can't be left lying on her death bed much longer – and speaking of _preparations_ – only a few minutes later, there is a soft rapping on the door.

Hermione reckons it's one of the house-elves – she's not afraid of them, they've seen her in this bed often enough, so she answers quietly, "Come in, but be silent –"

When the door swings open though, she is shocked – Madam Tonks is standing on the threshold, looking as perplexed as Hermione feels shocked, and they stare at each other for a moment, until the older witch breaks the silence.

"I am so sorry to intrude," she mutters awkwardly. "I merely meant to check on Draco – but you'll look after him, won't you – I'll – I'll come back later and see if he needs help with the funeral arrangements…"

"No! Please – erm – stay! Please! I think he'd be very grateful to have help with all that… Maybe – I'll wake him up…"

Madam Tonks smirks and turns around. "Yes… I'll just wait downstairs, shall I…"

She closes the door behind her again, and Hermione gently wakes him up. She fondles his hair and almost kisses his forehead before remembering. "Hey… Good morning… Draco? You've got to wake up, Draco!"

It takes a moment until his eye lids flutter, and opening his eyes and seeing her, he literally beams at her for a few seconds. "Sunshine," he croaks, "What are you doing here?"

He hasn't quite finished that question when the memory hits him – she can literally see it, he winces and squeezes his eyes shut again, making a sound that's somewhere between groaning and whimpering. She tenderly strokes his cheek. "Hey… I think we should get up. Your aunt has come and is waiting for you downstairs. She – she – I think you should talk to her yourself."

She can't bring herself to voice Madam Tonks' purpose, but he's grasped it, too, murmuring in a dead voice, "She said she'd come and help me with the funeral… Oh _god_…"

They do get up a few minutes later; Hermione realises how much he's standing beside himself, so she decides to take a couple of matters into _her_ hands for the time being. He's still wearing yesterday's clothes, so she practically pushes him into the bathroom for a shower, she even turns on the hot water and checks it's got the right temperature. Then she gets some new robes, trousers and else and puts them on the bathroom stool, trying hard to ignore his naked frame behind the clouded shower pane.

"Shall I go down already, or do you want me to wait?" she asks far more lightly than she suddenly feels. She's got to talk to Madam Tonks and explain a couple of things – what if Madam Tonks has mistaken what she's seen – they were both very completely dressed, but his aunt might not have seen that under the sheets – their embrace was a bit too intimate to ignore, wasn't it – what'll she _think_ – what'll she _tell_ –

"Please, wait," he calls out of the shower. "Ready in a minute."

"Oh, don't hurry…" What a _stupid_ thing to say! – Anyway, how can one get into _this_ kind of situation while having nothing but the best intentions at heart? She's slept here so often and nobody caught them – and now she's only here to be of help, and _Mrs Tonks_, the grandmother of Harry's godson, of all people walks in – it could hardly come worse, could it?

She waits in the bedroom; a few minutes later, Draco comes back, in the clothes she put out for him, his hair damp and only half-way groomed. The hot water has driven some colour into his cheeks, but otherwise he looks awfully shaken. He's got deep shades under his eyes and his face appears gaunt almost. Without much ado – as if it was the most natural thing in the world, really, he takes her hand, presses it and walks out with her.

"I'm so glad you are here with me for this…" he murmurs and shivers.

Hermione hasn't got the heart to tell him that she'd rather _not_ be seen by Madam Tonks like this, holding hands, but no such thought seems to cross his mind. His aunt is waiting in the breakfast parlour; the servants have equipped her with coffee and orange juice. This time, she doesn't look surprised any longer; her gaze glides over their joined hands but doesn't linger. She simply gets up and hugs her nephew, who returns the embrace with one arm, not letting go of Hermione's hand.

"Thank you for coming, Aunt Andy," he murmurs.

"But of course! How are you, darling?"

He contemplates the question earnestly before replying, "Better than yesterday, I suppose…"

His aunt casts Hermione a swift glance and a little smile glides over her handsome features. "That's good… Has your – has your father returned yet?"

Draco shakes his head and absent-mindedly pours two more cups of coffee. He's _still_ clinging to Hermione's hand as if his life depended on it; he simply does everything with his left hand. Maybe that's why he's shaking so badly that half of the coffee doesn't end up in the cups but on the white damask of the tablecloth.

"Come on, let me do this," Hermione offers, pointedly avoiding Madam Tonks' scrutiny.

"I've been thinking, Draco. You know, I can see after the necessary preparations on my own, if you like. You needn't get involved at all if you rather not –"

"You don't think Mum would want me to do it?" The question sounds very earnest, and Madam Tonks hesitates to answer.

"Your mum… I don't _know_ what she would have wished in such a situation," she murmurs softly. "But there is one thing I know for sure. She wouldn't want you to get even more upset than anyway. If you truly _want_ to do something because it makes you feel better – go ahead and I'll help you. But if you rather not… Your mum wouldn't mind, I'm certain."

He slowly nods, lost in thought, and in the same absent-minded way pulls a chair for Hermione before settling on the edge of the next chair himself. "I can't even _think_ what needs to be done, Aunt Andy," he says at last.

Mrs Tonks hesitates. "Well… The family vault is – uh – prepared, so we just need to get a mason to complete the head stone inscription. Then we'll need to procure a coffin –" He winces with the word, but she goes on, "And we've got to prepare her. There are a few things you can think about, if you like – what sort of burial would you prefer – a big ceremony –"

"No! God, no! No – _big_ – ceremony! Mum would have hated that!"

"Of course, of course, darling. I'm sorry. It's just – I'm a bit shaken myself, you see... In that case, I gather it's just you and me, then. And the servants. Teddy shouldn't –"

With a firm press of her hand, Draco turns to Hermione. "Would you – could you..."

She makes big eyes at him, certain he couldn't possibly ask her to attend his mother's funeral, but his aunt takes up from there for him. "Yes, Miss Granger – would it be possible for you to come as well? For support?"

"I – uh –"

"Please," Draco whispers and gives her hand another fierce squeeze.

"Sure," she mutters despite herself, inwardly screaming at herself to stop right here, but finding herself incapable to let him down today of all days.

"Maybe your father has come back until then," Mrs Tonks says tentatively and her gaze wanders over to Hermione once more, who catches her breath with shock.

"Oh, yes!" she cries, and goes on a little more subdued, "In that case, I would refrain, of course!"

Draco looks beaten. "Yes, of course, I wouldn't want to bring you into such a situation when you're still scared of him –"

"I'm not _scared_ of him," Hermione replies almost automatically, even though it's not true. She fears Mr Malfoy's ghost more than she feared him in life, at least since Voldemort's downfall. "But you must see how very – improper – it would be for me of all people to attend his wife's funeral –"

Mrs Tonks furrows her beautiful brows into an angry scowl. "Oh, sod him! Sorry, Draco, but you know what I mean! If he could truly think of nothing better than being offended by a muggleborn on the day of Narcissa's burial –"

Draco shakes his head. "You don't seriously think – both of you – that he's even _notice_! I'm sure the entire crypt could collapse on top of us all and he wouldn't register it!"

Course he wouldn't – he's a ghost, Hermione thinks but is wiser than cracking stupid jokes in this situation. Madam Tonks nods though, placated, and proceeds, "So perhaps... How long do you reckon it might take until he – uhm – safeguarded her to afterlife?"

Draco and Hermione shake their heads and say in unison, "No idea."

"Because I was thinking... Maybe we should wait a little longer with the funeral, hm? Give him a chance to attend..."

Draco is very much in favour of that idea and they agree to schedule the burial for this day next week. All three of them express their hopes that he won't come because he did find a way to follow his wife after all; Draco, in fact, is so agitated by the idea that his fingers, still squeezing Hermione's left hand, cramp around her painfully.

So that is that, and over a whole lot of coffee, Madam Tonks goes on to break it as gently and good to her nephew as she possibly could. Hermione is seriously impressed; it's obvious that Mrs Malfoy's sister is grieved, too, but she's also in full control, acknowledging Draco's helpless mourning and trying to relief her nephew in every possible way. They decide that she'll deal with most things; she'll see to prepare the body for the funeral, she'll send a note to the Daily Prophet in time, she'll handle the elves to prepare the vault.

Amazingly enough, Draco needn't think long about some questions. He wants rosewood for the coffin because her wand was made of that. He wants white lilies because they were her favourite flowers. "And I think she would have liked to be buried in her wedding dress. Don't you think?"

"Oh, yes, possibly. You think she kept it?"

"She'd never have thrown it away!" he retorts scandalised. "Elsy!"

With a soft plop, the house-elf appears right next to him, hiding her tear-stained face by a deep bow. "Master?"

"Go and find my mother's wedding dress, we need it for the funeral."

"But master," the servant chokes, "the – the dress – it's not fit for..."

"Then make it _fit_, damn it!"

"I fear that won't be possible, master. You see – the dress, it was ripped beyond repair in the – the wedding night..."

Madam Tonks gasps and stifles a giggle. Hermione, deadly embarrassed and faintly thinking 'Like father, like son', can feel her cheeks blushing even worse with that thought, and busies herself by putting an excess of sugar in her anyway too sweet coffee in order to hide her face.

Only Draco takes that bit of information without flinching. "I see. In that case... I think her mourning robes – the ones she wore on Dad's burial – would be appropriate. You agree…?"

Mrs Tonks keeps on nodding and making notes, and as if he had just thought of it, he suddenly turns to Hermione and addresses her.

"Can you – god, I didn't even ask, did I – can you stay here some longer, perhaps? I –"

"I told you, I'll stay as long as you like," she whispers, once again avoiding his aunt's gaze.

"Oh, _good_… I don't know where my head is… Do you – I don't know – shall I send one of the elves to College to excuse you? Or get you some clothes, or… Please, you've got to tell me these things, I'm slightly… I'm not quite in the state of mind to think of them myself, you know…"

"It's okay, I – uh…"

In the end, Madam Tonks bustles off to have a word with the servants so they get the vault ready, and she mentions in passing that she'll have to pop in the Burrow to ask Mrs Weasley if she can look after Teddy a little longer. Still holding Hermione's hand, Draco mutters, "Perhaps you should talk to her before… I don't want you to get into trouble for – for helping me with this…"

Hermione cannot help it but exhale with relief. "Oh, yes… Perhaps I really should…"

"Thank you – I didn't thank you – I don't think I _can_ thank you enough –"

"You are welcome. You really, really are," she replies very seriously and tries to give him a smile. "I'd hate myself for _not_ being here now."

He releases her hand at last and says he'll try coming up with something for the eulogy, and Hermione hurries to find Mrs Tonks. She's in the kitchen, conferring with the house-elves, and a small knowing smile curls her lips upon Hermione's appearance.

"Ma'am – can I talk to you for a minute?"

Before she can give an answer, one of the house-elves has already thrown herself at Hermione. "Miss Sunshine," she wheezes, "so good of you to come back – the young master – so heartbroken, he is – oh, Miss Sunshine, the master needs y-"

"It's okay, Elsy!" Hermione rushes to interrupt her before she says anything else that'll give the wrong impression to Madam Tonks. "That's what friends are for, isn't it – of course I'll help your master! Naturally! Perhaps you – perhaps you can bring him some more coffee?"

"Oh, yes, yes! Yes, the young master likes his coffee – like My Lady…" She swaps some tears away with the edge of her strange apparel. Elsy's house-elf uniform consists of one of Mrs Malfoy's old pillow cases, and she's always looked very neat, strangely elegant even, in that silky thing adorned with laces. Now, however, the material is stained, some of the lace has come loose – it looks as if the faithful servant is falling apart because her mistress did. She shuffles off to brew more coffee, and since Mrs Tonks seems done, too, she and Hermione mount the stairs, but stop halfway before the ground floor.

"Ma'am," Hermione begins, deadly embarrassed. "Before you fetch Teddy – before… I'm afraid you might have got a wrong impression, and I need to set it right before…"

The woman looks at her thoughtfully, her expression hard to read. In this moment, she resembles her two dead sisters more than ever, Hermione thinks uneasily. Her hair and complexion and eyes are much more similar to Bellatrix Lestrange's than Mrs Malfoy's, and in the dim light in the cellar staircase, that impression is enhanced still. On the other hand, she's got a similar figure like Narcissa Malfoy, a little less tall perhaps, the same finely chiselled nose and chin and high cheekbones. Hermione has never been more aware that she is a Black sister than in this moment, and it only heightens her indefinite fear.

"What impression do you believe I've got then?" Madam Tonks asks at last and inclines her beautiful head.

"I don't know…" Hermione is squirming on the inside and clutches her hands. "The way you found me here this morning – you see, he – Draco – asked me to stay, he didn't want to be alone, and… I wouldn't want you to draw the wrong conclusion from that."

"Miss Granger, allow me to clarify a few things before you go on. You see, Draco's father told me only recently – yesterday, in fact – that he thought his son had been seeing somebody, but that this affair has been discontinued of late. The way I understand it, you returned to your fiancé –"

Hermione feels like swooning and tries to interrupt, but Madam Tonks doesn't let her. "Get me right, Miss Granger – none of this is any of my business, and you can trust me to continue in the same manner like before. I have no intention to comment on it to anybody. What I saw today has confirmed my notion that you are a very good girl who will stick up for her friends in every situation, and that is all. But if you'll allow me to take one liberty here, I would like to ask you being careful."

"Oh, of course! I'll disappear in the very moment when Mr Malfoy comes back – at the latest – I'll –"

"That's not what I mean. No, I couldn't care less if Lucius' sense of decorum might be disturbed by seeing a muggleborn witch consoling his son. But I care for Draco. He – he is a very sensitive boy, Miss Granger, and presently, he's in a most vulnerable position. Don't you… Look – all I'm trying to say is that you should worry less about _my_ conclusions or impressions. Just make sure that _he_ doesn't get 'the wrong end of the stick', as the phrase goes."

Hermione breathes a sigh of relief. "Oh, I see. But on _that_ head, _I_ can assure you that you really needn't concern yourself. It's not – it never was… Not like you presume. We're just friends – even if there was a short time when we – uhm – he isn't – doesn't… Excuse me for lacking every eloquence here, but –"

"Many things are not what they seem, Miss Granger. _I_ know that – I had to learn it the hard way, I guess – and I hope you will learn it, too. Now please excuse me, I've got to see after my grandson, it's getting late already, and there's still so much to do. Oh, and by the way – thank you for being so helpful. When I saw him yesterday, I thought he wouldn't… I know that he owes his recovery so far to your efforts, not mine. It's very good to know that he does have friends who have such a healthy influence on him. Good bye for now, I believe we'll see each other again later."

With these words, she turns on her heels and walks away, leaving a stumped and speechless Hermione back to mull things over on her own.


	201. Rita's Revenge

Nobody pisses off Rita Skeeter without repercussions, mind you!

* * *

**– 4.74. –**

Rita's Revenge

* * *

_Revenge is a dish best served cold._

_CHODERLOS DE LACLOS_

* * *

I've got a pretty good memory. Of course, I often rely on devices like my Quick Quill, but basically you can't become a top reporter if you haven't got the capacity to memorise entire conversations. And _some_ things just sting too much to be forgotten in the first place.

For example: I have never forgotten Narcissa Malfoy's attempt to intimidate me. Technically, I should thank the wretched woman, because due to her interference, I had to address myself to a different task, and delved into Albus Dumbledore's personal story. The royalty checks for that one still keep on coming in regularly. Not to mention that it was my life's biggest coup as a journalist.

_Yet_, I should say.

You want to know more, do you? Well, in that case I should advise you to listen closely to me now!

Do you even remember the story of those two children, Preston Parkin and Hortense Rigebit they were called, who vanished eighteen months ago right under everybody's noses, and who were never again heard of since? _I_ did not forget, and did ample of research back then, though unfortunately to no avail at the time. I had to give up for the time being then because I'd treaded on all possible paths.

Think about it – _why_ would anyone abduct a child? The most common and likely answer is: to blackmail the parents for money. But only in the Parkin boy's case, a demand was made, and the considerable amount of a hundred thousand galleons was never really claimed. That one attempt with the Imperiused muggle was a sham; the boy was already dead for two days when the unfortunate fellow appeared on scene, totally ignorant of any helpful clue.

The other, almost as likely option would be that the perpetrator was a sick pervert. I need not say more, you get the picture. Now the wizarding world is full of decidedly strange folks, but child molesters are comparably rare. I can remember only a single occurrence during my career, and that was twenty-eight years ago; the bastard died in Azkaban seven years ago. Then, there are the werewolves, of course, who have specialised in children. I suppose their meat is the tenderest, and they are absolutely defenceless too. They hardly ever go for magical children though, for the simple reason that it might lead to their discovery, because as long as the magical child is still alive, it appears on the maps and thus might lead the Aurors to the werewolf den.

So what happened to little Hortense and Preston? Their fates came back to me this spring when another incident occurred: Trudie Jones and her mother Evadne were killed during a camping trip in Cheddar Gorge. Their killer was never found. Now Trudie Jones, you must know, was a head clerk in the Ministry of Magic's Department of Law Enforcement, and her speciality was the section for the Restriction of Underaged Wizardry. Does that ring any bell, yes? I can tell you, it did for me.

I almost _smelled_ a connection although I couldn't point my finger at it yet. For a start, I tried to find out more about Miss Jones, but came to another dead end. The poor girl was literally wedded to her job, I was told, freely working after hours because she enjoyed it so much, often taking over assignments from her colleagues and hardly leaving the office before ten at night. In her scarce leisure time, she enjoyed camping, and together with her mother trekked up and down the country until that terminal stay in Cheddar Gorge.

I then got the idea to literally walk in her shoes (I spare you the details of a very uncomfortable three-day and all the more frustrating hike through Cheddar Gorge and the infernal blisters I incurred!) and in my beetle disguise invaded the Ministry after hours. Diligently, I went back whenever I had the time, and studied every piece of work Miss Jones must have dealt with herself, at first not finding anything at all. Giving up, luckily, is not in my nature.

After what seemed like an eternity of fruitless searching, I finally laid my hands on some very interesting books, the books, namely, dealing with our offspring (well, clearly not _my_ offspring, but you know what I mean!), noting everything from the moment of their births until their seventeenth birthday. As you can imagine, there are more than one of those, and the lecture is, to say the least, tedious. Took me quite a while to even _notice_ the peculiarity, and then I had to go back once more to check how often I had overseen it before it had pervaded my mind.

Had I been eager before, I was suddenly engrossed, a hundred and fifty percent certain that I'd hit upon gold. The last entry in Hortense's file ends:

21/02/99, 5:21 p.m.: Spell-use (adult)

Deceased: 21/02/99, 9:54 p.m.

Preston Parkin's last sheet is exactly the same (well, obviously with another date, but never mind that now!). Those two, however, weren't the only ones! I jotted down everything I found, and when I finally held the complete list in my trembling hands, the frightful results (brace yourselves!) were these: in the time between February 1999 and now, no less than thirty-one children between the ages of eleven months and nine years 'deceased' in exactly the same way! _Thirty-one!_

Now _why_, you're asking yourselves, _why_ wasn't this noticed by anyone? Hm? I can tell you why! Because twenty-nine of them were muggleborn! In _our_ world, nobody could possibly register their disappearance, or demise, because nobody knows who they are before their names aren't marked down for the next round of Hogwarts First Years!

Spooky, eh? Downright _dreadful_, and believe me, during my career, I've come across quite a few dreadful things, but none as shocking as _this_!

And there was a pattern to all this as well! It happened quite precisely every twenty days, which finally ruled out the werewolves as possible culprits, because twenty days just isn't congruent with the twenty-eight days circle of the full moon. Also, it'd be almost too smart for them. And where would they be getting their information from in the first place, eh? Because that's the thing about this, isn't it – clearly, _someone_ must know the whereabouts of these kids that nobody ever heard of in our world in order to abduct them!

My first suspect, obviously, was poor old Nigel Perkins, simply because it's his station where all these things occur. Now I know Nigel Perkins and that, frankly, gave me something to think about, because Nigel, let's face it, just isn't the kind of guy. Yes, yes, I know what you'll say – it's always the innocuous ones, blah blah blah. I make a living feeding on that kind of clichés, you know! But bear with me for a minute here and let me assure you once more: he _isn't_ some sick old pervert. As a matter of fact, he is the sweetest fellow you can imagine, if not the sharpest tool on the shelf, _and_ recently married to one of Britain's most famous beauties. Would such a man neglect his stunning wife at home and ravish children in the basement instead...? You think that's likely? Anyway, I _am_ a professional, and whether I like someone or not, I do follow up on real leads! So I of course counter-checked Nigel's steps.

He has no alibi for nineteen of these incidents, admittedly, but have you ever come across many innocent guys who can produce _alibis_ at will? Anyway, he's got those iron-clad alibis for the other twelve cases, and I think it's fair to say that _twelve_ iron-clad alibis are enough to rule a man out of any list of suspects, right?

So without a convincing main suspect, I began to follow the last traces of the missing muggleborn children for a start. For that, I had to soak myself into the muggle world (which was a bit of an adventure in itself; I made tons of notes and plan to make a book out of those, working title: 'Stranger Than Fiction – How The Muggles REALLY Are!'), talked to grieving relatives, confounded a great number of 'policemen' (you can compare those to our Aurors, roughly) to relate their material, and found that the stories of these kids much resembles those of the Ridgebit girl and the Parkin boy. All of them disappeared without a single trace (little wonder; how on earth is a muggle supposed to do as much as _find_ magical traces? These people don't even know yet that those children are _dead_!), on their way home, or right out of their parents' garden, in one case the perambulator even, from the school playground, from normal playgrounds, and two disappeared in public transport. In three cases, the respective mothers were seriously injured or died, though at least in case of the dead woman, no obvious cause of death could be ascertained (I assume a Death Curse), when their child was robbed straight out of their arms, so to speak.

The muggles have things called 'video' (it's similar to our photographs) but unfortunately in most cases, nothing suspicious was recorded. In two cases though (those on public transport), the culprit could be seen and the befuddled policeman showed me these recordings. I'd love to claim now that I'd instantly recognised our man, but nothing. Safe for the usually eccentric manner in which our folks dress up when they're supposed to look like muggles, I wouldn't even have acknowledged that it really _must_ be one of us. In the first video, the person was male, middle-aged and had a sizeable moustache, in the second video, it was a person of unrecognisable gender, with very long, blond hair and huge sun shades.

Again, my investigations seemed to have led into nowhere land.

So I went back into the Ministry to once again sift through the books and take a look around, and this time, I really did strike gold. For a start, I came across a photo that hangs on a blackboard in one of the common rooms, depicting the members of two Ministry-internal Quidditch teams on some fundraiser match. There were the usual suspects like Arthur Weasley, Claudius McLaggen or Ptolemy Egg, but also – fasten your broom belts! – Trudie Jones, _and_ – now here comes the Stunner! – no other than young hopeful Death Eater-turned innocent lamb Draco Malfoy! Speaking of suspiciously suspicious suspects, are we!

The caption said the picture was taken in August '99, and does that fit into the time slot just perfectly or what? Oh, I know what you'll object now! Eight children were murdered before that, alright. But bear with me, bear with me, I'll address that point later!

Because not soon after, I discovered another case – one I hadn't noticed the first time because the child didn't actually die – the parents did though. The name of the child is Jonathan Lewis, and from what I could make of the entries in his file at that point, he'd somehow managed to repel his attacker by use of magic, a warning for which was immediately delivered by hand by dear old Nigel Perkins himself, who also commented on the used spell 'excused – (case of emergency)'.

If you know me a little, you also know that I didn't stop there, of course. I set out to Richmond-Upon-Thames at once (well, early in the next morning, anyway, but seeing that I killed the greatest part of the night inside the Ministry, getting up at seven a.m. was no small feat, you know!), asked neighbours and policemen, and heard that on the afternoon of September 29th, two inhabitants of Riverside Mansions (a beautiful old townhouse converted into flats) were alerted by the sound of an explosion in the flat downstairs. These two happened to be members of the local volunteer fire brigade and ran down at once, finding Mrs Lewis sprawled on the threshold to the apartment (dead, it later turned out, and once more I'd swear it was an AK!), Mr Lewis a little further down into the corridor with severe stab wounds in his chest that he succumbed to minutes later, before the first 'ambulance' had even arrived and the little boy Jonathan in his playpen in the living room wailing madly. There was not a trace of fire, but they instantly discovered the source of the explosive sounds – next to the playpen, the 'tv set' (don't even ask me what that is, folks – check it out in Wigworthy's _Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles_ if you're interested; suffice to say a 'tv set' is a fairly big muggle device that can implode with a mighty big bang) had, yes, imploded. The murderer of the child's parents was gone, and nobody could make any useful statements about him (other than that they'd seen a non-descript elderly man running out of the house after the explosion); why, they couldn't even imagine a reason why anyone would want to harm the Lewis family. On all accounts, their neighbours described them as friendly, cheerful if a little reserved, with Mr Lewis working in 'IT' (again, don't even ask! It is _arcane_, that's all _I_ can say about it!) and Mrs Lewis working as a children's books illustrator. They'd been fairly new to the area, having inherited the rather expensive flat from Mrs Lewis' father two and a half years ago, and didn't socialise much.

Mrs Lewis though was friends with some writer, the one she principally worked with, and the name of the wheelchair-bound woman is Peggy DeWitt, or 'Peg' to her friends – and me.

I'd put on my best muggle outfit and introduced myself as a reporter looking into the case – it's true even, and that didn't happen too often during my career. There was an air of sadness as soon as I mentioned my purpose, but she readily asked me in and offered a cup of (simply ghastly) tea.

"It's so good of you to investigate, Miss –"

"Skeeter," I helped her.

"Miss Skeeter," she said and sighed. "The police seem quite helpless, don't you think?"

Naturally, I omitted mentioning that the muggle police can hardly be expected to go up against a fully trained Dark wizard, and put on a concerned expression instead. "It's such a tragic case," I muttered vaguely. "The poor boy… Such a charming child."

Yes, all right, I've never seen the kid, but what the hell. All children appear 'charming' to those who are fond of them, don't they? My new friend Peg was pleased enough. "Oh, yes. He's a lovely boy. I wish there was something I could do for him – he's all on his own after Vivian's and Mike's death – but…" She indicated at her wheelchair. "I cannot look after a child, though I wish I could. I – you see, I cannot remember a time when I wasn't sitting in this thing, but I never felt sadder about it than now, with poor Johnny in an orphanage."

I made some sympathetic noises and gently urged her to repeat what she had before told the muggle policeman, something she'd heard from her friend.

"Oh, yes," she cried and made another sigh. "The young man… Well, I didn't see him myself, of course."

"Please, try to remember what Mrs Lewis said, Ma'am. It could be crucial – it's the only lead we have."

"You think so? Let me see… Vivan said that they met him during a walk around Strawberry Hill; he was young – twenty-ish, she thought, quite tall – taller at any rate than poor Mike, and _he_ was five foot eleven! She said he had quite striking looks – a handsome face, you see, and most notable eyes and hair. Very pale, white-blond hair, very light eyes – but no albino. She said he had visible eyebrows and everything."

"How was he dressed?" I asked eagerly. Wizard robes should have caught a muggle's attention.

"I don't know. She didn't say anything about that."

"Nothing? He wasn't dressed – oddly…?"

She shrugged. "I really cannot say, Miss."

"Anything else?"

"Yes. Yes, indeed. Vivian mentioned that he talked – well, that he sounded a bit weird. That he talked as if he had walked straight out of Oxford, like Prince Charles himself. Very cultivated, you know, and not the slightest bit of an accent. That's what she said – that, if he hadn't behaved so strangely, she'd have thought that he was a peer, because he appeared so superior and poised and self-assured."

Now what d'you make of _that_, eh? _Who_, I ask you, fits that bill down to a tee?

Draco Malfoy! Draco Malfoy! Can there be any doubt about it? I have no idea who that Prince Thingy is, but Draco Malfoy has white-blond hair and light eyes, is twenty, tall and speaks like a dictionary, thanks to his oh-so-sophisticated mummy. As for the self-assurance – in that respect, he's both his parents' natural son. I could not choose who was more full of themselves, Lucius or Narcissa. How do people say about the tree not falling far from the tree!

I instantly started connecting the dots. Draco Malfoy did indeed work in the Ministry for six weeks in the summer of '99 after his graduation from Hogwarts, and he was assigned to the Department for the Restriction of Underaged Wizardry! As I said – eight children were killed before this, but that's really no impediment for my theory! Preston Parkin's father works for Lucius Malfoy's company. Hortense Ridgebit made the Daily Prophet prior to her abduction because of her performance on the piano – she was hailed as some sort of child prodigy only weeks before she went missing! Two of the muggleborn children lived in Wiltshire, one in Salisbury, one in Fonthill Gifford (only twenty, respectively twenty-three miles away from Malfoy Manor that is!). Three lived in London. The only connection I couldn't yet figure out is the case of seven-years-old Halil Abou Sha'aban who came from Bromsgrove, but no worries, I'll get behind this as well in the end. I always do!

Speaking of connections – I did wonder how that 'old man' that had been seen in the street after the incident with the Lewis family might fit into the picture, when it hit me. Polyjuice Potions. Some things are just too obvious to grasp them immediately – but I did get there after all, didn't I? Now Polyjuice Potion isn't that easily procured; it's a fairly complicated potion and not for normal sale. You'd have to get the Ministry's permission to order it from one of the few licensed apothecaries and even then, you only get a fairly small amount of it, so that's where my next way went to.

I'll spare you the details. Fact is that none of the official sales could be connected to either of the cases of the missing children. But buying it isn't the only way of getting it, of course. A person with some more advanced skills in potion-making could brew it – most of the ingredients can be purchased everywhere, and the rest isn't _that_ hard to come by either. And here I was back at the Malfoys – Narcissa Malfoy's knowledge in potion-making are almost legendary; she scored the eight-highest result ever in her NEWT exams. Her son might not be _quite_ that sophisticated in that department, but seeing his grades, there can be no doubt that he'd knock up a cauldron of Polyjuice Potion even if blindfolded.

Of course, that isn't really enough. Enough for some insinuations in the Prophet all right, but this one time, I'm not simply after selling an article – this is an entire series of most disgusting murders, which ought to be looked into by the Aurors, and I set my heart on providing all the evidence I could gather. So, I needed more.

Speaking of rare potions ingredients, I started by trying to find out where he might have gotten those from. Of course, his mother's laboratory – but since I can't get in there, I thought I'd try the other possibilities for a start. Which brought me to the college potions department. Draco Malfoy does not read Potions in college; he did, however, meet up with some fellow students once a week, claiming to do research on a potions book project honouring the late Severus Snape – meaning he's got access to the laboratory, meaning he could get the stuff. Here's another coincidence for you – guess who is the head of the Potions Department in Artemis College? None other than famous Damocles Belby, old friend of Lucius Malfoy from their times in Hogwarts, but incidentally also a man who won't withstand a friendly Confundus Charm and spill the beans on anybody then. He freely (ahem) told me all I wanted to know, or more precisely: that young Draco had asked him for a bit of Polyjuice Potion only recently (exactly eight days before the attack on the Lewis family, to be precise!), claiming he needed it for a bit of a prank. Being his old friend Lucius' son, he obtained it from his professor without any questions. How nice to have friends in the right places!

So – there we are! Impressed? Come on, even for my standards, this is some seriously impressive bit of investigation, is it not! And enough to present to an Auror, too!

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**Thanks** to everyone who sent me a review, you folks are so sweet! And thanks for the congratulations on the 200th chapter - I only noticed that after uploading it. Thank you for your incredible patience, and for reading these **200** chapters (blimey, it IS a bit excessive now that I come to think of it!), I promise it won't be another 200 more!


	202. Andromeda's Advice

Draco's aunt finds she's got some things to say to Hermione

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**– 4.75. –**

Andromeda's Advice

* * *

_Fortis est ut mors dilectio._

_VULGATA – Canticum Canticorum 8,6_

* * *

Hermione had thought she was familiar with loss. The war, the time after the Great Battle of Hogwarts, was filled with mourning for loved ones; the Weasleys were shaken with Fred's death, they still are, but she's got to see that it was different still from the kind of grievance that Draco Malfoy is going through now that his mum finally died. Probably because the Weasleys had each other, while Draco has nobody to lean on except herself – and Hermione didn't know the deceased, and even if she professes the opposite in order to console the devastated son, she doesn't think she would have liked the woman.

Her memory of the first ever time she came to see Malfoy Manor, and Mrs Malfoy's detached resignation when seeing her sister was about to murder the girl... Oh yes, Hermione will never forget this night, never forget how it felt to almost yearn for death, only so those agonising pains would end. She does remember Draco's horrified looks, his pleas. At first, she believed he did want to torture her as well, but, maybe because he was the only one inside that room she wasn't scared of, the only one of whom she was certain he was unable to kill, or perhaps simply because she had been so utterly despaired, she had quickly realised that he wouldn't harm her. She, too, remembers that Mrs Malfoy didn't approve of what was going on there in her living room – but she did _nothing_ to help her, even tried to shush Draco up when _he_ tried to intervene for her sake. Narcissa Malfoy, admirable as she may have been in oh so many ways, was not a compassionate soul.

Her son on the other hand doesn't deserve to be let down in his darkest hours, and so Hermione tries her best to comfort him, listen to him, and make somewhat vague remarks on the dead witch that conceal her own dislike. And that is just the difference to the Weasley family after Fred's death – they all had each other, had the same fond memories, the countless little anecdotes to share. She wishes she could deliver the same for Draco's sake, but unfortunately, she just can't.

After spending the first forty-eight hours after Mrs Malfoy's passing, she thought he was at least stable enough for her to go back to school, where she claimed a little touch of the flu and got away with it. She visited him as often as she could nevertheless, but found he had sobered up enough to no longer need her around all the time, and they resumed civilly, guardedly and so very properly that not even Mr Malfoy could have found anything amiss in their conduct had he seen it.

He did not come back, however, and Draco is determined to take that as a good sign, hoping against hope that his father somehow found a passage to the afterlife yet. Hermione, as soon as being back in college the first afternoon, immediately checked up on this, finding her premonitions confirmed – it is _not_ possible for a ghost – but cannot bring herself to crush the poor boy's hopes.

And then, there's the funeral. Mrs Tonks is wise enough to call for a Healer beforehand, procuring some potions for herself and her nephew to calm them, because Draco is so prostrated with grief, his whole body is shaking. The weather is clement enough after days and days of rain, and following ten servants carrying the coffin, the three of them (accompanied by the silently sobbing Elsy clad in a piece of a black velvet curtain) step outside into the splendid garden, that seems to be flashing all its blazing, red and golden autumn colours in reverence of the dead woman.

The family crypt is located in a secluded little grove, remarkably modest and not at all what Hermione had come to expect from the resting place of thirty or more generations of Malfoys. The entrance is inside a small granite parlour with Gothic arches, captioned '_Eritis sicut Deus, scientes bonum et malum_', and then they enter the crypt in itself, passing rows and rows of head stones set into the walls in a labyrinthine set of passageways until stopping in front of a hole twice as wide as the others. On the left, she can see the black ebony coffin containing Mr Malfoy's mortal shell, and underneath, the marble plate to seal it is leaning against the wall.

Both Mr and Mrs Malfoy had ridiculously many names matching their son's, but Hermione's attention is captured by the poem underneath:

_To these whom death again did wed_

_This grave's the second marriage-bed;_

_For though the hand of fate could force_

_'Twixt soul and body a divorce,_

_It could not sunder man and wife,_

_Because they both lived but one life…_

_…Till the eternal morrow dawn…'_

Despite herself, Hermione's eyes well up, all the more when the elves begin to chorus Mozart's _Lacrimosa_, which she recognises because her parents are great fans of his music, too. Somebody put Professor Snape's portrait on the wall opposite of the vault, and it is the Professor now, too, who delivers the eulogy, mirroring Mrs Malfoy's gesture at his own funeral. He speaks of her many qualities, her sparkling wit, her great love for her family, her generosity and benevolence as a friend, her cast-iron loyalty to him and her family within the bleakest circumstances –

In spite of the soothing potions, Madam Tonks sobs loudly at this point and Professor Snape pauses for her to regain her composure. In this quiet minute, Hermione thinks she has some kind of epiphany, or how else you will call it, about the late deceased. This woman put all her eggs into one basket, her family's basket, and her friend Snape's. That was her moral guideline, the beacon on which she orientated herself. She wasn't a bad sort of woman, but if forced to decide between her loved ones and something or somebody else, she'd never have faltered for a second. This is what makes Draco say she had been the 'best mother in the world'. Like Lily Potter – like _every_ mother – she would have sacrificed herself for her child without thinking twice – but unlike Lily Potter, Narcissa Malfoy would have sacrificed _anything else_. It's a frightening concept, disconcerting and morally dubious, but at least, Hermione thinks she can finally _understand_ her.

During all this, Draco is quiet like his parents' grave. He hardly breathes, he just stands there with clenched jaws and hands, closed eyes and slightly swaying, prompting Hermione to sling her arm around his shoulder to support him. He opens his glistening eyes, from which some tears instantly gush down his stony cheeks, looks at her and mouths a quiet 'Thanks'.

She doesn't let go of him again until they are back in the house, where his aunt suggests he take another soothing potion and lie down. Draco makes no protestations, and not two minutes after swallowing it, he is deeply asleep, with faithful Elsy sitting on a stool next to the bed watching over her dead mistress' bereaved child.

There is nothing else for Hermione to do and together with Mrs Tonks, she takes her leave, feeling quite exhausted. The elder woman once again thanks her for her efforts, which embarrasses Hermione a good deal, and asks her to drop by the day after tomorrow afternoon for a cup of tea.

Still intent to set right some of Mrs Tonks' misconceptions, and also eager to learn more from Draco's aunt, to whom he appears to be quite close, Hermione accepts and finds herself in the Tonks' very neat and comfy living room that Thursday afternoon, right after her last class. There are some very beautiful, cheerful paintings on the wall, doubtlessly painted by her dead husband, the furniture is modern, brightly coloured, and from the kitchen, the delicious smell of freshly-baked biscuits wafts over. If the Black household was anything like the Malfoys', one can fairly say that Andromeda Tonks has broken completely with her family's tradition.

Hermione is grateful that Mrs Tonks starts with some innocuous chit-chatting – before transitioning, "So may I ask what made you agree to visit me, Miss Granger? Forgive my presumptions, but I gather you didn't only come here for a bit of gossip from the Witches' Institute."

Hermione blushes, and quickly replies, "Oh, well, I – you see, I was rather curious. I... For example I hope you could explain to me what exactly _happened_ with Mrs Malfoy. I mean –"

"You don't know?"

"Draco never really wanted to talk about it, and only mentioned after her death that she tried to commit suicide, but I dared not ask more."

Madam Tonks looks saddened and knowing, pouring them some more tea. "He takes a lot after his mother, doesn't he? Lucius in looks, Narcissa in essence – Narcissa never talked much about – about such matters, either. She was very close."

"She – she must have been a very remarkable woman."

"Oh, she was!" Mrs Tonks fondles her grandson's violet spikes and tries to flatten them, but unsuccessfully so. "My little Cissy… I kept on telling her that this man would be her end, but she wouldn't listen. Turns out I was right after all, but certainly not as I had expected…"

"I… Don't mean to intrude if you rather not –"

"It's all right." Mrs Tonks smiles at her. "I'm not like her in this respect. I find that talking can heal some wounds quite effectively."

"Look, I wondered… I don't quite understand why she… Uhm…"

"In the end, she died of a broken heart, didn't she?"

"That's what Draco said, too, it's just... One doesn't die just like that, right? I had thought it was that assault by this old Death Eater…"

The other witch shakes her head. "No, no. Is that what people think? No… You see, Yaxley didn't get far, anyway. Narcissa and Lucius made an Unbreakable Vow when they got married – they vowed that they would remain forever faithful. I must say, I never thought about it much; I believed it was nothing but a precaution against Lucius' philandering. He was – oh well, one ought not to talk ill of the dead, right? Let me put it like this – he did have his share of fun before getting married. So, yes, they made the Vow, and Lucius obviously never violated his part. Neither did my sister. And then Yaxley – _tried_ to – hmm – he tried to force her, and here comes the rather unexpected bit. The Vow protected her – no man could force her. Yaxley dropped dead before he could harm her, you see?"

"And then she just took the poison…?"

"She always said that she couldn't live without Lucius. I thought that was just a figure of speech – I was very harsh with her because of this, very often. But in the end, she was right, wasn't she? Lucius died, and a part of her died with him straight away, and the rest followed bit by bit. She tried to – well, straight after his funeral, she tried immuring herself in their grave. You've seen it; she insisted to have a double vault. I had a strange feeling about that wish, but should I have denied her? Well, Draco of course dragged her out again –"

"Poor Draco!"

"Oh yes! When I think of what the poor boy had to go through of late! Just picture it, being forced to stun his mother so he could remove her from his father's grave! I'm afraid my sister's sanity was quite shattered once she grasped that Lucius was dead, she... For a while, we just kept her drugged so she wouldn't do something desperate. Then Lucius returned as a ghost, Narcissa woke up again and she went right into her laboratory and knocked up a mixture of a dozen deadly poisons at once. As soon as noticing what she was about to do, Lucius had the Healers alerted and they forced most of it out of her body, but she never recovered again."

Hermione can merely stare at her. No, she hasn't fathomed _that_. What a sad, sad story! Not unlike her nephew, Madam Tonks keeps on talking about the dead witch, revelling in the memories of her sister, whom she has clearly been extremely fond of. What a pert, proud little girl Narcissa Malfoy was as a child, and how frightfully clever. How she got to meet her later husband, and how they somehow got started on the wrong foot straight away. How in time, with loads of effort, Lucius Malfoy finally won her trust –

"Don't ask me why, but her heart he had always. She had a bit of a crush on him in her first year in Hogwarts, and there was some misunderstanding… She was smashed, and _I_ hated him for hurting her so, and she professed to loathe him, too, but I don't think she did for one minute. She didn't _want_ to like him…" Madam Tonks sniggered. "My little Cissy was a very brainy girl. It took her long to figure out that matters of the heart do not work that way."

Teddy fidgets around, and his grandmother gets up and puts him in the playpen.

"Lucius was – a deeply unpleasant person, I stand by that. What I failed to understand though was that he wasn't like this for my sister. To my sister. He truly loved her – I used to joke the bastard didn't have a heart, but he had one, and it belonged to Narcissa alone. That he – that he came back for her –"

"Came back for her, as a ghost you mean…?"

"Yes. He was so scared that the two of them wouldn't end up on the same – well, plane. At least he wasn't self-righteous in this respect; he knew very well what he did in his time. So he sacrificed eternity to be with her some more time, to guard her until it was _her_ time."

Hermione gapes at the older woman, who, despite her casual tone, looks very sad. "Oh…"

"I think this was the last straw. Perhaps she _would_ have gotten well again, with the prospect of spending the rest of their afterlife together. But having lost him so completely and utterly and for all time – she had no will left to live, I suppose. I did think she'd – that she'd pull herself together, if that's a phrase – for him as much as for Draco. But on the other hand – I guess we could have known."

Hermione thinks she finally understands – kind of – why Draco has never told her any of this. Some he might not know even, because it happened long before his birth. But so much of this must have been too hurtful to speak – all that time, the entire time when they were together, his mother was slowly fading away in her room, so close to his own bedroom, and his dad watching over her, and both of them knowing that she wouldn't recover. Draco has never spoken it out aloud, but now she remembers his reluctant, even snappish answers whenever Hermione or anybody else inquired after his mother – assuming that Mrs Malfoy, however ill, was young and healthy enough to recover from whatever it was that ailed her. But he knew his parents better than anyone. He must have known that it was no good.

Without her notice, a tear is rolling down her cheek, and Madam Tonks hands her a handkerchief. "He really never told you? Draco, I mean?"

Well, in the last ten days, he's talked about his mum quite a bit. But still – not about everything, it would seem. Hermione slowly shakes her head. "He talked a lot about his parents before… Well, before Mr Malfoy's death. But never much about such private things… I know that she was fluent in forty languages, and that she could play the piano, the harp and – cello, right? That she was excessively fond of the gardens in Malfoy Manor and of the library even more. He once said that his mother didn't have an equal in her lecture because she had read so much since she was a very small child."

"Oh, yes, yes… Cissy learnt reading when I did. She was jealous – or perhaps rather furious – that she was excluded from my tutorials, so she stubbornly came along. She could be very stubborn sometimes. But I guess all of us girls were. It's a bit of a hereditary feature. So she would sit next to me, all quiet and well-behaved, not at all like a three year old." She casts her grandson a tender glance, who's just now thrashing his toy wand onto the floor and makes loud whooping noises. "And then she just outshone me. I was mortified. I'm two years older than her, and no matter what I did in that respect, Cissy was always quicker, smarter. God, I _loathed_ her when we were kids. That was the one thing in which I outclassed _her_ – I was pretty inventive with my insults. Not as good as Bella, sure – but Bella was never bothered much with her anyway. They were too far apart in age; Bella didn't see her as a threat. But I did. Our parents raved about her, and all I could do to vent my frustration was being as mean as I possibly could. And still – she never cried. She never ratted on me either. She'd merely look at me with this unbelievable contempt, and that vexed me even more. No, as children, we didn't get along too well in most respects. And later on…"

She blows her nose, and Hermione pointedly looks over to little Teddy to allow her rallying herself. Madam Tonks has lost a husband, a daughter, and one sister in the war. She's probably lost her other child, too. And now she's lost her remaining sister as well. Hermione feels very sorry for her, but seeing how lovingly she takes care of Teddy – that woman got something to live for, and there's an air of energy about her… Madam Tonks won't follow her sister and lay down to die.

"Would you like another cookie, dear?"

Hermione is startled and nods mechanically. "Yes, thank you."

"You look pale, Miss Granger. Can I offer you some more tea? Or did you adapt the customs in Malfoy Manor and prefer coffee?"

"No, no… I – er… I just…"

"Can I ask you something, Miss Granger? I know, I've asked you before, and please don't take it amiss that I'm asking again, but I did have the impression that you weren't… That you weren't completely honest – less with me than with yourself."

"Uh –"

"You _are_ very fond of nephew, are you not? More than friendship would warrant. And the way I understood dear Harry, you weren't that friendly with Draco for many years to begin with."

"You – you talked to Harry about this?" she exclaims shrilly.

Madam Tonks laughs. "Oh no, you mistake me. He merely mentioned that he believes you were taking good care of Draco during all this, and what a magnanimous person you are, because Draco behaved so abominably to you in school. I chose not to answer to this remark."

"God! Thank you!"

"So – you _do_ like him, right?"

"Of course I do! I wouldn't have – you know –"

"Have you ever asked yourself how far that attachment goes?"

"Madam Tonks, I – I truly couldn't – whatever it was, it didn't _go_ anywhere, we were just…"

"Please, I don't mean to embarrass you. It's just… I didn't really talk to him about this, so my guess is as good as the next witch's, but – I did get the impression that _he_ is _very_ fond of you."

Rather breathless, Hermione gasps, "What makes you think that?"

"Well, everything! Most obviously – well, you two did get involved with each other –"

"Oh, but for all I know, he's had quite a number of transitory girlfriends, Ma'am, that's –"

"He is a boy of twenty years, I'd be alarmed if he hadn't. He's tremendously handsome and also quite charming as far as I can see – I don't think he'd have difficulties to find himself a girl. Still, he chose _you_, and forgive me for mentioning it, but you _are_ muggleborn. He could easily have found himself a pureblooded witch – and one that needn't hide him from her friends, either."

Hermione feels her cheeks colour, and badly. It never really occurred to her that _she_ did more concealing than _he_. Draco had no qualms about her being in his parents' house, of pretty much every servant and portrait seeing her, knowing she'd stay for the night and all that… It was always Hermione herself scared out of her wits that someone might detect them. She looks at Madam Tonks, bemused. "And your point is…?"

"Nothing, I'm just wondering."

"Madam Tonks, _he_ broke up with _me_. You are really on the wrong track there!"

"But Miss Granger – I'm sorry to once more refer to some gossip I've heard – but weren't you still… _Involved_ with the youngest Mr Weasley? I heard Harry and Ginny Weasley mention this, you see. All the time, until quite recently, they said how you still weren't over your fiancé, and I would suppose that Draco knew this, too. Is it so hard to understand that he'd rather give you free straightaway, than wait for you to dump him and return to your true love?"

"Ron _isn't_ my 'true love'!" She emphasises the last words with hooked fingers.

"Well, that _was_ my point, if I ever had one. I don't mean to intrude, Miss Granger, it's rather… My own child didn't talk to me for a year, because I didn't support her the way I should have, in her relationship to Teddy's father. And now my nephew has lost his mother, and I feel responsible for him, and his well-being. My sister risked a lot to help me and my family – I owe her to look after her son now. He's almost the last family I still have."

Deeply thoughtful, Hermione leaves after another hour, and not quite knowing what she's doing, she apparates to Malfoy Manor. She's got no idea why, but tells herself that she has promised Draco to drop by for a visit – and that's what she's doing, right? She's _visiting_ him. She stops before the gates, and hesitantly reaches out for the heavy iron ornaments, but before she's even touched it, the gate is opened, and Elsy looks at her with wide eyes. "Miss Sunshine," she chirps, and even though she looks as miserable as the last time, at least her pillowcase has been washed and mended.

Hermione is briefly confused, but the elf explains that she – Elsy – '_hoped that Miss Sunshine comes back_'; she's waited in the gate house for her for two days. Hermione feels equally embarrassed and light-headed with that unforeseen welcome, and in a bit of a daze, she follows the servant with a certain spring in her step along the corridors.

Entering the floor on which Draco's room is, she finds it increasingly difficult to ignore the bees in her belly. If she's quite honest – Madam Tonks' words on that subject embarrass her quite a bit – if she's _honest_ with herself, she isn't here only because she wants to see how Draco is doing.

Elsy, however, doesn't stop at Draco's room but leads her a little further down the corridor before almost pushing Hermione into the music chamber. Draco is playing on a magnificent grand piano, and misses pretty much every key in the moment when he spots her. He jumps up, his face half radiant, half nonplussed.

"Good evening, Draco," Hermione mutters shyly, and that the elf practically flees out of the room and closes the door behind her doesn't help, either. Another problem – though for her – is that she spots the portrait of Professor Snape, looking at her in deepest astonishment.

"Sun-… Erm – hey!" Draco walks over and falters with the proper welcoming gesture. He gingerly stretches out his hand, but pulls it back again, his pale cheeks turn pink, and then he finally approaches her in a brief, non-committal hug. "I hadn't – how nice to see you!"

Ironically, his unwonted insecurity heightens her own confidence a little, and with her normal voice, she says, "I wanted to see how you're doing."

"Uh – well, I've been better yet, but on the whole –"

"No need for politeness, Draco. I mean it – how are you?"

He narrows his eyes, and she realises why, too. She's called him 'Draco'. She's never called him Draco, safe for the first time after his mother's death. They're not dealing on first name basis, so to speak – he's never called her Hermione either, apart from the one evening when he was so cross with her.

"I'm… Oh well, what can I say," he begins, and she is endeared by his confusion. She is aware how good his manners normally are, but seeing him forget them completely is also quite sweet. He doesn't ask her to sit down – he doesn't offer her a drink, he doesn't ask how _she_ is, or makes any attempt on small talk. He's just standing there, with red blots on his pristine cheekbones, and fidgeting with his hands.

Hermione indicates at the piano. "I didn't want to disturb you. I should have sent an owl to –"

"God, no! No! What are you talking about! You're always welcome, you know that! And that –" He gestures at the piano, too. "I'm total rubbish with it, anyway, I just… My mother always wanted me to practise more, and I thought I – I – should give it a try…"

"Sounded very good to me."

He finds a little bit of his old poise and smirks. "That means that you're either _very_ courteous, or tone-deaf!"

In the corner of her eye, she notices Professor Snape's eyebrows disappearing under his black fringe; he's looking positively gobsmacked, which in turn makes her feel terribly self-conscious. She tries to smile at Draco instead. "Would you – would you play something for me?"

Aww! The red blots can turn a whole lot more purple still! "I… You don't know what you're asking for. I'm not a very good performer, and you know that false modesty really isn't like me. I'm _really_ bad."

"When did you start to play?"

"Er – I think I was four, but –"

"You're not trying to sell to me that you've been playing for sixteen years, and can't knock out a tune now." She walks over to the piano and he follows her; she almost pushes him to sit down, and says, "Go ahead!"

"What do you want to hear, then?"

"I don't know. What do you think you _can_ play?"

He puts his tongue in his cheek, and a shadow of the familiar roguish look comes back to him. He tinkles a tune that's probably the magical equivalent to the Minute Waltz, and squints over to her, with a broadening grin. "Happy now?"

"Come on, you can do better."

"Please, don't force me to embarrass myself."

"Why are you so shy?"

"Because I'm not very good at this, and I don't like to make an idiot of myself."

"Please. Only one real song, and I'll leave you alone with it." She gives him her best smile, not entirely sure why she's so keen on this. But as long as he's playing, she's got time to get her mind sorted out, because she still doesn't know what she wants here.

He surrenders, plays the first chords, and she understands that he's been talking utter rubbish – he's a very good pianist, as far as her limited expertise goes. For a moment, that warm feeling in her stomach washes over her again, wondering 'Is he doing that for me?' The song is beautiful, but sad, starting rather slowly but getting more vehement then, and ending after some minutes with a low minor chord.

His fingers remain on the keys some longer and he doesn't look over to her. She's standing next to his stool, and has to clear her throat before she can murmur at last, "That was wonderful!"

"Thanks kindly…"

"No, I mean, seriously!"

He chuckles under his breath, she can rather hear than see it, because he's still not looking. "You should have heard my mother playing the same. Compared to her, I'm not even mediocre."

"But I like it the way you played it."

She steps closer and tentatively strokes over his head. He shrinks back and swivels around on the stool, catching her wrists. "Please – don't. I…" He lets go off her hands, gets up and steps back. "I'm so sorry, but I…"

"_I_ am sorry, I merely… I didn't…" They look at each other, speechless, and then they both look away, and that feeling in her stomach is killing Hermione by now. Very slowly, she stretches out her hand, squinting at him and at her own shoes alternately. He notices her hand and shoots her a puzzled look, but doesn't move, neither back nor forth. "Draco…?"

"Hmm?"

"Could you… Would you…" Exasperated, she overcomes the last few inches and touches his arm, half-nudging, half-pleading him. "Bloody hell, would you – if that's all right by you – would you please…"

"What?"

"Can you please embrace me?"

His mouth falls open, and in a kind of reflex, he snatches her hand for a start, looking at it intently. "Of course I can."

"And – and would you do it, too, then?"

"Oh! Sorry – sorry, I'm not very quick today, am I…" He presses her hand and gently pulls her over, stepping forth himself until they meet in the middle. He's almost a foot taller than Hermione, so now, incapable to raise her eyes to him out of awkwardness, she looks straight at his robed chest. He's wearing black – of course he is, he's in mourning, and he's never worn many other colours to begin with. She knows these robes – they're some of her favourites among his things. The fabric is soft and flowing, and the tiniest bit glossy with silver clasps shaped like stylised serpents – she really likes these robes, and often encouraged him to wear them, because she liked to press her face against the smooth material – she'd like to do the same now. She can smell his typical scent again, and closes her eyes, moved by the many associations she's got both with that scent and the robes, not to speak of the rest.

"I have missed you," she whispers almost inaudibly, and her heart misses a beat when her cheek does make contact with his chest. He's swirled his free arm around her and presses her close to him, and feeling his heartbeat and his breathing, she loses all pretence and fiercely hugs him, too.

He softly kisses the top of her head. "I've missed you, too. – I… I'm glad you're here…"

* * *

_Fortis est_… Strong as death is love

_Eritis sicut_… You will be like God, knowing good and evil; taken from: Genesis, 3,5

'_To these whom death again did wed_…' – From: Richard Capshaw, 'An Epitaph Upon Husband And Wife, Which Died And Were Buried Together'.


	203. Her Return

This is a particularly inopportune case of bad timing

* * *

**– 4.76. –**

Her Return

* * *

_Every time we do this I fall for her, wave after wave after wave, it's all for her… and all I want is to keep it like this, you and me alone, a secret kiss, and don't go home – don't go away – don't let this end. Please, stay, not just for today…_

_THE CURE_

* * *

"I have missed you…"

Draco had no clue what she thought she was doing, but if she tried to kill the last living scion of this house, she was on the right track. He had missed her like crazy, too – and was more than slightly overtaxed with her standing so close to him now, her hands wrapped around his waist and his ribs like a Devil's Snare and clinging to him just as tightly, and fatefully. He had – unsuccessfully – tried to forget the smell of her shampoo, and now he couldn't help himself but bury his face in her hair, perceive the warmth of her body and realise just how cold he felt himself, and relish the fierceness of her embrace even though his sense of self-preservation screamed at him to get away from there.

"I've missed you, too… I – I'm glad you're here…" he muttered despite himself, because it was true, even if he was scared in the same moment. This – this wasn't good. This way madness lied. He had to get her out of his head, for goodness' sake – no, for his _own_ sake – she wasn't his, she would never be. He had fooled himself when believing that he could deal with a girl who was really in love with somebody else, for if there was one thing he had learnt in the last month, it was this – he could _not_.

For a start, it might be good to get her out of his arms at least, and out of the house as a next step. What did the woman think she was doing! Oh yes, she pitied him, and being the nice person she was, she had come to see how he was doing, and he gave her credit for her good intentions – she couldn't know that she had the exactly opposite effect on him. Losing both of his parents – like this, too soon, too quickly… It was tough enough to deal with _that_ loss. He really wasn't up for handling this other loss – her – as well now.

Her hands had began to wander, her right gliding up to his shoulders, along his neck, fondling his hair, and slowly pulling him down, and egad – he couldn't resist her, he just _couldn't_, he let her have her way, and in the next moment, when her lips found his, he was a lost man anyway. He surrendered completely; he didn't have the strength to struggle, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he pacified his protesting common sense by telling himself, 'The damage is done anyway. One last time can hardly do more harm.'

He kissed her back, as tenderly as he had ever kissed her, aware that he must never do this again, and determined to relish this down to the last, sweet drop he could squeeze out of their encounter. Passion was easy, passion only meant letting oneself fall. But he didn't want this, not this time. He wanted to perceive every last tiny detail so he could remember it in perfect clarity.

She pushed against him until his butt made contact with the keyboard and a harsh dissonance disrupted the perfect silence. She chuckled, broke away from the kiss, and entwined her small fingers with his. "Come on," she whispered with a strange little smile that was all wide, dark, shining eyes. "Let's go somewhere more comfortable."

He wanted to smile back at her, but wasn't certain if he managed so much. His left arm still coiled around her shoulder, he rearranged his right to lift her up – bless her for being so short, he could easily carry her without the slightest hazard of a rupture – and she whirled her legs around his hips, then opened the door with a little flick of her wand. She still sniggered and snuggled up to him.

"Don't drop me."

"Never."

"Promise!"

He sniggered, too, though not in merriment, and replied earnestly, "I promise I'll never do anything that could hurt you."

"That's good…"

She flicked her wand again and opened the door to his room – he hadn't meant to take her there, but alas! It didn't make a difference, did it… They weren't quite through the door when she gave a yelp of surprise; he had employed himself for two days by rearranging pretty much everything in this room, from getting a new bed and place it on a new spot, to exchanging the carpet, wallpapers and curtains. He had even transfigured the mantelpiece to look different.

"Whoa – it's – erm – _different_!"

Yes, that was the general idea. Too many memories. He had hoped that he could temper with these by getting new, untouched things. A new bed, with posters that she had never clung to, a headrest that she had never leant against, curtains she had never ripped off in a fit of ecstasy. A new armchair in which she had never lounged. Drapes that had never framed her when looking out of the window. Wallpapers she had never praised for their elegance, pictures she had never commented on for their mastery. And definitely new rugs that had never touched her back when he had made love to her.

She was still marvelling. "This – wow, it's really fantastic! The colours…"

Oh well, that'd mean another make-over tomorrow, hm? Why not, another two days of keeping his mind busy and distracted. And he hadn't been that fond of the _Man with the Golden Helmet_ in the first place. It belonged in the Golden Parlour in his opinion, but it had simply been the least sensual painting he had found among his mother's collection. He didn't fancy lying in bed and staring at anything that brought _her_ back to him, no matter how indirectly. His first choice had been a Kandinsky, believing himself on the safe side with the Abstracts, but _Abstract_ had left him wide open for interpretation and he had taken it off again first thing in the next morning.

She had closed the door behind them with her wand and sealed it, to his mild surprise. "Colloportus…?"

"Elsy seemed so pleased to see me – I would hate for her to come by and ask if we need anything."

This time, he laughed for real. Not a single of the servants had _ever_ disturbed them. They had a sixth sense – and not the proverbial one, but a real, tangible extra-sense – to know when their masters _really_ didn't want to see them. "You're doing the poor old girl injustice, sunshine!"

"Mwah, maybe. But tonight I want to be sure that I got you all to myself."

Smirking, he let her glide onto the bed, insecure what to do now, but she relieved him of that decision by grabbing his hand and pulling him down towards her. So he lay down next to her, they entwined their legs and arms and hands; she pressed her face against him and he buried his own in the masses of her hair for a minute. The apple scent of her shampoo mixed with her perfume he loved so much, and the humid warmth of her breath penetrated his robes, causing his chest to feel much hotter than the actual temperature warranted. Oh, sod the shoddy wallpapers, how should he _ever_ forget this? And he didn't truly want to forget it, did he? He wanted to wrap this moment up and put it on an altar, with incense smelling of apples, like all the other precious moments of her tinkling laughter, the countless degrees of sparkle in her gaze, the sensation of her lips on his skin, the sound of her voice when she talked, her moans when she came, her purrs when he groomed her hair.

That was the point – he wanted to keep all these memories, as fresh as they were now, but he wanted them in a safe place that he could visit when he was ready, not these vicious assaults haunting him these days, preying on him when he couldn't ward them off, lurking in ambush to attack him … Attacking him like her lips and fingers attacked him now, stripping him off his clothes with nimble, gentle moves.

Her skin felt like velvet under his hands, her lips were as lush and juicy as a ripe apricot, and her hair, though not exactly smooth, tickled him like a warm summer breeze blowing over his body. And even though he had been with girls who technically had had softer skin due to the charms they used on it, or much smoother hair by nature – none of them could compare to her still, and it drove him mad.

He undressed her, too, but much more patiently than vice versa. He wanted this moment to last as long as possible – before long, she would get dressed again and return to her moron of a boyfriend – bless him for messing up whatever now, Merlin knew what Weasley had done this time to tick her off – Draco wasn't going to complain. For all he cared, she could pay back Weasley all he was worth.

She was lying on top of him, their legs entangled, his erection rubbing against the triangle of hair in her lap, her hard nipples pressing against his ribs, and she nibbled on his throat. He fought to keep his eyes open despite the sweetness of her caresses, wanting to drink in the vision while his fingers glided up and down her spine. In the next second however, his eyes were suddenly _wide_ open very effortlessly – he was practically frozen with discomposure. A white mist had materialised through the closed door, and that mist had the unmistakable shape of – of –

"Mum…?"

The girl had heard him and stilled every move, gazing up in confusion, but he noticed this only marginally. He couldn't but gape at the – the – _ghost_…? – who had clasped her pearly hands to her mouth and seemed just as petrified as her son for a split second, and to make it all worse, another shape, _much_ more familiar even because Draco had seen him so often in this new form – his father's ghost appeared behind her.

His mother made a weird gesture at him, somewhere between shock and an apology and turned around, her ghostly fingers grabbing her husband's arm and pulling him with her, through the door, but not quickly enough.

_"Draco?_" Lucius' booming voice exclaimed in utter indignation before the two shapes were gone again, and Draco needed a second to process this. His father – all right – but – but – that had been his mum, he hadn't just imagined seeing her, right? He felt tears shooting up to his eyes with the mere idea – if this really _was_ his mum – then both his parents were just _doomed_ now –

"Sorry," he groaned and was out of the bed in the next second, desperately trying to get into his boxers that lay huddled and twisted on the floor. He lost his balance and fell face-first on the floor; he could taste blood because he had in all probability broken his nose, but nothing of this was of any concern in this second. If he had had the mind to contemplate this, he would have found that there was _nothing_ better to get rid of an erection in less than three seconds than seeing one's dead mother glide through a massive oak door.

He got back to his feet, and not bothering for his shorts once more, grabbed his robes instead and slipped into them without further ado, storming at the door to follow the two spectres. He jerked on the handle, but the door wouldn't move – he almost sprained his wrist, so hard he pulled, until faintly realising that they had sealed the door magically.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed in desperate frustration, trying to get his head clear but failing. At least he found his wand, undid the spell and ran out and down the hallway, and even though he did not know where his parents might have gone to, he had no difficulties following them, because he could _hear_ his father's voice, loud and clear. Merlin, the dead ancestors in the family vault outside could still have heard him, so loud – and outraged – he was shouting about.

"…totally out of his bloody head?" Lucius Malfoy yelled. "No, I will _not_ calm down! You died less than – what – a week? Ten days? – ago! _That_ is how he honours his mother's memory? I didn't say anything about his little hussies after _my_ death, but – _no_, Cissa – I'm _right_ and you _know_ it! Stop making excuses for him! This _is_ different! How dare he! – Oh, nonsense! And with _that girl_ of all possible people! Has the child no pride at all! Has his prick done all the thinking for him now? – Yes, I'm sorry for the language, too, Cissa, but this really isn't the moment for manners, your son has none, either, give _him_ this lecture! – Forgive me, my love, I didn't… But all the same! How _could_ he! And she's not even pretty! What on earth does he think he's doing? That's what he's doing with his legacy, dragging mudbloods into my house? – Forgive me, my love, but this is _not_ the right time to discuss my phrasing!"

Draco had finally arrived in the parlour to which his parents had fled – his father's furious cascade had had two advantages, at least. For one – it had led Draco's way, but what was more – it had confirmed that he wasn't just losing his mind. His mother – she had come back indeed. Oh god – oh Merlin – his parents were lost – they were both lost beyond hope!

"Mum?" he cried once more, gaping at her silvery form. No doubt, this was his mum, in all her glorious beauty, just as shaped vapour now. "What – why – how –"

Lucius clearly didn't think this was the moment to answer such subtle questions either; he shot at his son directly and left his wife no chance to speak. "Draco Appolonius Malfoy! I wouldn't have thought it possible! I cannot tell you how disappointed I am with you!"

"Gosh, Dad, get off it! _Mum?_"

"No, no, we're not done! Every other decent child would be in mourning, but my fine son invites his sordid little mudblood affairs into his dead parents' house before their bodies are even cold! How dare –"

Draco shouted back on the same level, "Oh, drop it, Dad and leave her alone! Seriously! I –"

"Desecration!"

"Not that it was any of your business, but maybe you'll let me speak out after hearing it anyway! I invited no one to your house – she came by her own volition, and apparently this is _my_ house now, in which she is very welcome! And just in case you're merely concerned for your rotten bloodline purity – it's not like _that_ in the first place! Can I talk to my mother now? Thank you! Mum – what on earth are you doing here? Why are you – why aren't you –" Downstairs, he could hear the front door slamming shut and he swivelled around, useless as it was. "Congratulations, Dad! _Your_ concern just left the building, and is unlikely to return after that tantrum!"

"Return?" Lucius screeched, outraged. Narcissa restrained him, trying to keep him from swooping at his son.

"Good evening, darling," she inserted. "I'm so sorry for intruding –"

"_Intruding?_ How can either of us _intrude_ in our own house?"

"Mum – I – good heaven's – I really don't know what to say! Why are you _here_, mum! You shouldn't – you _mustn't_ – but now you're _both_ –"

"Exactly, mon trésor. Now we're _both_ stuck here. Now nothing can ever come between your father and me again." She smiled a radiant smile, as if this was the most wonderful thing ever. "Please, forgive me for worrying you so much – I know, I behaved unforgivably to you, my poor darling! But _you_ behaved marvellously. I know how you guarded over me all this time, and it would have broken my heart if I hadn't known that I'd soon relief you, and come back to watch over you in turn."

"But Mum, I – I did that gladly – well, _gladly_ isn't right, but – you know what I mean! Just – Mum, ghosts are – they aren't – they're not _happy_ on the long run! Trust me, I know one or two and –"

"Oh, honey, calm down. You really needn't worry for me – no more, anyway. I _am_ happy – I'm as happy as I ever was, on my wedding day, on the day of your birth. I'm happy to see you again, and finally be able to speak to you again! Now I can be there for you whenever you might need me – and I can be with your father until the end of time! Trust me, darling, I had ample of time to think about this, and it is for the best."

He had severe doubts about her take on this, but for the time being, he was too confused, and also strangely happy to see his mother once more, and united again with his father, too. Surely, this wasn't 'the _best_' as his mother said – the best would be to have them united in the realms of afterlife, however that might look like – but having them together like this must surely be counted a solid number two…

His father gave them a chance to talk some more, but finally seized the first chance he got to shower his son with more reproaches. For Merlin's sake, this grounded Draco sufficiently again. Well, maybe it was for the better, like this, anyway. They really shouldn't have made love again, it couldn't be healthy for his sanity to get even deeper involved in this whole –

"…deeply disappointed, Draco!"

"Dad – I _told_ you! Keep your hat on! For a start – if it wasn't for her, I don't think I'd have managed to _bury_ Mum until now. She – she was there for me, all the time – without her, I don't know what I would have done! You want to be _grateful_ to her, okay? And stop calling her a mudblood, for good gracious' sake!"

"You like this girl, don't you, honey?" his mother asked feelingly, prompting her husband to look as if he had been hit by a curse.

Draco groaned and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I – look, it's not like that. She – she's practically married to this total dimwit Weasley – don't even ask me about _that_, Mum, please. Yes, if you want to hear it – I _do_ like her! She's – god, she's fantastic, she's… You'd like her, too, Mum. I know you would. But we're only friends and –"

"_Friends?_" Lucius cried, indignant once more.

"It didn't look like this, sweetheart," Narcissa said softly, closely observing her son.

"Well, I know how it must have looked like, but – geez, like I said – she's got herself this complete brickhead of a fiancé, and he's cheating on her whenever he's got the chance for it. But she loves him nevertheless, so _you_ –" He beckoned at his father. "– can come down from the chandelier again, all right?"

"Don't you be fresh with me, sonny!"

"Lucius –"

Narcissa put a restraining hand on her husband's arm, but he just lifted it to his face, kissed it – and continued glowering at their son. "So," he gnarled, "you're _friends_, you say. Please, could you rephrase once more how she's coming into your bed then? Because I'm afraid I must have missed something in the middle part!"

"She was in my bed because that's what we do, for Merlin's sake. Goodness, I can't believe I'm discussing my sex life with my _parents_!"

"Me neither," Narcissa moaned and turned her eyes to the ceiling. "I'm still trying to square with the idea that my baby _has_ a sex life to begin with!"

"I'm twenty, Mum!"

"You are – bedding – the fiancée of this Weasley bloke…?" Suddenly, Lucius seemed to find this absolutely hilarious, because he was cringing with laughter. "Arthur Weasley's son?"

"I fail to see the comical potential, Dad," Draco retorted dryly, and considerably put out.

Lucius could scarcely calm himself. "Well… Under different circumstances, I'd now tell you that it's absolutely unacceptable to give up the girl to a _Weasley_, but… Oh well. Let him have the little mud-"

"Shut it, Dad! I don't care who her parents are," Draco interrupted him sharply and unnerved. "In fact, they're very nice people."

His father forgot his fit of merriment at once, narrowed his eyes and snarled with a dangerous undertone, "Why would you know that girl's muggle parents, sonny?"

"Lucius!"

"No, I'd really like to know how he managed all this in merely ten days!"

The note of menace in his father's voice grew, but Draco merely scowled back. "Ten days, dad?"

"You said she helped you after your mother's death. Now I don't know what date we have exactly, but I'd fathom that must have been roughly ten days ago, yes."

Draco gave him his best smirk of triumph, and drawled coldly, "Oh, that's right. She did help me after Mum's death, and that did happen nine days ago. What you _don't_ know is that she was there for me after _your_ death, too."

Narcissa gasped and broke out laughing, but seeing her husband's face, she tried to disguise it as a cough, too.

"Cissa!"

"Sorry." She bit her lip to stifle another giggle.

"So how long exactly is this going about, son?" Lucius asked sternly, glowering at his son and hovering a feet over the ground to force Draco looking up to him.

"I. Will. Not. Discuss. This. With. You. I'm sorry, Dad, but I won't. It's completely useless. You won't change my opinion, and there's no hope to change yours, and what's most – you don't think she'd ever set a foot into this house again anyway, after being so abused by you!"

"I didn't even _talk_ to that bird!"

"Dad, you shouted about loudly enough that the muggles in the next village must have heard you still!"

"What, now it's suddenly _my_ fault?"

Draco exhaled, deflated and shook his head, exhausted. "Sorry, Dad. I didn't mean to argue with you, or blame you for anything. It's – it's really not your fault. And I'm – I'm really happy that you're back with Mum – and I – I think I'll somehow manage getting used to the idea that Mum's here, too, like this, and – I'm happy that you are happy, and also – god, Mum, I've missed you! I missed you so much!"


	204. Sisterly Solace

Narcissa has joyous tidings from the netherworld, and some slightly more mundane concerns, too.

* * *

**– 4.77. –**

Sisterly Solace

* * *

_"It taught me to hope," said he, "as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before."_

_JANE AUSTEN – Pride and Prejudice_

* * *

It would have been tough to decide which feeling had prevailed in Andromeda Tonks after her arrival in Malfoy Manor; on the morning of October 31st, Narcissa's beaming elf-in-waiting had Apparated straight into Andromeda's bedroom, and announced unceremoniously that 'Miss Andy's' presence was required _at once_ in her sister's house. Still sleepy, she had been shocked and assumed something had happened to her nephew, and that the elf didn't state her purpose hadn't alleviated Andromeda's concerns too quickly either. But Elsy's radiant expression had soothed her at last while hectically getting dressed, and not ten minutes after waking up, she had been standing in the Golden Parlour – and given a yelp of surprise when facing the ghost of her lately deceased sister. It hadn't been surprise exclusively, but also deepest dismay, because like Draco, Andromeda had immediately grasped the full consequences of Narcissa's new state.

Those misgivings, however, had taken a backseat immediately when Narcissa, before uttering any other thing, had cried, "He's alive, Andy! Lenny – he lives!"

"What?"

It turned out that Narcissa had had the chance to talk to the dead Severus Snape – he had come to take her to the afterlife, and when she had refused, he had also tried to convince her to follow him – obviously without success. Instead she had asked him almost at once whether he could give her any information on her nephew, but even though the dead have some higher, comprehensive knowledge, he could give her no better answer than 'He is not with us, Narcissa, but that is all I can tell you.'

Well, it was enough for a start. Lenny _lived_, and for his despairing mother, this was all the relief she presently needed. If he lived, she could find him, and she _would_ find him, she didn't have a doubt about that. She rushed to the Ministry not much later, although the Aurors in charge of Lenny's case were not likewise persuaded, and gave her pitiful looks when she urged them to recommence their search. It was true – they had tried everything in their powers to find the young man and they weren't as ready to invest faith in Mrs Malfoy's report as the aggrieved mother had been.

At the same time, the members of the Malfoy family, dead and living alike, had been sitting together and cherished their reunion, or something like that. Narcissa could easily see how very much disconcerted her poor darling still was upon her return as a ghost, and she gave him credit for his feelings, hoping she could soon convince him otherwise. Yes, admittedly – being a ghost did have its drawbacks. Quite a lot of them in fact. But he must realise that it had been the only possibility to be reunited with his father, and for eternity.

Draco clearly was the only one in the entire house who realised the strangeness of it all – the elves could not have been merrier, having their masters back, regardless of their form, and as for Lucius and Narcissa themselves… Lucius did feel some pangs of guilt and remorse, knowing that his wife had forfeited afterlife in order to be with him, but didn't get a chance to revel in those negative sentiments, because Narcissa wouldn't let him. _She_ was happy and did not regret her choice for just one second. She didn't care where she was or in which state, as long as she could be with her husband, and she didn't fear eternity either. She'd be with him, that was all that counted; they could watch over their son to the end of _his_ days, they'd see their grandson grow up and old, and his son, and that one's son then, and so on. She merely laughed when Draco or Lucius tried to point out that the circumstances weren't exactly lucky.

"I have been blessed by fortune all my life," she would say and beam at them, "and I am still blessed in death. Stop making such faces, you two!"

They instantly obliged her, like they had in life. Lucius was even less capable than his son to disappoint Narcissa, yet he couldn't help feeling that his beloved wasn't seeing things clearly. When finally finding her in the passage to afterlife, she had already waited for him, had long sent Severus away, and since it had already become useless to tell her otherwise, he had simply given in to his own bliss of being with her once more. Oh, how he had longed to talk to her again! To hear her sweet voice, feel her embrace, and throw himself at her feet to plead for her forgiveness for condemning the both of them. She wouldn't hear of it, of course.

Still... "I don't mean to dampen your spirits, mon ange. Perhaps it's only because I'm a trifle longer dead than you –" he began anew. Draco had just left them in order to go back to school – Narcissa had been very firm in her urgings, and as already mentioned, the boy could hardly turn down any of his mother's wishes anyway.

She smiled and winked at her husband. "In the grand scheme of eternity, it's really nothing but a trifle though."

"Yes, well… At any rate, I cannot help feeling that… Cissa, my choices in life in every respect where you weren't directly concerned were mostly ill-advised, if not downright wrong, and my decisions after death – well, at least one of them was nothing if not rash. _Your_ decision might not have been as hastened, but… Cissa, this is _forever_. I'm slightly scared that you may come to regret it."

"You don't _understand_, mon amour. Really, I hadn't pecked you to be such a pessimist soul!" She gave a pearly, bright laughter. "You and I will be _together_ _forever_. And for a start, we can be with Draco at all times, for his entire life. He'll never have to lose his parents like I lost mine –"

"He already did, Cissa," he said quietly. "He mourned both you and me."

"But that was only temporary; now we're with him again and we'll never abandon him again, and –"

Lucius had never entertained the habit of quarrelling with his beloved, and was in fact so used to the idea of her being right and him being wrong that even now, despite his uneasiness, he couldn't bring himself to interject. She must have guessed his thoughts though, or perhaps his face gave him away, because she stopped and tilted her head. "What is it, love?"

"You mean this?"

"What?"

"You're really serious about – well, about always being with Draco and –"

She looked scandalised. "Of course I'm serious! How can you – excuse me, but for a second there, I thought you were trying to say we should desert our child, Lucius."

"No!" He lifted his hands soothingly. "I mean no such thing! Nothing like it! It's just…"

"Just…?"

"I'm just thinking – well, how do you think he feels about this proposition?"

She tilted her head fractionally less. "I don't understand what you're getting at, darling."

"Now don't start on me for bringing up Abraxas, but hear me out, please. I had many reasons to dislike my father and Merlin, I did. Even in the almost ten years since his death, I haven't come to feel much warmer about him. But my dislike for him wasn't the only reason why I wouldn't have fancied being around him all the time. Come, you got along with him so much better than I, but honestly, you can't tell me he wasn't getting on your nerves as well."

She put her hands in her ghostly side. "And your point is…?"

"Do you think Draco will be delighted when we tell him, hey, lad, your mum and dad will never leave your side again?"

Now she began scowling at him – a sight he had not seen often in the past twenty-eight years, at least not aimed at himself. "Actually, I think exactly that, yes," she snarled dangerously calm.

"He'll be delighted with every one of your suggestions, Cissa, because you're his mum and he has every good reason to adore you. But you and I, my angel, are dead. We're not much more than shadows that linger. Draco is _alive_, and I want him to live life to the full."

"That's what I want, too!" she cried.

"I know. All I'm saying is we must not anchor him in that state of half-life. Let him live his life, ma belle."

"I haven't got the foggiest shroud of an idea what you might be talking about, Lucius."

He shrugged, put on his most conciliatory smile and stretched out his hand to rest on her forearm. It had always felt wonderful to touch her when they had both been alive still, but now this had a very different quality to it. When he touched her now, it wasn't just a feeling of closeness, an electrical surge of sensuality, or movement of being with his ardently beloved wife. It was… He could feel her, really _feel_ her, feel her own emotions, grasp her thoughts better, more comprehensively, and he could transmit his own thoughts and emotions to her as well.

Just the same happened now; she could suddenly _feel_ that he didn't mean to antagonise her, not even tease her; instead she realised how very earnest he was, and how diametrically different their feelings on this particular subject were.

"You mean it," she gasped, genuinely surprised. "You really..."

"I'm sorry, mon ange –"

"Oh, Lucius, don't say that! Why would you be _sorry_ for entertaining another opinion than I?"

He shot her a little smile. "Because you are usually right in your opinions and I am not."

"Oh, _please_, Lucius! This is nonsense!"

"No, it isn't. Cissa, you have been the best mother any child could ever have, and if _you_ tell _me_ that we can consider ourselves lucky because we've got the chance to cling on to Draco –"

"I said nothing about _clinging_ on to him, did I?" she muttered, the tiniest bit uneasy for a second, but instantly regaining her former decisiveness. "In this one instance, I shall let that statement pass."

"Hm?"

"Just look what he's getting himself into when we're _not_ there to look after him!"

Lucius was honestly amazed to think that his wife should actually share his feelings on the previous evening's incident, but then again, she hadn't approved of a single of their son's female companions so far. Too stupid, too vulgar, too clingy, too superficial – but never had she minded a person's pedigree before.

"You're saying... What?" he asked bewilderedly.

She smirked grimly. "No, _of course_ not, my love. I could obviously not care less whether she is muggleborn or not. But look at it! That girl has a _fiancé_! How _can_ she fanny about with our son when she is engaged to somebody else! What sort of woman does that!"

Lucius' puzzlement grew by the minute. He hadn't even seen it from _this_ angle yet! "Right –"

"Exactly," Narcissa said, quite ready to accept his irresolution for agreement, and satisfied with both of themselves, too. "A girl that is absolutely _unfit_ for our baby."

"He'll get over it," Lucius now muttered, glad to have his wife share his opinion, if for wholly different reasons.

"Of course he will!" she cried, nodding. Her husband's words were still unsettling her, all the more because she thought she had spied some suspicious signs in her darling boy the previous night. Draco was obviously quite fond of that person; she dared not think how far that affection might go after all. Because _if_ it did go beyond the usual teenage fancies, he was prone to some very serious, and hurtful heartbreak, and she loved him too dearly to wish him _that_.

She gave herself a fierce shake. "Anyway – I meant to talk to you about something else, Lucius. Something serious."

"I'm all ears, ma belle, as always."

"We need to do something for poor Andromeda, Lucius. From what she said, I take it the Aurors have rather given up on Lennart, and I'm sure you'll agree with me that this just won't do."

Naturally, he was all set as ever to agree with pretty much everything his wife said, but when he heard her proceeding, his mouth fell open with surprise all the same.

"How _on earth_ do you want to do this, petal? Why should they – they'd never..."

"Wait and see, my love. Wait and see and have faith in me and my powers."

Which of course he had.


	205. A Happy Hallowe'en

Hermione doesn't understand what's wrong with her, but if there's one thing for sure - Firewhiskey will remedy it.

* * *

– **4.78. –**

A Happy Hallowe'en

* * *

_I went through this period, after the Charlie and Marco thing, of imagining them together, _at it_ … No woman in the history of the world had better sex than the sex Charlie had with Marco in my head._

_NICK HORNBY – High Fidelity_

* * *

She's cried her eyes out, all through the night, and she can't even figure out _why_. All right, it's not exactly pleasant to be caught by the parents of your lover while you're basically at it. But no reason to cry. Affronting Lucius Malfoy is no reason to cry, but to _giggle_. Being called 'mudblood' by the man – nope, no reason to sob. She could really hardly care less; it's a miracle he didn't sniff them out much earlier. She tries to rationalise this, tries to put her finger on the hurt, but she can't say what it is.

In the next morning, she's _quite_ under the weather, and one look in the mirror – her Gryffindor mirror, the one Draco gave her – shows her that she looks _exactly_ like having cried for ten hours on end. That won't do. For a minute, she seriously contemplates to stay in bed and skip her classes this morning, but she wouldn't be Hermione Granger if that was a serious option. She's missed too many recently anyway. No…

Like always in these situations, she bothers her neighbour Celine to borrow some make-up or whatever one uses under such circumstances. But Celine knows better – Celine knows the appropriate _spells_, and asks sympathetically, "It's that Ron guy, yes? That Quidditch player?"

Hermione laughs, though not exactly happy. "No, for once it's _not_ Ron."

"Oh, so it must be that muggle you've got yourself?"

She doesn't want to discuss with Celine what's the true reason – she doesn't even _know_ the true reason – and '_Dylan_' is good enough an excuse. "Something like that," she groans evasively, observing Celine's spellwork in her neighbour's bathroom mirror.

"Ah, per'aps it will be okay again!"

"I don't think so," she murmurs darkly.

No, it won't be okay again. This is all nonsense, anyway! God, how reluctant he was. _That_ should have made her think straightaway! She's practically thrown herself at him, and while he didn't kick her out like he did after that awful party… Well, he surely feels he's got to be nice to her because he feels obliged, after his mum's death and all. And then, he's just a twenty-year-old male, for goodness' sake! _Of course_ he doesn't refuse an offer of sex. How could she ever fall for that sentimental nonsense that Madam Tonks dished her up? _Madam Tonks!_ She's run away from her family for a muggleborn – the same family, incidentally, that Malfoy is from! She just wants to see something in Draco that just isn't there.

Okay. So he did defend her. Big deal! That's the least he could do! But he couldn't get away from her quickly enough, could he! _So_ embarrassed to be caught with someone like Hermione by daddy dearest and magnificent mummy! Pah! If she's honest – although it hurts, and she quickly thinks of something else again – but _if_ she's completely honest with herself for a moment, what's stung most was his hurried assurance that 'it's not what it looks like'. She jumped down the last steps when hearing him shout this at his father because it hit home so badly.

No, it's not like _that_. And she can't even blame him, can she, because he's never pretended it was. As sweet as he was, as caring and charming, he's never intentionally raised her hopes. _Hopes!_ Ph! She is Hermione Granger, and she's in no need of Draco Malfoy of all people. Only because someone treats her nicer than Ron did doesn't mean… Argh. She is just so mad at herself.

He's missing their first class this morning – daddy must have held him quite a long lecture yesterday, eh! Serves him right. Both of them, on a second thought. Lucius Malfoy surely deserves the shock he's sustained yesterday! Finding his one and only son in bed with a mudblood. It'd be hilarious if it wasn't so sad. Well, by tomorrow she'll be cringing with laughter about it, for sure.

After lunch, she's got Experimental Charms and meets Parvati, who tries to talk her into coming to some Halloween party tonight. Oh, most certainly not. Hermione's dead tired already. She didn't get enough sleep to spend another night sleepless! But Parvati doesn't let go; for some reason she's set her heart on going, and she doesn't want to go on her own, apparently.

"Why don't you ask Padma?"

"Because she's ill, poor thing. Got herself such a bad cold. Oh, come on, Hermione. Don't be a bore."

By now, they're sitting in the library, and Hermione hasn't read a single page yet because her friend keeps on bugging her. "I can't, Parvati. I'm tired and worn-out, and I've got loads of work to do."

"Maybe Ron will come, too…?"

"Another reason to stay at home, then!"

"Oh, okay. I didn't realise. Anyway – just an hour, Hermione. _Please_. I promise I leave you alone then. Just an hour."

Why she finally gives in, Hermione doesn't even know. Probably because she's just too tired to go on squabbling. She does get through five pages of the book before her, but is interrupted once more.

"Hey Granger," a familiar voice behind her says, exciting Parvati so much she drops her pencil case. "Do you have a minute?"

Hermione draws a deep breath, composes her face and turns around with her most casual expression. "No, actually I don't. I've got much to do."

He looks at his feet and smirks softly. "Yes, I see –"

"Malfoy!" Parvati interrupts with a smile as broad as the Panama Canal. "Are you in the mood for a party?"

"Most decidedly not!"

"Oh, come on! _Please!_"

"I can't, Patil," he drawls impatiently. "Theo is coming over from Greece for the holiday and –"

"Then just bring him along! You see, Hermione says so, too – you cannot always stay at home. And before you claim you've got work to do – she said the same and still she's coming along."

He looks rather annoyed at Parvati, but his expression changes slightly, and he shrugs. "Well, let's see. However – Granger, please, about my mother… Erm… Patil, would you mind very much to excuse us for a second?"

"I'll leave if you swear you'll come."

"Yes, yes. Five minutes, please."

"We'll pick you up after dinner. And no flimsy excuses."

Parvati gives him her loveliest smile and shuffles off, and Draco drops onto her seat next to Hermione, who's got increasing difficulties to keep her unperturbed attitude. She'd like to scowl at him – or scream – or scratch his eyes out, maybe – but all she can do is smile indifferently and pray he'll leave again soon.

"What is it about your mother, Malfoy?" she asks lightly and prides herself that nothing in her voice indicates that she last saw Mrs Malfoy while she was lying naked on top of her son.

His countenance is not half as good as hers, she registers with maximum satisfaction, and he murmurs, "She – for a start, she asked me to send her apologies for coming in like that."

"No big deal. It's her house, after all."

"Yeah, well… She is very sorry – and so am I, incidentally. I really didn't –"

"It's okay, Malfoy!" Hermione is _extremely_ pleased with her voice here, and shoots him a smile of the 'Could have happened to anyone – actually, I've already forgotten all about it' sort. "How could you have guessed this, after all?"

He exhales. "Oh, good that you see it like this. I was very – I'm so sorry, but I was really – gosh, I was shocked out of my wits."

"I noticed _that_. No big deal. Just forget about it."

"Really?"

"Yes, of course. Now could you please…? I've got to finish this essay."

He tilts his head and shoots her a weird glance, hesitantly. "Yes, sorry, I don't mean to deter you. Sorry. I just… I just want to make sure you're not cross with me."

"I'm not cross with you. Okay?" – 'No, not with _you_, idiot, only with myself for being so moronic to – to…' At least, she manages to keep on that silly half-smile.

"Okay then." He gets up and turns to leave, but in going he adds, "See you later then."

"Later…?"

"Tonight. That strange party that Patil mentioned." He smiles and tries something like a wave. "See you."

Under these circumstances, Hermione will _not_ go to that party, obviously. It's the first thing she tells Parvati when she returns, but her friend doesn't mind the least – after ascertaining Draco's promise to go, Parvati has other things on her mind. "He's falling due. Tonight he is," she purrs and looks half devious, half dreamy. "He's just a man – they don't have the genes to say no."

"No, they surely haven't," Hermione snaps, touched to the quick, and adds sourly, "Good luck with that."

"It's nothing to do with _luck_, Hermione. It's a question of the right robes, if anything."

"Hmm."

"I bet he's got a great body…"

"Oh, yes – I mean – he played Quidditch, too – didn't you once say, all Quidditch players had good bodies…"

She can tell that she's looking stupid and that her face must look like an oversized tomato, but Parvati has better things to contemplate at the moment. She gushes how good he looks – 'these cheekbones! And did you ever notice these _eyes_?' – swiftly wonders if the death of his mother could be an obstacle, but decides that after such a long illness, all that must have been 'so much easier' and Hermione can only shrug all the time. She loves Parvati, but right here and now, she'd love to strangle her nevertheless.

And she can't help it but watch her old dorm mate – shirty, upset, but also in awe. Parvati is so pretty! God – she can annoy the hell out of you sometimes, but that doesn't matter, does it… Hermione knows too well that people find _her_ even more unnerving. And Parvati comes with the additional benefit of that perfect body, that perfect skin, shiny dark waves and glowing back eyes, and most of all, that pretty, pretty face. And talking about 'additional benefits' – Parvati is a pureblood, too.

Hermione smirks grimly and not even bothering for excuses, leaves her friend behind and barricades herself in her room for a start. She tries to get all the work done that she neglected yesterday, and today in that instance – but once more, she doesn't get far. Realising that she's read the same paragraph approximately eight times now, and having no babbling neighbour as an excuse, she throws the book into a corner – and is shocked with herself. She isn't the sort of person to throw things around! Least of all a _book_! Books are to be handled with care and reverence!

Oh, what the hell! She rummages around the room, but has to see that she doesn't have anything to drown out her distress. In a fierce mood, she grabs her coat and marches out, slamming her door as if it had done her a personal injury, down the hallway and out of the house, right to the venue designed for human apparition, and disapparates to Hogsmeade. Ha! There _is_ a proper place for people as disgruntled as she feels. The natural home for disgruntled wizards and witches – their home base, so to speak! And ample of remedy in liquid form!

Oh, but naturally! Pretty Parvati, pureblooded Parvati! Hermione drains her fourth glass of Fire Whiskey and immediately orders the next two. She feels sick, and tries to blame the alcohol – but it's the same kind of nausea that she's felt when entering the Hog's Head, and which gets worse whenever she thinks of Draco and Parvati. What might they be doing right now? Oh, Hermione knows – it makes her ill – but she cannot help thinking about it either. He _is_ just a man, right! And Hermione knows him!

Parvati's beautiful black, almond-shaped eyes, half-closed in ecstasy. Parvati's rose petal lips all over him – her bronze-tanned, slim body pressed against his pale, trim one – how his beautiful fingers glide through her shiny black hair while he's making love to her so tenderly, so carefully that Parvati will forget _everything else_, and…

She drains whiskey number five and puts the glass so fiercely on the bar that it breaks. Aberforth casts her a strict glance, "You're not accustomed to drinking, Missy. Maybe you should call it a day?"

Hermione shakes her head vigorously. "Sorry about the glass – but please, pour me another two straight away!"

She would like to be cross with Parvati – but not even in her drunkenness, she can find anything to criticise her friend for. Parvati doesn't even _know_ that Hermione – what – what about her, anyway! She has no right to complain, has she? No, she hasn't, but that doesn't make her feel any better about it either!

Men! Put 'em all into a sack and thrash it, you'll always hit the right guy anyhow!

* * *

**My special greetings and THANKS to everyone reading this, and Barbara, Dusty and LadyArbalest in particular! **


	206. Tough Luck

Hermione really isn't used to the unwanted side-effects of heavy drinking.

* * *

– **4.77. –**

Tough Luck

* * *

_Iuvenilis ardor impetu primo furit, languescit idem facile nec durat diu._

_SENECA – Octavia _

* * *

She's so drunk, she hardly notices the most familiar person settling on the barstool next to hers. Even when he addresses her, it takes her half a minute to register so much, blurting out at last, "Ronald Weasley! Alas! What are you doing here?"

"I think the same as you."

"What do _you_ know what _I'm_ doing here!"

"Celebrating Halloween?"

"That's what _you_ think, Ronald. Oh – sorry – I keep forgetting that you don't think at all. Ever. Sorry, my mistake."

"How many of those did you have, Hermione?" He beckons at the empty glasses on the counter.

"None of your business. Nothing I do – _hicks_ – is _any_ of _your_ business anymore, Ronald!"

He gives her a strange look. "I wish it was, though."

"Tough luck! And your own fault, incidentally! _Hicks!_" She stabs her finger at him and scowls. "I might not be as pretty as certain other girls – _hicks_ – but that's no excuse to forget about me so easily! I – _hicks_ – _deserve_ some better treatment! Ha!"

"You deserve the best treatment in the world, Hermione," he replies quite earnestly.

"Very true. _Very true_. And I won't allow you bastards to – _hicks_ – make me feel so bad!"

"Wait how bad you will feel tomorrow morning, Missy," Aberforth inserts dryly and addresses Ron next. "You'll take her home, young man, will you!"

"I don't want to go home yet," Hermione says stubbornly and drinks some more.

Ron apologises a sound dozen times, calling himself an arse and an idiot – every now and then, even _he_ must get it right, right? Hermione's perception becomes more and more blurred, she can still hear him talking, and occasionally hums approvingly when she catches phrases like 'total moron' or 'you deserve more', but beyond that, she's got no idea what he's saying. Her head is too preoccupied fighting against the onslaught of images of Parvati and Malfoy together, and against her vivid imagination that paints everything that those two might be doing right now, in the most gruesomely lively colours.

She keeps on ordering more drinks until Aberforth refuses to serve her, and she accepts Ron's offer to go on drinking at his place instead. "_Behave_, buddy," Aberforth admonishes Ron sternly, but Hermione only giggles, heavily leaning on her ex-fiancé's arm. She can no longer walk straight. Ron didn't lie – once inside his apartment, he settles her on the sofa and mixes her some cocktail, before sitting down next to her and toasting.

"To you. The best. I'll prove you I have reformed."

"Hmm. Sure." The stuff is sweet and tasty and she sizzles on her straw, suddenly finding Ron's arm around her shoulders. "What d'you think you're doing?"

"Prove you."

She laughs out loud. "Oh, the hell you will!"

"Please, Hermione, you've got to believe me! I _have_ been thinking these past months, and I _do_ realise the mistakes I made! These girls meant nothing to me –"

"But this isn't just about _them_, Ron," she replies more soberly than she's felt the entire evening. "It's about _everything_. You made me feel like shit, time and time and time again!"

"I _know_!" he moans and pulls an unhappy face. In fact, he's pulling two faces because she sees double. "I know this, Hermione, and I promise you I won't do that again!"

She merely shakes her head, but in the next moment, he presses his lips on hers and his tongue into her mouth; she's so surprised, she drops her drink. Bloody hell – does he really believe he can sneak back to her like this – but maybe he _has_ reformed – maybe Malfoy's right – maybe they _are_ meant to be, Ron and her – maybe she ought to give him one more chance – why not – it's not like she had somebody new, right…

"I love you, Hermione," he groans between two kisses. "I know I was an idiot…"

"Yes, you were…"

"I _know_! But I'll be better now."

He kisses her again, pushes up her T-shirt and begins fumbling with her breasts, his other hand gliding into her trousers. It's not unpleasant, she lets him go on, let's him undress her, too, to give him better access, but… Something's missing somehow. She arches into his hands, he gives a little moan and opens his trousers, too, and she'll give him that much: he has picked up some better bedroom manners, because unlike usually, he's really taking his time now to caress her. The ironic thing though is – this one time she'd pray he hurry up and get over with this.

"I'm glad Griseldis and Gisela and Gudrun taught you _some_ things," she gnarls ungraciously and ignores his pained whimper with that barb.

Out of patience, she grabs his hard-on, roughly pumping it a couple of times and pulling him towards her then and not two seconds later, they're finally at it. Ron is lying on top of her, and blimey he's heavy. He's moving slowly, 'tenderly' she'd call it under different circumstances, but tenderness seems totally uncalled for.

"Faster," she commands him, and he obeys, his hips hammer against hers and he nibbles on her ear, repeating over and over how much he loves her. She is in no humour to claim the same, and strictly speaking, she's in no humour for any of this. The only reason why she's panting occasionally is because she can hardly breathe. This whole thing simply doesn't work.

"Slower," she huffs and tries to push him off herself a bit. "More – I don't know…"

He does slow down, for approximately half a minute, and wets her ear, before going on exactly like before. "I love you, Hermoine – awww!"

His pushes double in intensity, and then he slackens on top of her, almost knocking her out by his sheer weight. She takes a few seconds to understand that this was it. He's finished – and half a minute later, he's beginning to snore.

"Hey!" She boxes him. "_Hey!_"

"I love you," he murmurs drowsily and moves his head so it almost chokes her. "I'm so happy you're here…"

"You're killing me!"

His answer is a monotonous, "I know I behaved badly – but I've changed…"

"No, you haven't! Hey! Get off me!"

He wakes up for five seconds to glide off her just far enough to give her a chance to breathe, and Hermione resolves to recover for another minute before she'll try once more to push him away, get dressed again and apparate home. She doesn't though – in the next minute, she's fast asleep, too.

She wakes up again because the sun is shining directly into her face, and _god_, her head is stuck in a vice! She's thirsty, and nauseated, and that feeling only increases once she's figured out where she is, and who's lying next to her. Oh, damn it!

He wakes up, too, beaming at her like a child at the Christmas tree. "It's so good to be with you again, Hermione!"

She tries to smile, but can't. For one, her headaches torment her, and also, she can't bring herself to feel the same kind of elation that Ron seems to feel. She stirs, realising that it's not only her head that's aching – her neck and back have suffered from the night on the sofa under Ron's bulk as well, and vanishes to the bathroom for a start. She drinks half a litre right from the tap, and a prolonged hot shower relieves the worst of her tense back muscles, too. As for the rest, she leaves the bathroom as miserable as she entered it.

Ron is still beaming at her, clinging to a cup of tea. She looks around, finding that he hasn't brought her one, and she shuffles to the kitchen, only to see that he hasn't brewed any more. 'Good start, Ronald,' she thinks, vexed, "excellent performance, I give you that!' When she comes back to the living room, Ron is still wearing the same, sappy grin, stating that he'll only need a shower to be ready visiting his parents.

"Oh, they'll be off their heads with joy!"

She rubs her temples. "I beg your pardon?"

"That we're together again! And Harry! Oh, and Ginny!"

"What about _my_ parents?" she gnarls ungraciously, but he doesn't seem to notice her tone.

"I reckon they'll be pleased, too," he says brightly. "My mum was inconsolable, you know… And my dad… And finally, Ginny can stop scoffing at me as well! I'm so happy, darling!"

Maybe it's her overwhelming headaches that keep her silent, because in fact, she's not nearly as satisfied as he seems to be with himself. This is… 'Meant to be,' she hears a familiar voice in her head, squeezing her eyes shut with another wave of nausea crashing down on her. So this is her life then – back with Ron. Ron, who wouldn't make her a tea as well when getting up. Ron, whose usual idea of foreplay consists of getting far enough into her clothes to shag her, unless he's in a particularly generous mood like last night. Ron, who thinks more of his family's reaction than her own forced smile on a morning like this. And right now, Parvati, beautiful Parvati, is bound to sit rested on a mountain of silk pillows, fed with grapes and have her every wish anticipated before she can even utter it.

She feels like crying, but Ron thinks it's her headaches still, and tells her he's got a potion in the bathroom, that she can fetch if she likes. Her vexation about this comment stops her tearing-up at least. She finds the potion and drains the whole vial, but it doesn't help her as much as it ought to. She's still sick. Her headaches are only fractionally better. And her depression gets actually worse, the clearer her head is to ponder.

Ron was serious – he does indeed mean to visit his parents, but she vehemently declines, and they settle for having breakfast for a start. Predictably enough, there's nothing edible in his apartment, so Hermione agrees to go to the Leaky Cauldron for a start, but as soon as entering the pub, she regrets that decision bitterly. At one of the tables, Draco and Parvati are sitting and Hermione's stomach makes a back-flip, but she can't back out again because Parvati has already seen her and waves with a broad smile. Draco turns around, too, and spotting Ron and her, a strange smile curls his lips for a second.

"Oh _no_," Ron sighs, but Parvati has already come over and urges them to sit down with them.

Hermione is squirming. "No, we'd rather –"

"Oh, come on, there's so much I got to tell you!"

There it is again, the sickness – Hermione would rather want to swallow Ron's Quidditch uniform (and after training, too!) than listen to Parvati's gushing about her latest conquest, but she can't come up with any excuse. So they sit down together, Ron automatically takes the place next to Parvati – he wouldn't voluntarily sit down next to Draco Malfoy, so that leaves Hermione on that seat. Well, on the bright side – she doesn't have to look into his face. Count your blessings, girl.

"What would you like to eat, darling?" Ron asks brightly and beams at her.

"Whatever. I could not care less."

The mere perspective of eating makes her sick, or maybe it's the situation. Ron gets up again, still smiling like an idiot, and pointedly ignoring Draco, he asks Parvati if she would like something as well, but she shakes her head and says they're already getting their order.

"You should have joined us yesterday," Parvati begins in that exuberant manner, but quickly adds, "Although I have the feeling that you employed your time _pretty_ well, too –"

Hermione tries to smile, but can only scowl lopsidedly.

"Anyway – I've got a surprise for you as well! You're not the only one that's been spoken for yesterday, Hermione!"

Hermione gives her best to smile, really, she does, but it's not getting her anywhere. She can smell Malfoy's scent – it drives her mad that even though she's not forced to see him, she can't help it but notice him still. And Parvati looks so happy, more radiantly pretty than ever! Hermione promptly gets back up and excuses herself for the bathroom, praying that Parvati has finished her tale until she comes back.

She sees her reflection in the mirror and a loud sigh escapes her chapped lips. Not that she could compare to Parvati on better days, but _today_ – she's pale, there are shadows under her eyes, her hair is frizzier than ever because of Ron's weird shampoo, and she's still wearing the robes she wore yesterday when meeting Parvati and Draco in the library. For a second, she contemplates to escape through the little bathroom window, but that'd only make things worse, wouldn't it… Also, the damned thing is too small for her to crawl through.

She'd like to stay in here forever, but she can't, and eventually, she thinks she's got to return, spotting yet another person sitting at their table. It's Theodore Nott, and in genuine surprise, just like relief to have an addition to their merry coupling party, she cries out, "Hey there, Theodore – what are _you_ doing here?"

"Well, that'd be _my_ excuse for being here," Malfoy mutters. "Theo and I were appointed to lunch together –"

"But that's what I was trying to tell you. We went to that party – I'm so glad I urged Draco to go, because he insisted on taking Theo, too, and –" Parvati grabs Nott's hand and shoots him a tender smile. "Well – the evening took some unexpected turns!"

It surely did! – Hermione cannot but gaze over to Malfoy, finding him smirk and pointedly avoiding looking at Ron opposite of him. So – Parvati is _not_ together with him – she's with Nott, for some mysterious reason best known to herself… – But this is – what the _hell_ – why – what –

"Now tell me about _your_ evening," Parvati cries and Ron opens his mouth for a reply.

Hermione is quicker though. "Well – excuse me – again – I've drunk far too much yesterday, I'm really – erm – sick – too much Firewhiskey, I reckon…"

"You really have no lucky hand with Firewhiskey, Granger," Malfoy says cuttingly. "You should stick to lighter stuff. Wine, perhaps."

Hermione can't endure to even _think_ of anything like alcohol! It makes her almost as sick as his implication; she groans and practically runs to the bathroom once more. As soon as she's locked herself up in one of the cubicles though, she realises her crucial mistake. She's left Ron to relate the tale, and knowing him, he's just now painting their 'reunion' in the rosiest colours, and she's not there to bridle him! She's half out of the cubicle but stops. 'Why are you so keen on stopping Ron…' she asks herself and gives herself the answer straight away, too – 'You don't want _him_ to hear it – but what difference does it make? Why is it so important what _he_ thinks – you've slept with Ron – so you're back with him, aren't you – what difference does it make now – and _he_ doesn't want you anyway, so…'

She washes her face, braces herself, goes back and – Malfoy's gone. She exhales silently. Parvati and Theo are holding hands and exchange amorous looks; Ron tries to do the same, but Hermione keeps her hands to herself and listens to Parvati absent-mindedly explaining that they're only here because Theo and Malfoy had been appointed here, and it was too late for sending an owl to cancel that appointment, 'since we couldn't get out of bed earlier'. That was also the reason why he had left again so quickly – he said he did not want to 'disturb' them. Hermione has heard him utter that phrase before (and that was when meeting Ron, too) and cringes slightly, and as soon as Theo goes over to the bar to fetch them more butterbeer, she cannot hold back.

"I thought you had wanted to pull Malfoy, Parvati?" she says quietly, seeing Ron gape, but shushing him up with a shake of her hand.

"Indeed!" Parvati sniggers. "But for a start – I think he's not into women." Ron's jaw drops some inches yet. "I tried _everything_ – but, nothing. No reaction whatsoever. I've never met a guy so totally disinterested in me." Hermione bites her lips to keep herself from grinning with happy stupefaction. "He practically fled from me and absolutely insisted that he'd be going nowhere without Theo. I thought 'what the heck, I can get rid of that one again later' – but as the evening went on… Isn't he sweet?"

She shoots a fond gaze over to the bar, and Ron gasps, "You wanted to get off with _Malfoy_? Seriously?"

"Don't look so shocked. He's handsome, he's charming, he's witty and nice – not as much as Theo, obviously, but hey – until yesterday evening, I didn't know _that_, right?"

Ron is beyond flabbergasted. "Handsome, charming, witty, nice – are you out of your head, Parvati?"

"_You_ could try taking some leaves out of his book, Ron. You want to be thankful that Hermione is such a generous creature, because I tell you one thing – most other girls would kick your butt."

He glowers at her but murmurs, "Little wonder he's charming if he's a nancy boy!"

"Oh, _shut up_," Hermione snipes. "He is no '_nancy boy_', and even if he _was_, that'd be nothing to make fun of! He's just lost his parents – I don't think you need being afraid you're losing your touch, Parvati, he's just upset!"

"Yeah, well, I'm glad he didn't get hooked, or I wouldn't have met Theo!"

"Did I just hear my name?" Theo has returned and distributes the bottles, smiling at his new girlfriend.

"You did indeed. I was just saying how happy I am that Draco bothered you until you agreed to accompany him, yesterday."

"Oh, so am I." He winks at her and turns to Hermione then. "Talking of reluctance – why didn't you come along? Malf told me you had meant to go?"

Hermione opens her mouth, but realises that her generic 'I had work to do' reply won't do, since she's spent the entire evening getting wasted in the Hog's Head. Luckily, she doesn't need to say anything at all, because Parvati bursts out laughing.

"She clearly had something else in mind for the evening, right?"

Hermione smirks, but deep down, she wants to beat herself up. Oh, if only she had gone to that sordid party as well! Or had stayed at home, at least! If only she hadn't got so sloshed that she followed _Ron_ home and – blast it! Blast it, blast it, blast it! And for _what_! To prove herself that there are guys who don't have to hide her from their parents? To pay Draco back for getting off with Parvati? Which he didn't do in the first place?

She feels pangs of guilt. Poor Ron. Yes, he's an idiot and all, but she knows that he hasn't been lying. He does want to get back with her, and he does love her, possibly. At least he believes so himself. And she? She used him! To make herself feel better! It's been a long time since she longed for him to change and come back to her – yesterday night, she no longer wanted this, that's one thing for sure! Oh Jesus – what's she done! And now Ron thinks they're together again, and – oh, what is she supposed to do now!

* * *

_Iuvenilis_… Juvenile ardour initially raves, but slackens just as easily and does not last.

* * *

**Author's note (and desperate call for help!) - **for a long time now, I notice that SOME formatting is never working out, namely when I want to use a "?" directly followed by a "!". I always, always lose the "!", and even when I go to the editing site to put it back in by hand, it gets lost with the next save. Now I am rather fond of my "?/!", and would like to get them back. Just now, I tried downloading Open Office even because it's the FFN-recommended program, but it STILL doesn't work. Can somebody please give me a tip, or tell me where I'm going wrong?


	207. Narcissa Casts The Nets

Narcissa's diplomatic skills might be thin on the ground, but her powers to intimidate are unrivalled even in death.

* * *

**– 4.80. –**

Narcissa Casts The Nets

* * *

_Come on, let's go find that spider. And let's find your mom to take care of that spider. Honey, we're in the living room. We need you to kill a spider._

_DR. ROSS JENNINGS – Arachnophobia _

* * *

Narcissa had always been fond of animals and death didn't make a difference there. She'd donated just as generously to save whales as she'd been bent on saving insect life. The house-elves in the Manor had been forbidden to kill rats and had instead spent _lots of_ time chasing after them to catch them and take them out into the forest then. Spiders had been among Narcissa's favourites; she admired their elegance and endurance to a degree that she had bought a cast of Louise Bourgeois' sculpture 'Maman' and given it a top spot in the gardens of Malfoy Manor.

_These_ beasts she was facing _now_ were giving her second thoughts though. How lucky she was dead already. Acromantula were admirable creatures if one merely studied them in a book; standing in the middle of their lair was a different story altogether even if one had the guarantee that they couldn't harm one. They came in all sizes, tiny like the average spider at home, slightly bigger like cellar spiders, then a variety between the sizes of rabbits to the size of an average pig, all quite manageable. The _others_ were of the worrisome sort; their king had a body as huge as an elephant bull, his sturdy legs were roughly twenty-five feet long and his pincers possessed the massiveness of steel tusks. Oh dear.

It had taken her a long time to find this nest. Since the downfall of the Dark order, the species had been hunted and they had hidden in the remotest corners of the primeval parts of the Forbidden Forest. Her capability to speak their language, once learnt out of boredom during Lucius' first imprisonment, had helped her much, and the longer she had searched, the more certain she had become that the idea in itself was a stroke of genius. That conviction was wavering as soon as finding her destination at last, until she realised that she had nothing to lose anyhow. They couldn't kill her, they couldn't really foil her plans either. The worst they could do was saying 'no' to her proposal.

Merlin knew how their leader might be called; Narcissa invariably used the honorary title 'Sultan' when addressing him, thought at first, a number of attempts attacking her had to be overcome. The minions tried to throw themselves at her, without success of course, until their boss deigned taking charge himself, and shot his silks at her. One of the threads went right through her midriff and she lightly stepped aside, with a shrug and a tilt of the head that showed mock regret. "I am so sorry, Sultan. This isn't going to work. I am a ghost, you see. You cannot catch me. You cannot harm me. You cannot eat me either."

"Worth a try!" some voice in the background piped up.

"Yes, of course. Well, go ahead. I think I can wait for that."

"What do you want from us, female!" the bull growled.

"I need your assistance, Sultan, plain and simple."

"Assistance!" the bull scoffed, clicking his pincers. "The last time some humans asked for our _assistance_, half the web was killed!"

"Oh, I don't think it's coming as bad as then. I really can't see any reason why any of you should _die_ during _this_ job!"

"We're not doing jobs for you, human! When you weren't a ghost yet, you stepped on our kind when you saw them!"

She smiled sweetly. "As a matter of fact, I did not. In my entire life, I not once killed a spider, and I'd be inconsolable if I'd have to start with that ghastly habit _now_."

More clicking all around her; the bull raised a leg and stabbed it at her, once more going right through – and quickly pulling back. Clearly, spiders couldn't endure the icy feeling either. "You're threatening us? _You?_" he roared. "As you said yourself, female – you are a ghost. We can't kill you. And you can't kill us!"

The smile broadened. "No, _I_ certainly can't. I have friends though."

"Friends who'd dare to take on an entire nest of Acromantula?"

"Oh, yes, indeed. You're one of their favourite meals, I believe. They go by the names Ziz, Rokh and Simurgh."

Name-dropping always helped with the simple-minded, and most of the spider plebs _was_ impressed, obviously. They all appeared to believe that she might have the power to summon these giant birds from mythology – because that was all there was to them. They were mythological. These spiders didn't know that for sure though. Their ancestors had come, by whatever chance or mishap, up to these cold Northern lands from Persia, and they were bound to have brought their legends with them. Since then, however, they had gotten out of touch with their erstwhile home and could only nurture stories of old, finding it increasingly hard from generation to generation to tell facts from fiction.

The bull felt very uncomfortable, too, though he held himself more dignifiedly than his offspring. "Ziz! Rokh! Simurgh! Why would they listen to _you_, eh?"

"Because I can speak their language. Just like I can speak yours, Sultan. Do you want me to prove it? I can call any of them right now –"

"No! No! That won't be – necessary..."

"Oh well. Do I have your attention, then? Yes?"

"We'll see," the bull gnarled and she saw he had retreated some steps. People had been scared of her in life, they were scared of her in death, too. Odd. In more than forty years, she'd never seriously hurt any creature.

"I want you to find a werewolf for me. He goes by the name of Fenrir Greyback. I guess you've heard of him."

"We've heard of _him_ alright. He's in hiding. How are we supposed to find him?"

"You've got your folks everywhere. Quite a bit of a network, isn't it? Pardon the pun. Anyway, I'm sure you'll have no trouble in finding him, wherever he may be taking cover."

"And assuming we did find him...?"

She couldn't have helped it, even if she had wanted to keep up her sweet smile. She scowled icily. "Then you'll let me know. You can have him, and all he's with, but let me talk to him first."

"What do you want from him?"

"He murdered my husband," she said simply.

"We can kill him straight away if you want your revenge."

"This isn't about revenge. Not in the first place. But he knows something – I hope – and I need to get that from him. What you do with him afterwards is none of my business."


	208. Friend In Need, Friend Indeed

Greg comes to England for a visit and Draco is much astonished by the changes in his friend.

* * *

**– 4.81. –**

Friend In Need, Friend Indeed

* * *

_A friend is one who knows you and loves you just the same. _

_ELBERT HUBBARD_

* * *

Every six or seven weeks, Greg came over for a fleeting visit from Okinawa, mostly a late afternoon during the week after training. The weekends were of course reserved for matches, and the Orcas had a strict training schedule under the week as well. Usually, he went straight to his parents first, and in case he stayed overnight (which he didn't do all that often), he later went out to meet his friends, Draco mostly, but during this one's gloomy summer, Greg hadn't dared to drop by since his visit straight after Lucius Malfoy's death. He didn't look like it, but he had delicate feelings and tact, and Draco had made it perfectly clear that he had no wish to see him, so he had waited for his friend to get back to him instead. How happy he had been to receive Draco's owl after all!

Draco was looking forwards to Greg's next visit just as much. In fact, he so eagerly anticipated it, _he_ went over to the Goyles' house an hour early and endured Mrs Goyle's awkward stabs at small-talk and some delicious cake until the man himself arrived home.

Greg was as happy with seeing his oldest friend as vice versa. Directly after hugging his mum and pecking a kiss on her cheek, he proceeded to hurl his huge ham-like arms around his mate's much more fragile frame, nearly knocking the air out of him.

"Greg!"

"Malf! So good to see you, mate!"

"Good to see you, too!"

They went straight up to Greg's room, that hadn't changed much since their time in school. There were still Quidditch paraphernalia on every bit of even surface, a huge Slytherin banner as the counterpane, and a poster of The Weird Sisters pasted onto the door. Greg hurled a huge bag of dirty linen into a corner, then threw a bottle of butterbeer over and opened his own.

"To you, Malf," he said ruefully. "I've been thinking of you a lot."

"To you, Greg. Missed you too."

They drank and Greg made a deep, whooshing sound. "Blimey, that's good! It's the only thing the Japanese kind of suck at. Their butterbeer is rotten, honestly. But what am I even babbling about! How are you?"

"Fine, fine –"

"No, I mean seriously!"

"I've been better yet, I guess," Draco mumbled vaguely.

"Mum wrote to me that your mum came back. Is that true?"

Draco nodded and related the whole, somewhat sad story. "And you know what's kind of _worst_?" he said at last. "I mean, it's _all_ absolutely horrible, and I seem to be the only one actually realising just _how_ terrible it all is, but then again..."

He swallowed and found he could not go on. Greg picked up from him though, "But still you're kind of happy that they're back, right?"

"Exactly!"

"I guess that's just normal, Draco. I mean – if I imagine something happening to _my_ parents, I'd be thrilled as hell if I could be with them again, too."

"But they're _ghosts_! You know what that's like. The Bloody Baron, or Myrtle, or the Grey Lady – did any of these ever strike you particularly happy? It's _miserable_ to be stuck here forever!"

Greg shrugged. "But they died miserable deaths." Draco arched his brow in disbelief at so unfeeling a remark, but his friend waved his hand and went on, "Hear me out, Malf. They died miserable, _lonely_ deaths, and that's just what they are – _lonely_. Your mum and dad aren't going to be lonely. They've got each other. For all I know of them, that's all they ever wanted, right?"

The essence of this statement was so poignant – Draco would go as far and call it 'profound' even – that he could merely goggle at his mate. Greg never was one for deep understanding. What had happened to him over there, eh? Did the Japanese lace their tap water with runespoor eggs and Wit-Sharpening Potion?

Draco politely inquired after the last match, and Greg all too willingly obliged him, spluttering with excitement. "Never played better though I say it myself! Each beat just hit home, no matter what I did! And even though I was so nervous! You'll never guess who came to the match!"

Greg was beaming so madly that Draco thought he had no difficulties to guess, indeed. "Some talent coach? For the National Team?"

"Bah!" Greg made an indifferent gesture as if he could hardly care less. "_Mil_ was there! Came all the way from Auckland!"

"Did she! Good for you!"

Greg blushed and looked away. "Well… She came for the match, not for me, after all –"

"Yeah, _right_. Because she's turned into such a big Quidditch aficionado all of a sudden!" Greg gave no reply and continued sucking on his butterbeer. Draco went on, "So how is old Mil?"

"Oh, she's excellent, I think. Having the time of her life, down there… And how she _looked_!" Dreamily, Greg turned his eyes to the ceiling.

Draco suppressed a smile. "So how did she?"

"Bloody fantastic! The tan suits her very well. And she's put on quite some muscles. Course she did – having to wrestle with those Abraxans all the time. _They_ got some power, aye!"

Draco tried to picture Mil being a little bulkier yet than she had been the last time they'd met, and failed. She'd _always_ had the air of someone capable to snap a man's spine single-handedly. It was an alarming thought. Perhaps she should consider a professional Quidditch career, too.

Greg's mentioning of Millicent gave him an idea though. "Tell me one thing, Greg… How did you do it? I mean, with Mil, and Theo then?"

His friend looked puzzled. "Did what?"

"How did you cope with that? Didn't it just kill you?"

Greg hesitated and played with the cork of his bottle. "Nah…" he muttered at last, and put on a forced grin. "I'm alive still, as you can see."

"No, I mean, seriously!"

"Well, she – she's too high for me anyway. Always knew that. I'm basically a numbskull –"

"Oh, come on! You're not!"

"I know I'm not very smart, Malf. But she – _she_ is. And Theo is. What's a girl like her supposed to do with a bloke like me, eh?"

Draco keenly took up on that cue. "Look at Granger and Weasel King. She's a genius and he's a total brickhead. Doesn't keep them from getting married."

"Oh, so they're back together?" Greg cried, always hungry for gossip.

"It would seem so," Draco snarled acerbically and drained the rest of his butterbeer only to do something. Well, Greg might not be the most intelligent man – but on occasion, he could be quite perceptive, and right now he shot his mate a quizzical look.

"And what's that to you?" he asked, hesitantly.

"To me? Nothing," Draco retorted instantly, quietly adding as an afterthought, "Really, it matters not…"

"You look as if it did matter, though…"

"Ph," was the only reply he could utter for the time being, but resolving to be candid with Greg at last, he groaned, "This remains between the two of us, right?"

"Sure!"

"There was… Well, I don't know how to put it… We had – we did –"

"'_We'_ – that's you and _Granger_? Is it?"

"Well, yeah… She… Don't even ask me how it came about..."

"I can't _believe_ it!" Greg cried, waving his hands in a gesture of utter bewilderment. "How – I mean – are you crazy? Did someone obliviate you? You _despised_ her. You couldn't bring yourself to say three nice words about her. All right, so you got along better since – but – no, I really don't get this. I don't get _her_ either! I'd thought she'd rather cruciate you than let you in her undies!"

Draco glared at his friend, but to no avail. Greg was too much all aflutter to even notice. "Nice to see you're so well entertained, Greg," he remarked sourly.

"Sorry – you were saying –"

"Well, that's it! Not much else to say!"

"Come on! You've got to explain this one to me, Malf. Don't let me hanging. You can't drop a Howler like this and not explain to me how it could even come to this!"

"What's to explain?"

"How _could_ this happen?"

"Well, she dropped by the Manor one day to see how I was –"

"And you didn't have her kicked out," Greg said, sounding a bit hurt. He probably remembered what had happened when he had tried to do the same.

"Gosh, I would have. But she's clever; she brought a house-elf who's a close relative of our Elsy, paving the way for her to make it into the house for a start –"

"Smart."

"Yeah. She _is_ damned smart. Anyhow, she's also damned persistent. _You_ would leave if I asked you. She simply didn't." He smiled with the recollection, smacking his lips. "So, first she talked me into going out for a beer –"

"Talking of which," Greg threw in, got up and returned with a large bottle of sake. "This definitely calls for something stronger than butterbeer!"

He conjured two glasses out of thin air, puzzling Draco who couldn't remember to have ever seen him perform such a spell without messing it up at some point, and poured them each a good measure.

"To gutsy Granger," Greg said solemnly and they toasted. "Now go on."

"After that, I somehow invited her to come back to the Manor with me, we drank some more, and... Oh well, then I just set my mind on seducing her –"

"No way!" Greg gasped. "I mean – I hadn't the foggiest you had a thing for her!"

"I wasn't aware of that either," Draco answered wryly and decided he could just as well come clean all the way. After all, he'd never talked about any of this to anybody, and found it strangely relieving. "Remember the graduation party – course you do, sorry – anyway… Back then, after you lot all ran off, I came across Granger. And somehow – I don't know, it just happened. She was mad with Weasel Bee for some reason, and I think she wanted to get back on him. Or prove herself something. I don't know. We just snogged around a bit, nothing much, but…"

"But?" Greg asked, breathless. Yes, he did love a bit of gossip, he really did!

"I was quite gobsmacked to see that I found her rather cute. Nothing else, mind you, at that point I hadn't – I didn't... But when she was sitting in our Amber Parlour that night, a bit tipsy, anyway laid-back, I suddenly found her _quite_ sexy and I was absolutely smitten to – to –"

"Shag her?" Greg suggested and Draco twisted his face.

"No!" he cried. "Well, _yes_, in a way, but I wouldn't call it that."

"What _would_ you call it?"

'Make love to her' Draco thought and sighed, still fishing for a less corny figure of speech. "However – we _did_ end up in bed together, and it was just – just – it blew my mind." Greg got a giggling fit that took him a while to battle down again, and gave Draco enough time to sort out his narration. "You're an arse, you know that, Goyle? _And_ you've got a filthy, filthy imagination!"

Greg looked only a little bashful and bit his lip to keep himself from bursting out again. With a scowl, Draco continued, "_However_ – it was _the_ most incredible experience, and I somehow managed to – to persuade her that we met again, and – to make it short – we had a bit of – of a fling, one may call it, I s'pose… She was really great, stood by me the entire time when my mum was so ill and I really didn't know where my _head_ was and all that. She even saw me through her funeral, can you believe it? Hell of a great person... And now she's back with the Weasel. End of story," he briskly finished and took a big swig of sake.

"So Granger's really good in bed then?"

"Oh, shut up!" he cried and threw a jinx at Greg who ducked it lithely and laughed.

"Watch it, Malf, could have hit me there. I'm just wondering! She's not really the type, is she? She's always so – well, you know."

"She's wonderful! She's such an amazing person!"

"And a good shag?"

"_Shut up_, Greg! I mean it!"

"So she isn't?"

"I'm sorry I ever mentioned any of this! How would you like it if I spoke like this of Millicent, eh?"

"_You_ wouldn't like it, Malf, you wouldn't like it one bit, because I'd break your bones," Greg replied gravely and winked at him. "Oh, come on, now, don't give me that look. Just joshing you. As you know, _my_ whole love life is lived vicariously, so I just crave some juicy bits here and there."

Once again, Draco was honestly astonished, thinking of how a word like 'vicariously' had permeated Greg's vocabulary and that he'd actually use it correctly, too. He also grasped that his friend had really meant no offence; this wasn't like him anyway. As big and oafish as he might appear to an outsider, as kind at heart and diffident he actually was.

Also, this remark reminded him of something! "Well, let's see for how much longer, mate!" he began roguishly. "You can finally stop beating yourself up. Theo's got himself a new girlfriend."

Greg's face was all hesitant hopefulness. "Has he?"

"And brace yourself, because you'll never guess _who_!"

"Who?"

Draco pursed his lips suggestively. "He came home for Halloween, to visit his old man… And I'd been shanghaied to go to some silly Halloween party and practically forced him to accompany me – I reckon though he no longer minds I bothered him so badly."

"And…?"

Tongue-in-cheek, Draco told him the unfathomable. "Old Theo pulled one of the Patil sisters. Can you _believe_ it!"

No, Greg did not believe it, but he did appreciate a piece of good gossip if he found it! The Patil sisters were, and there could not possibly be two opinions on it, the hottest females of their age; there couldn't be a man between 15 and 35 at a loss just _how_ gorgeous they were. And Theo, not exactly a Myron Wagtail himself, had got off with one of them, indeed. Consequently, Greg no longer needed to feel like a jerk for loving Theo's ex-girlfriend and the relief was written all over his broad forehead.

"Does Mil know?" he asked, a tad unexpectedly.

"No idea."

"I met her, you know?"

"You said, yeah."

"Came up all the way from Auckland."

"I _heard_."

"Coach Taifune says I ought to come clean with her. Says my mental blockages were hindering my flying and that I could never develop my full potential as long as my Qì is blocked."

Okay now, so this was positively spooky. Greg's _Qì_? That coach had something to account for, honestly!

"So why don't you? Come clean with her?" Draco asked just to say something, because frankly, he was still trying to figure out this thoroughly unanticipated new side in his mate.

"Nothing to be said, is there?"

"You could tell her that you're in love with her, mate. That'd be something of a start at least."

"Did _you_?"

"What?"

"Tell Granger?"

"Tell her _what_?"

"Tell her that you're in love with her."

Draco stared at his best friend. "I'm not in love with her, for heaven's sake, Greg!"

Greg raised his brows in a mocking fashion, a mien in fact quite similar to Draco in such a moment. "Sounds as if you were though."

"What makes you say _that_?"

"The way you talk about her! You're crazy for the woman! Don't ask me why because I don't quite get it, but you clearly are!"

"Rubbish!"

Greg patiently shook his head and poured them some more sake. "How long do we know each other now, Draco? I _know_ you. Saw you with your girlfriends, too. Never, not once, were you only half – nay, a _tenth_! – as smitten with any of them as you're now talking about Granger."

"What did I say, then?" Draco cried with wide eyes, absolutely nonplussed and feeling a disconcerting bout of dizziness coming over him.

"Oh, I don't know. How wonderful she is –"

"I said the same about Susan, didn't I!"

"Yeah, but always in that apologetic manner. 'Susan's wonderful BUT...' About Granger though, you're _gushing_ –"

"Am not!"

"I'm telling you, you _are_. 'She's so wonderful, she's so amazing, don't you make a crack about her Greg because she's really just so _wonderful_,' and all the time, you look at me like a demented house-elf who swallowed an overdose of Befuddlement Draught!"

Draco was speechless with that accusation and drank the whole glass of sake in one big gulp, exacerbating the dizziness, and some weird fuzzy feeling in his guts got worse, too. "Rubbish," he repeated under his breath, but neither as forceful nor as convinced as before. The big old oaf just didn't know what he was _talking_ about, did he?

"It's all rubbish anyway," he gnarled after all, freshening up his drink on his own for once. "She's back with the Weasel, that obnoxious little berk!"

"That sucks."

"He's such a jerk! How can she throw herself away like that! He is _so_ beneath her!"

Greg helplessly lifted his shoulders, affectionately nudged his friend and beckoned at their glasses. "Come on, then, Malf. Then let's at least get wasted. To all the lovely ladies who are not in love with _us_."

Draco raised his glass as well. "_Yet_, in your case, Greg, if she isn't already –"

"Ph!"

"Six more months with that clever coach of yours, I say, and you'll sweep that woman off her feet!" He took a sip. "What about that guy anyway?"

"The guy's a she, for a start," Greg elaborated with a fond smile. "Used to be our Seeker coach until Coach Kurosawa was hit squarely in the chest with a Forgetfulness Hex by an opposite fan after our defeat of the Ulan Bataar Banshees. He's still recuperating; by now he can write his name again and recognises most family members. Anyway, Coach Taifune stepped in for him for the interim, and among the two of us, I'd really like her to stay. She's _ancient_, like a hundred and fifty or something, and _tiny_, too. No more than four foot five I'd say. In her youth, she lived in a Zen cloister, until she was discovered by a talent seeker, then played as a Seeker for the Fujiyama Seven for twenty years –"

"Oh, _that_ Taifune!" Draco cried. He'd never been that much into Quidditch, at least if one compared him to his roommates, but surely he'd heard of the legendary Taifune – never lost a single match, until she out of the blue decided to chuck it in and hang her broom up forever. "Always wondered what'd become of her!"

"You're serious?"

"Sure! I'd _really_ wondered what'd become of her. I mean –"

"No, about that thing with Mil. That she... You know, that I might – mmh – give it another try, perhaps – in time, of course, in time!"

"Yep, I was definitely serious on that head. Look at it, Greg. _She_ _came up all the way from Auckland_, bloody hell!"

His friend's cheeks turned pink and a befuddled smile curled his lips. "She did!"

"She _did_," echoed Draco, and for a moment there, he truly envied his mate.

They sipped their drinks in silence for a while, then Greg amicably elbowed his friend. "Tell me more about her. About Granger, I mean."

Draco smiled despite himself. "Nah, rather not. You can't take your mind out of the gutter for five minutes."

"I swear I won't say a word. Come on. Tell me the secret how Granger of all people would manage to win you over. I'm dying to hear it!"

And so this was what Draco did, with increasing relish. He'd never talked about her to anybody, and now that he did, he realised how dearly he'd like to, and how very strangely talking of her made his guts churn. Greg kept his promise and listened quietly (if occasionally with a very knowing smirk), until he cried at last, "I told you, Malf! You're madly in love with the girl."


	209. Woes And Pleasures

Quidditch is a sort of sports for _everyone_.

* * *

**– 4.82. –**

Woes And Pleasures Of Competitive Sports

* * *

_It is always incomprehensible to a man that a woman should refuse an offer of marriage._

_JANE AUSTEN – Emma _

* * *

In this vein, some kind of routine returned to the Manor. All other feelings aside, Draco does consider himself lucky in one so far unthought-of respect: after his return, Lucius has resumed to see after the family's businesses and the household's demands. The house-elves want instructions, and apparently 'do it like you did it for my parents' hadn't sufficed in half of the cases. He had received twenty owls from his father's office, and another dozen from the Law Wizards administering the family fortune and everything else – and Draco still doesn't even know what these people are doing, actually. He even received a letter from some muggle authority, informing him about some kind of construction work in the neighbourhood of the boundaries, somewhere on the other side of the forest. What is he supposed to do about these things?

Well, Lucius knows, of course, and took care of matters as if he had merely been on holiday. He agreed with his son in this respect – Draco wasn't up for administering the family fortune, or anything else in this respect. Like his mother, he had never shown the slightest interest in business matters, and had merely started to study Wizard Law to do his father a favour, like Lucius had done for Abraxas then. But perhaps unlike the latter, Lucius loved his son indeed, and regarding the situation, he thought it both more prudent, and an act of kindness to spare his child the same fate. To Lucius himself, these things had become so automatic, so much a part of his everyday life – he sort of enjoyed looking after them in death, too, it gave him the illusion to be useful still. Like this, Draco could try find something he truly cared for, a career in Quidditch maybe, or study literature like his mother had…

Draco is delighted by his father's generosity, although he has no better idea what to do with his life – yet. However, he appreciates the liberty to choose. For a start, he followed his mum's express wishes and returned to school, even though it is the most awkward business. He has half of his courses with _her_, which is no good as far as his concentration is concerned, and he _needs_ to bloody concentrate because he missed six weeks of classes.

At least, so he prides himself, he manages to handle this matter discretely and keep up the pretence. _Not_ talking to her clearly isn't an option if he wants to keep his feelings to himself – she's smart, she might just figure him out otherwise. So they do talk when the occasion requires it; every now and then he even brings off some scrap of wit. Most of the time though, he congratulates himself if he was able not to make a complete arse out of himself, because her presence unsettles him exceedingly, much as he yearns for it at the same time.

She's just so lovely, isn't she? Because Greg, darn it, was right. The longer he thinks about it, the more Draco realises just _how_ right his mate is in that quarter. He's head over heels in love with the girl, and the notion in itself is enough to overtax him utterly.

This is love, then? He wondered so often what it is, what it would feel like – and now he knows, and isn't sure if he wasn't better off before. Ignorance is quite painless. _Love_ is not. Not in his case, anyhow. And in most other cases neither, right? Love has made his dad forfeit afterlife. Love has killed his mum, and made her come back, too, to a future without any prospects worth that name. Love for lost ones has dug deep lines of woe in Aunt Andy's face and made her eyes turn melancholic. Love has made Professor Snape suffer for all his life. Disappointed love has driven _her_ into Draco's arms, too. It's driven Mil out of the country, it's made Theo sullen and Greg… They don't say 'lovesick' for nothing, do they!

And 'lovesick' quite matches Draco's condition as well. Whenever he sees her, he feels some surge of emotion rippling through his entire body, his heart is in his boots, his insides are revolving, and his head feels light like a helium-filled balloon. To catch a glimpse of those big, deep, dark eyes! To hear her crisp voice saying all these awfully clever things! To sometimes see her smile – not at him though, but that doesn't make her smile any less enchanting! He _relishes_ to be near her, but at the same time it makes him feel his loss all the more acutely.

He's never liked Weasley. Not one bit. But that there'd come the day for him to feel envious of the Weasel! Envious – pah. _Jealous_. He won't deny it. Why should he, anyway. At least with himself he can be honest. Oh, how he _hates_ the guy! He doesn't deserve her! He's such a stupid moron! And how he treated her all that time! But on that head, Draco is sorely aware that he ought not to open his mouth. He abused her for _years_, and worse than Weasley! Still – what does she want with such an idiot? _She_ is bright and knowledgeable and smart, so smart – what do they even talk about? Weasley bores her to death with Quidditch stories, and then?

Talking of Quidditch – unlikely as it would appear, Draco's mother has all of a sudden discovered her interest in that form of sport. Well, 'interest' is perhaps overstating the matter. Being a ghost is a peculiar state indeed. One needs no more sleep, for example, and can change one's appearance at will. Lucius still does this; it's a habit that death didn't rid him of. He would change his 'robes' according to the occasion, even though it's nothing but an optical illusion. Narcissa's vanity on the other hand had never been one for appearances and she only changed when she believed that Lucius would be pleased.

Another feature hard to accustom to was the incapability to physically move things. Yes, there was the possibility to affect air, or water, but anything more solid was beyond the capacities of a ghost. In this respect though, they were both incredibly lucky. They had a small army of house-elves ready at their service, to turn the pages for Narcissa while she was reading, or to write down the letters that Lucius dictated. Elsy and Ziggy, the two servants primarily engaged to these services, considered themselves blessed. For a house-elf, the notion to be indispensable was the highest gratification.

Yes, they had _ample_ of time at their hands – eternity, if one was precise – and being dead delivered them of a whole lot of other nuisances. No courtesy visits, no cumbersome guests; Lucius only attended special meetings. And they were inseparable. After his death, Narcissa had been torn by the idea how much time she had _not_ spent with him – when he had been in the office, or worked on his papers in the study, when she had sat in the library, or worked in the greenhouses… In death now, she didn't part with him again. She accompanied him when he attended a meeting, she hovered next to him in patience when he dictated business letters – she even told him that he was free to go and see as many Quidditch matches as he liked, because she would gladly come with him. Lucius didn't quite believe her, or rather – he didn't want to bother her with something she cared for so little. Narcissa insisted though, asked their son which matches might be particularly worth watching and if he could procure tickets so they'd have a box to themselves (death hadn't changed much about her reservations towards strangers, not to speak of sports fans crowds).

The boy meticulously obeyed, and in only two weeks, Narcissa came to see as many games as she had watched in her entire lifetime. They started on Wednesday night with The Tuthill Tornados versus Puddlemere United, followed the next Saturday by the Bigonville Bombers versus Toyohashi Tengu (Narcissa did find it quite interesting indeed – she had come to find that she liked the game a whole lot more when no one she knew and loved was involved and risked breaking their neck), and finally, another match for the European Club Championship between the Chudley Cannons and Quiberon Quafflepunchers. Draco had accompanied his parents to the first two games, but showed no inclination to join them for the third.

"Why not, darling? Didn't you say it was going to be quite good?"

Lucius observed his son carefully; unlike his wife, he had a thorough knowledge of Quidditch and knew about the line-ups of the respective British teams. But Draco merely shrugged. "I'd rather not go, Mum. But you go, if you like. I believe it might be worth it."

"So why don't you want to see it?" Lucius asked smoothly, not drawing his gaze away.

"Just – I'm just not in the mood for it. Seen enough Quidditch in the last week, didn't I, and I –"

"You wouldn't be flinching away from Arthur Weasley's son, Draco, would you…?"

Draco made a little movement, but recomposed his face into an unwitting grimace. "Nonsense, Dad. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh!" Narcissa called out, understanding at last. She looked pitying. "Of course, mon trésor, you mustn't come if you feel so bad about this!"

He gave her an unnerved look. "Mum!"

"Did I say something?"

"So you _are_ avoiding the Weasley boy? Oh, for Salazar's sake, son!"

"Get off it, both of you! I don't want to go, and that's it."

Lucius found it unacceptable that _his son_ would be so discomposed by the son of _Arthur Weasley_, and decided that he wouldn't have it. He even managed to convince his wife – who couldn't care less about Arthur Weasley, or anybody related to him, and was thoroughly sympathetic to her son's concerns – that it would be best to take Draco along, as a sort of cataclysmic experience. Draco didn't stand much of a chance against the united forces of both of his parents' power of persuasion, and sulking, submitted to them in the end.

What the heck. Why shouldn't he watch Weasley play – maybe he'll be lucky, and the idiot will make an even bigger idiot of himself in front of two thousand spectators? He might even fall off his broom and break something. Ah, bah, one must not hang one's hopes too high… _She_ cares as little for Quidditch as his mum did in life, she's unlikely to come, right? Right. Most of all, he really isn't in the mood to discuss this any longer with either his father or his mum, Merlin's beard!

Course he isn't lucky. _Of course not_. They haven't quite entered the stadium when Draco hears his mother whisper, "Now I don't want to hear a single _word_ from you, Lucius!"

She spotted his sunshine sooner than he had – well, she needn't watch her steps on the stairs, after all. A few seconds later, he is standing right before _her_, Gingerhead and Potter. The latter two make their best attempts on a polite expression, but only manage a lopsided smirk, gazing at the ghosts. _Her_ eyes alternate between Draco and his parents, looking deadly embarrassed.

"Hey –"

He. Can. Do. This. _Of course he can!_ All the more in front of his father! "Good day, Granger." He inclines his head. "Weasley – Potter."

Those two affect something like a nod, and Granger splutters, "So you've come to see the match, too?"

"No, we've come for the hot-dogs," Lucius drawls but masters an unenthusiastic smile when Narcissa presses his wrist.

"Yes, the match," Draco says, praying he isn't blushing as badly as her. "My mother has started to take an interest in Quidditch after all –"

"Speaking of hot-dogs. I'm hungry," Ginny Weasley mutters and pulls her boyfriend away. "We'll get you one, too, Hermione!"

She and Potter continue their way downstairs, clearly glad to get away, and Draco isn't less relieved. This is all awkward enough without those two butting in. Too bad his parents are still there. Or not.

"So you, too, started to enjoy the game?" he asks, thinking for a second he is making polite small talk, but realising that he really doesn't want to hear the obvious answer. She's come to watch her boyfriend play, not because she had become a sports person all of a sudden!

"Enjoy the game – no. No, really not. But Harry got those tickets, and he and Ginny practically dragged me here…"

He makes half a nod. "I see. My parents did the same with me."

"Seeing the company, we shouldn't have though," Lucius gnarls ungraciously and Draco squeezes his eyes shut for a split second.

"I think the company is excellent," he snarls deadly.

"Chéri," Narcissa stops her husband from replying and shows her sweetest smile. "I think we should look for our seats, don't you think? – Miss Granger – you must excuse us, please."

Draco's father doesn't have it in him to defy his wife and follows her, but not without shooting a last, stern look at the two youngsters. Draco isn't sure if he ought to exhale or start getting _really_ tense, and murmurs, "I'm sorry about this –"

"Oh, but why? Nothing's changed. Your father hates the mudblood and your mother can't get away from me quickly enough. I think it's a comfort to see that they've been able to pick up where they left off."

She looks sour, and he can't endure it. "Look, I'm _sorry_ –"

"I know you are."

"And my _mum_ didn't want to get away from you – she merely tried to keep my dad quiet!"

She gives a little laugh. "Yes. Anyway. I should get going. And so should you."

"Yes… Enjoy the game."

Now she laughs for real, if not exactly merrily. "Well, I don't think so. But how long can it last, after all. An hour, or two, and I can go home again."

"Well, this is a top league match – it can last for days if you're unlucky. Still, I think you might like it. Even my mother seems to start enjoying sports, and she loathed Quidditch when she was alive still."

"Maybe I like it better once I'm dead, too. Or maybe I'll die of boredom. As it is, I foresee a couple of hours of that."

"You can still amuse yourself and ogle your fiancé."

He didn't mean to sound so snappish, and predictably, she narrows her eyes in irritation. "Ron _isn't_ –"

"Well, what isn't yet may well still be," he interrupts her. He hates the idea of discussing the state of her relationship with Weasel King with her. "I think your friends are waiting for you. See you later, perhaps."

She opens her mouth, but shuts it again, seemingly annoyed, and raises her hand for a faint wave. "Yeah."

"Yeah."

In the top box which they had all to themselves as usually, Lucius and Narcissa had indeed found their seats – not that they needed them – and Narcissa tried to placate her husband. "The remark about the company wasn't very nice, my darling."

"And that coming from _you_! I think the last I heard _you_ say on that head was how outraged you were to think that this impertinent person is engaged to one man and sleeping with another!"

"Well, that _is_ outrageous, all the more since the _other_ is our own son! But really, Lucius, you must not embarrass Draco in front of that girl."

A subtle grin spread on his features. "Oh, as far as the level of embarrassment was concerned, I believe she beat him to the draw."

Narcissa didn't know whether she should laugh or reprimand him; he was right after all. She, too, had seen parts of the little Miss that she rather forget. And the blunt reminder that her son _was_ an adult – 'sexually active' they called it, yes? – still didn't sit well with her either. Here was one memory that she hoped to forget in the course of time – she didn't fancy remembering it in all eternity, although she'd be the first to admit that it became funnier the longer she thought about it.

Of course; she wasn't naïve – she had been aware of the fact that Draco and his respective girlfriends had – uhm – had intercourse. But supposing was one thing and seeing for a fact another. What riled her most was the fact that this particular girl was involved with another man, and Narcissa didn't care three straws what an idiot that other man might be or how good the girl's reasons to cheat on him. She had never thought of herself as conservative; now she noticed she was, because she did think that the one girl that'd once marry her darling should never have been with any other man. Yes, it was a ridiculous nineteenth-century-notion, she knew that herself, thank you very much.

Quite tartly, she snarled, "Well, she's got every reason to be embarrassed around us, hasn't she?"

"There you go. How can you expect me to be polite to that person?"

"Mon amour, when will you finally learn that your son is as stubborn as his father? The more you embarrass the unfortunate girl in front of him, the more he will stick up for her. Just leave them be!"

"But Cissa, what if –"

"Yes, indeed, _what if?_ I don't understand what you are so afraid of, honey."

Lucius tried to keep his voice calm. "What I'm afraid of? That the silly girl might still see the light and realise that it's better to attach herself to a Malfoy than to a Weasley!"

"_That_ would be unfortunate indeed," Narcissa answered equally quiet. "I would hate the idea of Draco finding a girl so calculating in her affection!"

"It's not funny, ma belle!"

"I agree it isn't. My poor baby!"

"The _poor baby_ is about to compromise almost _two_ _thousand_ _years_ of purest ancestry!"

She sniggered and entwined their hands tenderly. "Lucius, Lucius, if I didn't know better, I'd get the impression that you were less worried about your only child's happiness than about some tapestry in the drawing room!"

"Cissa!"

"_You_ insisted he should come along today, my love. _You_ told him not to shrink back from Arthur Weasley's youngest. I'm afraid you'll have to play along now." She smiled at him brilliantly. "Don't look like that, chéri. It's going to be fine, I'm certain."

"How can you be so sure of this?"

"Because I know our son, mon amour. He's very sensible." As an afterthought, she added, "And proud."

She had meant that Draco wouldn't lower himself and take someone else's woman, but Lucius mistook her completely. "If he was truly proud, he'd never have gotten involved with a m-" He bit his lip. "With the daughter of some muggles."

"Oh, please Lucius, the record's long broken, don't you think?"

He opened his mouth for a reply, but in this moment, Draco arrived at last, looking rather put out. Yes, Lucius thought to himself, his beloved was surely right, as usually. It was going to be all right, judging his son's dour expression. He would get over this little infatuation, and go on, and…

The boy didn't remain seated for five minutes though. He had looked around and spotted the Granger girl, together with her entourage on the stand opposite of their own. Lucius had spotted them even earlier, and tried to distract Draco by chit-chatting, but his efforts remained futile. Simulating headaches, their son excused himself and left. On a second thought, Lucius feared that he wasn't even simulating. His own head started to ache, too, at any rate.

"Don't look like that, my love," Narcissa said and patted his hand.

"What does he _see _in that girl! I don't get this!"

"Well, I guess she _is_ smart, kind possibly, and undoubtedly courageous –"

"Ah, bah! Smart, kind, courageous! Don't you try talking me into approving of that person!"

"I'm not trying anything of the sort. _I_ don't approve of her – how could she do such a thing? Wear one young man's ring, and –" She shook her head. "But Draco does like her, and therefore, we should treat her decently. She's helped him through a very, very hard time. We're obliged to her, you know?"

Lucius' only answer was a strained groan. He tilted his head and stared over to the other side where the girl was sitting. "I don't get it," he muttered after some minutes. "I just don't get it."

"And that coming from _you_!" Narcissa cried. Seeing his unwitting face, she elaborated, "Oh, come on, honey. _You_ have been going out with every nonsensical girl coming your way."

He looked scandalised. "Cissa! You _know_ I never cared for a single one of them! I never cared for anybody but you!"

She bent over and kissed him on the cheek. "Yes, I know. My point was simply that if he takes after his father, it's not saying much that he's been with that girl."

She had spoken jocundly and he relaxed. "I only went out with pretty girls though. Silly, all of them, but pretty."

"Beauty's in the eye of the beholder, my love. Also – this girl might be anything, but she's surely not silly. That's the catch in this case, don't you think? She couldn't have supported him if she were silly. Besides… She's got a good face –"

"No, she hasn't. She looks like everyone and their mother."

"She's got really beautiful eyes." Narcissa went on regardless, stifling a snigger.

"_You_ have beautiful eyes, angel!"

"I take it that in _your_ mind, no woman has as beautiful eyes as me?"

"Obviously! No one could remotely equal you, or your eyes, or any of your other features!"

She winked at him and replied coyly, "Why, thank you! I can only return the compliment!"

For a while, they remained like that, their misty foreheads touching, lost in each others' eyes. If nothing else, dying and turning into ghosts had this one astounding, indescribable effect that neither had ever been able to feel that _close_ to the other one. Consequently, Lucius could sense when his wife's thoughts were trailing away and back to the young woman in the stand opposite of theirs.

"What is it?" he asked her wryly.

"Just an idea... Come on!"

"What?"

"Let's take advantage of being insubstantial, honey," she oracled playfully and seized his hand.

Nonplussed, he followed her (this time, they didn't even pretend to take the stairs, but glided through the structure straightaway), finding she furtively led him onto the other side and up, until they were hovering just underneath the seats of the spectators.

"Wha-"

"Shhh, mon amour," she whispered and put a finger on his lips. "Let's hear what they're saying!"

The Granger girl didn't say anything, but instead, they heard Potter and the Weasley girl talking under their breaths, and it took a ghost's over-acute sense of hearing to make out anything at all within all the ruckus surrounding them.

"... got to tell her, Gin," Potter whispered urgently. "Remember last time?"

"But this is different!"

"The hell it is!"

"It _is_ different, Harry!" the girl insisted. "They're back together, and just think how romantic –"

"She might not find it all that _romantic_ being proposed to within a Quidditch arena in the middle of two thousand spectators!"

Narcissa gasped, whereas Lucius could barely contain his laughter.

"_I_ would find that _pretty_ romantic," the Weasley girl now said, but Narcissa couldn't tell if she was in a huff or speaking facetiously.

"But you _know_ her! I'm telling you she'd _hate_ it, and they're really not back together again long enough for him to risk it all!"

The girl remained quiet for a minute. Lucius and Narcissa strained themselves to hear better, but apparently, she was truly silent, until Potter continued, "Let's just tell him to call it off, Gin. _Really_. We can't let him – both of them! – walk right into this!"

"He won't listen to us."

"He better will. He's serious this time –"

"He was serious the last time as well!"

"Yes – no – oh, you know what I mean! I think he really understood something, and he doesn't want to blow it this time around!"

"So what shall we do?"

"Five more minutes until the kickoff. We might just make it down to the locker room –"

"They'll never let us in there, though!"

"Worth a try," Potter gnarled, and judging by the sounds, got up. "I'm damned _Harry Potter_ after all." And then, louder, "Hey, Hermione! We'll be back in a sec!"

"But where are you going? The match's about to start any second now!"

"Don't worry, we'll make it."

Lucius and Narcissa gazed at each other in silence, intrigue all written over their faces, before making their way back to their own stand.

"Now what do you make of _that_," Narcissa wondered when they were safely out of earshot.

"What a disaster," Lucius moaned with a fierce headshake. He was clearly taken aback by the girl's alleged lack of enthusiasm.

"Honey?" Narcissa asked tentatively, and if ghosts had such problems, she'd have believed he had the toothache.

"Why can't she just accept?" Lucius wimpered. "They're _perfect_ for each other!"

She bit down a smile at her husband's pained sight, but privately, she was genuinely – and surprisingly – relieved. She sensed that Draco would have taken it very badly if the girl had agreed to marry Arthur's son – anybody's son, really. Compared to Draco's possible grief, Lucius' kind of concern was a piece of cake. She linked arms with him, and not bothering to take the stairs once more, they slowly hovered to the ground.

"Darling, you look as if _you_ had been turned down," she tried anew when they had reached their own stand. Lucius, finding his worst misgivings confirmed, was quietly whimpering. She tightened her grip on his arm. "It's going to be all right, honey, I am sure."

"I'm ready to fall on my knees and _beg_, Cissa," he moaned. "Beg him to get that girl out of his head! Oh, he'll get the wrong end of _that_ stick, I bet you anything! Because refusing to marry one bloke doesn't automatically mean she wants the other, right?"

"Exactly. That's why I don't understand your anxiety, mon amour. This means nothing – so far."

He turned his head to her so swiftly that he would have gotten whiplash, if that had been possible. "We must not tell him!"

"Be sensible, precious!"

"I am! He must not hear of this! – It'd only raise unreasonable hopes, wouldn't it!"

"You are the only one _unreasonable_ here, Lucius!"

"It's only a little infatuation, after all! We should do nothing to kindle it."

Narcissa looked pensive. "You do have a point there, my love. I feel little inclination to meddle with our son's – erm – _affairs_. He was right; he _is_ grown up now. He'll manage handling this on his own, without our interference."

"Exactly," Lucius sighed in genuine relief and stopped to kiss her. "You're absolutely right, as always, ma belle, and I –"

It would forever remain unclear what he was going to say next, because they were drastically interrupted by the sudden Apparition of Elsy, who looked battered and like she was on the verge of swooning.

"My Lady!" she screeched, "My Lord! Egregious! _Terrible!_ They just came – and –" She clearly forced herself to lower her voice for discretion, though this was absolutely unnecessary in all the noise of the match that had kicked off some seconds ago. "They just came for the master and took the master away!"

"WHAT?" Lucius and Narcissa cried in unison. "What? Who? What?"

"Two Aurors, M'lady, going by the names of Egg and Oakby!"

"But what – why would they –"

"They arrested the poor dear young master," Elsy concluded miserably and hung her head, "for thirty-six charges of murder, they said."

Nobody, no scientist nor historian, would ever have believed it possible, and for all they could say, it had not occurred ever before, but fact was that ghosts _can_ faint, which is what Narcissa Malfoy's ghost did in just that second. She fainted, fell over and sank through the seating – the rigging – but could luckily be caught by her husband before she would hit and sink into the surface of the earth, too.

* * *

**Author's note:** So, folks, here we are - here I am REALLY going into hiatus. What comes now takes an awful lot of VERY cautious plotting and editing, and I am not going to publish any new chapter before I haven't sorted out all my diffferent strands of plotting, because traditionally, I'm bound to forget to insert vital details before I'm not completely done. However, I promise I'll get back to you asap. Thanks for reading, and triple-thanks to everyone leaving a review for me. Cheers!


	210. Under Arrest

Draco lands in prison after all.

* * *

**– 4.83. –**

Under Arrest

* * *

_A clear and innocent conscience fears nothing._

_ELIZABETH I._

* * *

This whole thing would deem him as the most ludicrous situation he's ever been in, if it hadn't dawned on him by now that these guys are actually serious. He's sitting in an interrogation room, stripped of his wand and of quite a few of his civil rights, too, seeing that his hands are magically cuffed behind his back, and that his repeated demands to goddamn get Mr Jenkins are universally ignored. A very unpleasant man who had garlic for lunch is standing in front of him stooping only just so far to hit Draco with the full amount of his bad breath with spittle flying from his lips because he's yelling about so badly. So far, the young man has hardly understood what they even want from him.

The word 'murder' finally permeates his mind, and somehow, his entire brains get hung up on this one. Murder? _Murder?_ He never murdered no one! This must be some case of mistaken identity!

He'd love to tell this to the malodorous Mr Dawlish, but whenever he tries, the man just throws another tantrum. Another bloke – Mr Egg, he was one of the Aurors making the arrest in fact – comes in, waving a special edition of the Daily Prophet, which Dawlish bangs on the table in front of Draco, gesticulating like a madman at the depicted photos. A whole _lot_ of photos, mostly displaying some small children that are utterly unknown to Draco. The headline catches his attention though.

THE SERIAL KILLER'S UNKNOWN VICTIMS

Serial Killer? What serial killer now? Only then it hits Draco that the two Aurors seem to be labouring under the impression that _he_ was that killer, and he chokes with shock, disbelief, and an almost inexpugnable urge to crack up laughing at the sheer absurdity of all this. He tries biting it down, but doesn't succeed, apparently.

"You sick bastard think this is funny, do you!" Dawlish yelps. "What did you do to them! WHAT DID YOU DO, YOU FOUL SICK SHITBAG!"

"NOTHING!" Draco shouts back at him, furious by now. "I've never seen these kids in my entire life, you lunatic!"

The Auror opens his mouth, doubtless for another torrent of abuse, but is interrupted by the strangest sight – through the thick metal door of the room, two shapes of pearly white vapour glide effortlessly, making Draco sigh out loud with relief, and Mr Dawlish's jaw sack.

"What the –"

Narcissa swooshes instantly to her son's side, making sure in hushed tones whether he's alright, while Draco's dad takes Dawlish to task about this all. Almost awed, the young man watches his father unfolding all his long-forgotten capacities as a trained Law Wizard, alongside his trademark bully tactics, which together with his reputation as a formidable Death Eater and the fact that he's a ghost now, don't fail to do the trick. Dawlish backs off step by step, and young Mr Egg is intimidated enough to hurriedly promise to call for Mr Jenkins at once, then rushes out as quickly as possible.

"Glad we got that sorted," Lucius comments icily. "Now – what charges do you bring against my son?"

Dawlish swallows hard before he finds his former poise again. "We charge your son with no less than thirty-six cases of first-degree murder, Mr Malfoy."

"You're mad," Lucius snarls with narrowed eyes. "Absolutely mad. The boy couldn't hurt a fly!"

"I am not surprised to hear you, his father, say so," Dawlish retorts acidly.

"But I _didn't_ kill anybody!" Draco cries, glad to get in a word after all, too. "_Nobody_, let alone _thirty-six_, are you out of your head or what!"

"I am not. You on the other hand may well be 'out of your head', as it were, indeed. We'll have you examined by a Healer specialised in sicknesses of the mind as soon as possible."

"Watch your tongue, Mister!" Narcissa heatedly throws in and draws herself up to her full height, sparkling at the Auror in sheer outrage.

"Believe me, we have sufficient evidence to link your son to this case, Ma'am."

"But I _told_ you, I've never seen any of these people in my _life_!"

"Oh _please_, Mr Malfoy! Take another look, will you?"

He indicates at the bottom of the rows of pictures, and taking a closer look, Draco arches his brows. Okay. That woman down there is that Jones woman; he forgot her first name. She works in the Ministry and oversaw his community service last year.

"Alright, I didn't look properly," he admits through gritted teeth. "I do know Miss Jones, yes. But I didn't –"

Dawlish grins predatorily, and with a flourish, produces another photo from a file on the table. A muggle photo, one that doesn't move. It shows a small boy of eighteen months, perhaps, with black, curly hair and huge dark eyes, sucking on a dummy. The face seems somewhat familiar; Draco tilts his head pensively before realising that he knows the kid. It's John Lewis, or whatever the name was, the muggleborn toddler from Strawberry Hill!

He raises his eyes quizzically. "John Lewis, is it?"

"Close enough," the Auror snarls and bangs his fist on the table. "It's _Jonathan_ Lewis, to be precise! Now what did you have in mind with the child? And was it worth murdering his parents for it?"

This is getting worse and worse, and Draco feels increasingly dazed and sick. "I didn't! What the hell – I swear I didn't do anything to either! I only saw him once, for heaven's sake!"

But when he's asked about the circumstances of this 'one time', he realises he can't say anything about it, or he would draw Granger into this mess, news of which would undoubtedly hit the papers then, tipping her moronic boyfriend off...

"Please, honey," his mum urges him softly, "you must say what you know!"

"But I don't know anything," he insists, avoiding to look at her and staring at the photo instead. "I – I just saw him one Sunday afternoon when taking a walk, that's all."

He knows how feeble, how suspicious even, this statement must sound, but what the heck. It's true after all! This is all a great big misunderstanding in the first place, which will soon be clarified, and there's really no need to make it all worse. Before long, Mr Jenkins will come and sort this mess out, yes, and then he'll go home and no harm done to anybody.

But when the family Law Wizard shows up at last, Draco is horror-stricken when understanding that Mr Jenkins, at least for the time being, cannot help him either, and that he is facing a night in Azkaban Prison. He feels sick with the mere notion, exchanging panicked glances with his parents, who are equally shocked as he, and promise him they'll come with him.

"The hell you'll do!" Dawlish yells, fuming with anger.

"I'd like to see you stopping me," Narcissa Malfoy responds challengingly.

Mr Jenkins tries to put oil on troubled waters and suggests she rather see her son tomorrow morning when they resume the interrogation and then Draco finds himself led away, his hands still shackled behind his back, and transported to Azkaban Island.

So, yes, he's been here before, and for all he can say, the situation has much improved. His cell even has a window, but nothing to see through it because by now it's pitch dark outside and the ubiquitous fog wafts and clings to the bars like a Dementor's bony fingers underneath his cowl. He slouches down on the barren plank that's his bed for the night, wraps himself up in the blanket and once more tries to figure out how on earth he landed here.

For some reason, he's got the strange feeling as if it was a justified arrest. He checks himself. For goodness' sake, he _hasn't_ killed anybody, he has _not_, feeling _guilty_ surely isn't the adequate response! But twist and turn it as he may, there is some strange sensation in his guts telling him he deserves being here. He even felt a lingering shadow of this when the Aurors questioned him, perhaps that was the reason why he couldn't properly answer and refute them? What _is_ this? Trudie Jones and John Lewis, alright, he knew them, or rather, he met them before, but barring the idea that he's run mad and has a dual personality that he wasn't so far aware of, he _knows_ that he did not kill them. Nothing to feel guilty of, nothing at all.

Only that it's not true. Draco has lots and lots to feel guilty of, and he does deserve being here. He volunteered to be a Death Eater, he tried to kill someone and very nearly killed two others (one of them being the Weasel, but Draco is too put out to find that ironic just now), he used an Unforgivable on Madam Rosmerta, he used the Cruciatus on countless others – not by his own volition, mind you, but does that _really_ matter? Other people went to prison for far less.

What a marvel of poetic justice that he got off back then despite all his sins, but eventually lands in prison anyway if for the wrong reasons! Thirty-six people, Merlin, _thirty-six!_ That's more than even his dad murdered in his time. Naturally those Aurors believe him capable of that, how could they not! He cannot even be cross with them for their assumptions. He'd leap to the same assumptions, too, given the circumstances. When you're Lucius Malfoy's son, a son who pledged himself to the Dark Lord, too, people will believe you capable of anything, he thinks dispiritedly. In many ways, he had it coming, hadn't he?

He falls asleep over these contemplations, and is woken up in the next morning by a rather unsavoury breakfast consisting of gruel, which tastes better than it looks, and taken back to the Ministry. Auror Dawlish is replaced by a decidedly more level-headed colleague, some Mr Gumboil, a withered man with deep lines in his face and intriguingly sparkling blue eyes. What he has in common with his predecessor is his utter disbelief in the suspect's innocence.

In some way, he's even worse than Dawlish. "What about your cousin, Mr Malfoy?" he asks softly and offers Draco a cigarette, which he declines.

"You mean Lenny? What about him?"

"That's what I'm asking _you_. It has been suggested that you might know more about his fate than you lead on."

"You must be kidding," Draco groans weakly.

"Did he suss you out, so you had to blow him off?"

"He could not have 'sussed me out', sir, because I didn't do a bloody thing! Besides – check your dates, will you, because I was in Hogwarts when he disappeared!"

"Your parents however weren't."

"My _parents?_ What do they have got to do with any of this?"

Gumboil ignores him. "And your former girlfriend, Miss Warrington? What about _her_? I have roughly seventy eye-witnesses confirming you were a guest at the same party like her in the night she disappeared."

"Haven't you got any other yet unsolved cases you want to link me with as well? Like – did I make Wilda Griffiths disappear? Did I turn Barnabus Blenkinsop into a tin of anchovies? Did I give Dedalus Diggle a heart attack?"

Gumboil nods friendly. "And? Did you do any of this?"

Draco bangs his forehead on the table before him, howls with pain, then changes his mind and takes one of the offered cigarettes. It tastes ghastly and makes him cough like a sick Chimaera, but at least, Gumboil unshackles him for the duration of the smoke.

"Now, Mr Malfoy, let us get back to the afternoon of 29th September, shall we?"

* * *

Hey guys, I did NOT abandon this story, but as I believe I may have mentioned before, I am very, VERY busy, so updates aren't going to come regularly, I'm very sorry. Thanks to everyone who bears with me, everyone reading this, and especially all those lovely people leaving a review for me. Thank you so so much.

That aside, I'm afraid something is wrong with my account; if it isn't for some freak display accident, I believe ff tempered with the settings, so now all the '-' I put in the text so far (and there are thousands of those) are gone, which makes for a very wonky grammar and is terribly hard to read. If anyone can give me a tip how to remedy that problem, I'll be eternally grateful.


	211. Circumstantial Evidence

The case of the killed children and Draco's arrest become public.

* * *

**– 4.84. –**

Circumstantial Evidence

* * *

_Whatever the rhythm was, luck rewarded us, because, wanting connections, we found connections — always, everywhere, and between everything. The world exploded in a whirling network of kinships, where everything pointed to everything else, everything explained everything else…_

_UMBERTO ECO – Foucault's Pendulum_

* * *

Hermione stares at the frontage of the Daily Prophet, not noticing her mouth and eyes are wide open. Once more, she reads the lead article, absent-mindedly shaking her head. Little wonder that description fits to Draco Malfoy! Hermione knows it's _been_ Draco Malfoy! But no way he's got anything to do with _this!_ Or has he? She's annoyed for even considering that possibility. Of course he hasn't. _She_ knows why Mrs Lewis even mentioned him, and there's been nothing, _nothing_ sinister in that. Quite the contrary!

She'd think this was all nothing but the fabrication of Rita Skeeter's sick and twisted imagination, if it weren't for the fact that Draco must indeed have been arrested – the Prophet will print pretty much everything, but they are careful with claims that could be directly refuted. And the Ministry wouldn't make an arrest if they didn't have sufficient evidence, right?

Still flustered, she finally pushes the paper into her anyhow cramped-full bag and hastens to breakfast. Predictably, the whole cantina is buzzing with voices discussing the news. Yesterday, they were confronted with the almost unbelievable account of twenty-nine muggleborn children being murdered in nineteen months, disrupting everybody's routine and peace of mind to a degree making normal classes impossible, because they'd all talk and think of nothing else. This morning, they're presented with a very convenient culprit, and quite shocked, Hermione realises that most students seem pretty confident that this is it, that the perverted perpetrator has been found out and will be taken to justice for his crimes, and that they can relax again. Everybody not knowing him closer thinks he's capable of such charges. Those who do know him, however, are similarly stunned as Hermione.

"Perverting the course of justice, isn't that what it's called?" Luna asks Hermione, deeming her friend to be a legal expert.

Neville nods fiercely. "He'd _never_!"

Juliet Montague, who's just walking by with her own tray, has heard him and nods, too, so vehemently that she's spilling her orange juice. "Never heard such utter crap in my life!" she cries and ushers Dean to move up so she can squeeze herself onto the bench to sit between him and Neville. "Honestly! The guy can't hurt a fly! I've _seen_ it! Absolutely incapable to put a serious curse on anybody!"

Hermione speechlessly takes in the amount of vociferous support, but equally registers the irritated stares from the other students around them.

"Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater," some Undergraduate rants, eyeing Juliet pitifully.

"Oh, what do _you_ know, Pittiman?" she retorts like a shot. "Ever spoken three words with him, did you? _I_ went to school with him for eight long years, and I'm telling you –"

"Slytherin scum," somebody grunts in the crowd, driving colour into Juliet's pristinely pale cheeks.

"Come again?" she snarls and looks around, seemingly ready to tear the disturber to pieces with her perfectly manicured fingernails.

He clearly doesn't dare to repeat the insult, but instead, another undergraduate, a skinny young woman with braided plaits, rises to her feet and scowls at Juliet. "Little wonder you're defending such a smarmy little turd like Malfoy, Montague," she hisses, "you're all from the same stable!"

To Hermione's sound astonishment, she sees Neville rising now, too, with hectic blotches of an angry red on his cheeks. "Well, I'm _not_ from the 'same stable', as it were," he declares loudly and with forced calm, his eyes a downright challenge, "but I won't sit still listening to you folks abusing somebody to whom I owe a lot, somebody _you_ guys hardly _know_!"

Luna gets up as well and stands right beside him with a defiant mien. "Draco Malfoy is not a killer," she says calmly and so matter-of-factly as if she had just stated that Kingsley Shacklebolt is the Minister for Magic.

Luna being Luna and having a reputation for being quite – erm – whacky, she is instantly laughed and jeered at, but neither Neville nor Hermione nor Dean nor Ginny will have it. They all stand up, too, with Neville sniping to 'leave her alone'. Surprisingly though, it's Ginny – who's got the most irritable temper of them all, perhaps – who exclaims with some fervour, "You guys learnt _nothing_, nothing at all, did you? Here you're sitting in this temple of knowledge, contently scratching your bellies for thinking yourselves to be so very smart indeed, but what it all comes down to is that you're still the same herd of credulous sheep you've ever been, ready to swallow just any crap you're presented with! You'll believe _anything_ if only the Prophet says so, whether it's that Sirius Black was a mass murderer, or that Harry Potter was mentally unhinged and had killed Dumbledore, or that bloody Draco Malfoy is supposed to be a child killer!"

The crowd is very effectively silenced by Harry Potter's own girlfriend assailing them like that, and slowly, everyone including Hermione and Ginny regain their seats. The former shoots the latter a look of surprise, but Ginny just grumbles, "Can't say I didn't despise the guy, but I've seen him in school under Voldemort's reign, too. No way he murdered anyone, let alone three dozen children!"

"Exactly!" Juliet Montague agrees and tugs in her granola after asking Dean to pass her the honey, pretending it was the most natural thing in the world for her to sit here with them all.

Hermione, still silent, bewildered and rather shocked out of her wits, thinks to herself that the ones responsible for Draco's arrest in the Ministry ought to _hear_ this, too, and they'd instantly realise their error. As far as character witnesses go, Draco's got quite a lot of those who cannot be considered anything else but trust-worthy. Ginny and Luna and Neville were the spearhead of resistance in Hogwarts against Voldemort. A little belatedly, she also remembers that she, herself, Hermione Granger, is regarded as 'one third of the Golden Trio', too, and that _her_ word counts quite a lot these days. Whenever that notion strikes her, she is almost ashamed of herself, but this morning, it rather emboldens her.

As soon as finishing her last class in the afternoon, she's off to the Ministry of Magic, demanding to talk to one of the Aurors in charge, and when she's denied that, she insists to talk to 'her old acquaintance', the Minister himself. The watch wizard is on the brink of casting her a pitiful glance when it finally hits him, and with wide eyes, he quickly assures her that she can talk to one Mr Gumboil instead.

She rushes up into that man's office like a fury, dressing the unwitting man down as if he had done her a personal injury, and will only calm down after he promised her to hear her out after all, and gives her a rough overview of their findings.

"But Draco Malfoy's got no motive to begin with," she says sternly once he's finished.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure of that."

"And what would that motive be, please?"

"Nobody knows what sort of potions he's given to his mother –"

He must be kidding her. "I beg your pardon?"

"You wouldn't know these things, Miss Granger, but there's a long tradition of using the blood of small children for various Dark potions. To procure eternal youth – for strengthening potions – blood-replenishing potions – life-prolonging potions, or simply beautifying potions. Narcissa Malfoy was a potions expert. The other thing she's famous for is her beauty. Doesn't that ring a bell with you? Did that witch strike you as a forty-four-year-old woman? Surely not. She didn't look thirty, if you ask me. Her son, for all we know, is _just_ as deft with potion-making, and learnt the Dark Arts from his father, his aunt Bellatrix Lestrange and You Know Who himself! Trust _him_ to be capable of brewing any Dark potion in the book!"

She can only stare at him, almost speechless. "You – you cannot be serious," she groans after all. The sheer idea! That Draco had killed anybody to procure some _beautifying potions_ for his mother! Preposterous!

"I know. It's too gruesome to think of."

"But – but –" She strains herself to handle this with reason. "He was _in school_ when these first children disappeared!"

"Yes. But he could have slunk away for half an afternoon, couldn't he – we know he's sneaky that way. But what is more – we think that his parents were the driving force at that point yet."

"Am I mistaken, or did Mr Malfoy never get his wand back before he died, because he was still under house-arrest?"

"Mrs Malfoy never lost hers though. And how, I'm asking you, did Mr Malfoy's wand end up in Malfoy Manor, hm?"

"That Yaxley git stole it and attacked Mrs Malfoy with it!"

"Well, we've only got Mrs Malfoy's word for _that_ version of events, haven't we? Elias Yaxley was a friend of Lucius Malfoy; they shared a dorm in Hogwarts then, they joined the Death Eaters together –"

"And then Lucius Malfoy betrayed him! You're not going to try and sell me that Yaxley was still so very chummy with Mr Malfoy after _that_!"

"Who knows? Yaxley was done for this way or that – he kept on fighting long after You Know Who's death even. Mr Malfoy senior didn't hurt him further with his own confession."

"And their motive to abduct and possibly kill a dozen little children was – a beauty potion…?"

She's thought he'd realise how preposterous this is once she speaks it out loud, but he just nods, crestfallen. "It's perverse, Miss Granger, I know."

"Search Malfoy Manor, then. I bet you anything that you won't find _any_ of the things you're speaking of!"

"Searching Malfoy Manor!" He laughs mirthlessly. "We can search that house as long as we choose, Miss Granger. If he really wanted to hide something there, we'd never find it. That place has more secret rooms and cabinets and hiding places than anyone could ever figure out."

She shakes her head in frustration. "All right. All right. Let us assume for a minute – idiotic as it is, incidentally! – that Draco _had_ abducted these children to knock up some potion for his mother. But Mrs Malfoy is _dead_ now. She's no longer in need of _any_ potion, regardless for which purpose or what it's made of! Why would he have attacked the Lewis family, eh? And that – what's his name – after that!"

"We believe he might have acquired a taste for it," Gumboil says sourly and twists his withered face in disgust.

"You're mad!"

"No, Miss Granger. _He _is mad, for doing such a thing."

"And I thought," she snarls with a deadly look, "there was the adamant legal rule of the presumption of innocence until the opposite was proven! The way _you_ talk about the case, you've long decided who the culprit is."

"Presumption of innocence?" He cracks up, laughing. "My dear Miss, we are talking about DracoMalfoy. _Lucius_ Malfoy's only son. Mind you, he's a Death Eater like his old man! That he ever escaped Azkaban was a premature act of lenience. I dare say the Minister had second thoughts since then – we know that the Death Eaters still on the flight must have an unsuspicious helper. However, _Draco Malfoy_ can't invoke _a presumption of innocence_."

"He _was_ a Death Eater, Mr Gumboil! And he was acquitted of the major charges against him after a regular trial. That was no act of lenience as you call it, but simple justice!"

He suddenly looks haughty. "Allow me to know a little more than you, Miss, about this particular case as well as about the regulations in general. You are only in your sophomore year in college – _I_ have been working in Law Enforcement these fifty years."

She glares at him in outrage, but knows she won't convince him either. As far as Mr Gumboil is concerned, the verdict has already been returned, and it says that Draco Malfoy must be guilty of whatever charge brought up against him, simply for being who he is. She snarls in frustration and takes her leave, banging the office door so forcefully that the plaque bearing Mr Gumboil's name comes off and crashes on the floor. 'Gumboil indeed!' she thinks, irate, and turns her steps to Kingsley Shacklebolt's office next, only to find that he's not there.

Shoot! But then she remembers someone else who might just be willing to listen to her! That Mr Jenkins – Draco mentioned him a couple of times, and she read about him in the press, too, because he represented both Draco and Lucius Malfoy in court two years ago. He's bound to be assigned this time around, too, right?

Right. She calls on his office only to be told that he is still in the Ministry, 'assisting a client', and it doesn't take Hermione Granger's famous sagacity to guess who that client is. So she declares she will wait for him, and makes herself comfortable in the waiting section.

'What on earth are you doing here?' she asks herself over and over again. But the answer is easy – she is going to help a friend. Or, if 'friend' is not the proper term, at least she wants to help an innocent man.

When the Law Wizard finally returns, he looks hassled and ill-tempered, clearly unwilling to deal with some unknown new client, but Hermione has enough. He _will_ listen to her, after all he may find it rather interesting to have her confirm Draco's story of that incident with Jonathan Lewis. He should have owled her straightaway, shouldn't he? Unnerved, he listens to her first onslaught, and his expression changes from irritation to interest.

"You mean you believe in his innocence, too?" he asks as soon as he can get a word in.

"Of course I do! Aren't you listening? He's got nothing to do with this, he's – he's – well, he isn't like that. No killer, I mean!"

"I am pretty sure as well, Miss Granger, that he has nothing to do with any of this. The evidence against him is more than shaky, too, if you ask _me_. But the real difficulty arises from the family history. Lucius Malfoy got away after the first war. The Wizengamot let go his son, too, and set their hearts on correcting that mistake now. I'm afraid the judgement has already been passed in their heads, and I cannot think of a way to sway them."

"Well, for a start you can correct them on that misunderstanding with the Lewis family, can't you?"

"What about them?"

"Well, it was perfectly harmless! He did _nothing_, he merely tried to help!"

"Did he tell you that?"

"Oh, nonsense. I was _there_ with him that day! The kid was doing involuntary magic and it freaked out his parents. Draco wanted to explain to them what was happening, but that Mr Lewis mistook him and became quite agitated. That was all, I swear!"

Mr Jenkins nods slowly and takes some notes while searching through his files with his free hands. "This is rather the problem in this case, you see? With Mr Malfoy being who he is, all circumstantial evidence is easily interpreted as being against him. Like that internship where he met the late Miss Jones. Hundreds of people working in the Ministry knew her. But he is Lucius Malfoy's son, isn't he."

"I thought kin liability was unlawful," Hermione grumbles with knitted brows.

He laughs loudly. "Oh yes, it is, but that's the problem with circumstantial evidence then. It needs interpretation and everyone is avid to have something onto young Mr Malfoy. That, and the sheer amount of links and hints. That story with his cousin might easily seem like a crime within the family. Everyone knows the Tonks' and the Malfoys didn't get along for a decade and more. His aunt Mrs Lestrange was the one to kill Mr Tonks' father and sister, you know, so why not leap to the assumption that Mr Malfoy had completed the task?"

"That's _rubbish!_"

"I'm just repeating what the Auror in charge presented me with today, Miss Granger. Then there is that strange occurrence with Mr Malfoy senior's wand. How did it get back to him? Someone stole it from the Ministry and we have only Mrs Malfoy's word for it that Elias Yaxley was the one responsible. _Now_ they claim she lied in order to protect her son. In itself, every allegation is quite ludicrous, but in total, it might just be enough to convince the Wizengamot. This is about murdered children, Miss Granger. People lose their heads where dead children are concerned."

"But..."

She bites her bottom lip as he continues to ransack his files, still looking for something and discarding sheets of paper everywhere. As he does so, Hermione's gaze glides over another document, claiming one particular assault had taken place on August 13th.

She stares at the date. "That one – he's got an alibi for that one!"

"No. I _told_ you. He hasn't got an alibi for any of these occasions."

"Yes, he has! _He_ probably doesn't even remember it – but I do!" Mr Jenkins looks curious and eager, and taking a deep breath, she proceeds, "_I_ was with him then."

"Are you sure?" She nods. "Could you give a deposition about this date?"

"Yes, I can." She points at another date. "That one's rubbish, too. I was with him then as well."

He casts her a poignant glance. "Were you? At eleven o'clock in the evening?"

"Yes. The _whole_ evening, and the whole night, too," she says defiantly, not shrinking away from his close examination. "And _yes_, I can and will testify to that fact! And since we're already talking about the subject – my parents can testify to the alleged 'threat', that Mrs Lewis' report related to. We were _all_ with him that afternoon."

He arches his brows. "Were you? And why am I the last one to hear that?"

"You're actually the first one, Mr Jenkins. Geez, I cannot believe he's too proud to even mention _that_ much!"

"_Proud?_"

"Obviously, he'd rather go to jail than admit – whatever."

"Allow me the question, Miss Granger – is there anything else I should know…? About your relationship to my client, perhaps?"

"You're bound by professional discretion, aren't you? Even when I talk to you, being no client of yours?"

"Only if it concerns my client – which is the case, as far as I can see."

"Draco Malfoy and I – had – uhm – well, I guess one calls it an 'fling', usually," she says tartly, emphasising the word 'fling' with hooked fingers. "That is why I can swear holy oaths about any of these dates. And that is also why _your client_ wouldn't admit for his life that he's actually got alibis for all these!"

"I'm afraid I don't understand, Miss Granger."

"Do you wish me to draw up a sketch for you?"

He chuckles. "That wasn't… But forgive my curiosity. I merely got the impression that you are implying that my client wouldn't _want_ you to testify on his account. Is that assumption correct?"

"He clearly doesn't want that – or why didn't he mention to _you _even that that encounter in that country lane was perfectly harmless?"

"I have no idea, Miss. Maybe he forgot."

"I suppose he must have, clearly," she snarls in a futile attempt to keep her fury at bay. Oh, that bastard! That stubborn _arse!_ She's known he'd never avow himself to their relationship, but that he'd rather face Azkaban than admit it infuriates her beyond words. She's got half a mind to let him be sentenced – he'll have nobody to blame but himself for that, then!


End file.
